Part 3

This lusty ship of Bristol, Sailed out adventurously Against the foes of England, Her strength with them to try; Well victualled, rigged, and manned she was, With good provision still, Which made them cry, ‘To sea, to sea, With the _Angel Gabriel_!’

The Captain, famous Netherway (That was his noble name); The Master--he was called John Mines-- A mariner of fame: The Gunner, Thomas Watson, A man of perfect skill: With many another valiant heart In the _Angel Gabriel_.

They waving up and down the seas Upon the ocean main, ‘It is not long ago,’ quoth they, ‘That England fought with Spain: O would the Spaniard we might meet Our stomachs to fulfil! We would play him fair a noble bout With our _Angel Gabriel_!’

They had no sooner spoken But straight appeared in sight Three lusty Spanish vessels Of warlike trim and might; With bloody resolution They thought our men to spill, And vowed that they would make a prize Of our _Angel Gabriel_.

Our gallant ship had in her Full forty fighting men; With twenty piece of ordnance We played about them then, With powder, shot, and bullets Right well we worked our will, And hot and bloody grew the fight With our _Angel Gabriel_.

Our Captain to our Master said, ‘Take courage, Master bold!’ Our Master to the seamen said, ‘Stand fast, my hearts of gold!’ Our Gunner unto all the rest, ‘Brave hearts, be valiant still! Fight on, fight on in the defence Of our _Angel Gabriel_!’

We gave them such a broadside It smote their mast asunder, And tore the bowsprit off their ship, Which made the Spaniards wonder, And causèd them in fear to cry, With voices loud and shrill, ‘Help, help, or sunken we shall be By the _Angel Gabriel_!’

So desperately they boarded us For all our valiant shot, Threescore of their best fighting men Upon our decks were got; And lo! at their first entrances Full thirty did we kill, And thus with speed we cleared the deck Of our _Angel Gabriel_.

With that their three ships boarded us Again with might and main, But still our noble Englishmen Cried out ‘A fig for Spain!’ Though seven times they boarded us At last we showed our skill, And made them feel what men we were On the _Angel Gabriel_.

Seven hours this fight continued: So many men lay dead, With Spanish blood for fathoms round The sea was coloured red. Five hundred of their fighting men We there outright did kill, And many more were hurt and maimed By our _Angel Gabriel_.

Then seeing of these bloody spoils, The rest made haste away: For why, they said, it was no boot The longer there to stay. Then they fled into Calès, Where lie they must and will For fear lest they should meet again With our _Angel Gabriel_.

We had within our English ship But only three men slain, And five men hurt, the which I hope Will soon be well again. At Bristol we were landed, And let us praise God still, That thus hath blest our lusty hearts And our _Angel Gabriel_.

_Anonymous._

MILTON

XI

TO THE LORD GENERAL

Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud, Not of war only, but detractions rude, Guided by faith and matchless fortitude, To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed, And on the neck of crownèd Fortune proud Hast reared God’s trophies, and His work pursued, While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imbrued, And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud, And Worcester’s laureate wreath: yet much remains To conquer still; peace hath her victories No less renowned than war: new foes arise, Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains. Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves whose gospel is their maw.

_John Milton._

XII

DELIVERANCE

O how comely it is, and how reviving To the spirits of just men long oppress’d! When God into the hands of their deliverer Puts invincible might To quell the mighty of the earth, the oppressor, The brute and boisterous force of violent men, Hardy and industrious to support Tyrannic power, but raging to pursue The righteous and all such as honour truth; He all their ammunition And feats of war defeats, With plain heroic magnitude of mind And celestial vigour arm’d; Their armouries and magazines contemns, Renders them useless; while With winged expedition, Swift as the lightning glance, he executes His errand on the wicked, who, surprised, Lose their defence, distracted and amazed.

_John Milton._

MARVELL

XIII

HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL’S RETURN FROM IRELAND

The forward youth that would appear, Must now forsake his Muses dear, Nor in the shadows sing His numbers languishing.

’Tis time to leave the books in dust, And oil the unusèd armour’s rust, Removing from the wall The corselet of the hall.

So restless Cromwell could not cease In the inglorious arts of peace, But through adventurous war Urgèd his active star:

And, like the three-fork’d lightning, first Breaking the clouds where it was nurst, Did thorough his own side His fiery way divide:

For ’tis all one to courage high, The emulous, or enemy; And with such to inclose Is more than to oppose;

Then burning through the air he went And palaces and temples rent; And Cæsar’s head at last Did through his laurels blast.

’Tis madness to resist or blame The face of angry Heaven’s flame; And if we would speak true, Much to the man is due

Who, from his private gardens, where He lived reservèd and austere (As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot),

Could by industrious valour climb To ruin the great work of Time, And cast the kingdoms old Into another mould;

Though Justice against Fate complain, And plead the ancient rights in vain-- (But those do hold or break As men are strong or weak),

Nature, that hateth emptiness, Allows of penetration less, And therefore must make room Where greater spirits come.

What field of all the civil war Where his were not the deepest scar? And Hampton shows what part He had of wiser art,

Where, twining subtile fears with hope, He wove a net of such a scope That Charles himself might chase To Carisbrook’s narrow case,

That thence the royal actor borne The tragic scaffold might adorn: While round the armèd bands Did clap their bloody hands.

He nothing common did or mean Upon that memorable scene, But with his keener eye The axe’s edge did try;

Nor call’d the gods, with vulgar spite, To vindicate his helpless right; But bow’d his comely head Down, as upon a bed.

This was that memorable hour Which first assured the forcèd power: So, when they did design The Capitol’s first line,

A bleeding head, where they begun, Did fright the architects to run; And yet in that the State Foresaw its happy fate!

And now the Irish are ashamed To see themselves in one year tamed: So much one man can do That doth both act and know.

They can affirm his praises best, And have, though overcome, confest How good he is, how just, And fit for highest trust;

Nor yet grown stiffer with command, But still in the Republic’s hand (How fit he is to sway, That can so well obey!),

He to the Commons’ feet presents A Kingdom for his first year’s rents, And (what he may) forbears His fame, to make it theirs:

And has his sword and spoils ungirt To lay them at the Public’s skirt So when the falcon high Falls heavy from the sky,

She, having killed, no more doth search But on the next green bough to perch, Where, when he first does lure, The falconer has her sure.

What may not then our Isle presume While victory his crest does plume? What may not others fear If thus he crowns each year?

As Cæsar he, ere long, to Gaul, To Italy an Hannibal, And to all states not free Shall climacteric be.

The Pict no shelter now shall find Within his parti-coloured mind, But from this valour sad Shrink underneath the plaid.

Happy, if in the tufted brake The English hunter him mistake, Nor lay his hounds in near The Caledonian deer.

But thou, the war’s and fortune’s son, March indefatigably on, And for the last effect Still keep the sword erect:

Besides the force it has to fright The spirits of the shady night, The same arts that did gain A power, must it maintain.

_Andrew Marvell._

XIV

SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA

Where the remote Bermudas ride In the Ocean’s bosom unespied, From a small boat that rowed along The listening winds received this song. ‘What should we do but sing His praise That led us through the watery maze, Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks That lift the deep upon their backs, Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own? He lands us on a grassy stage, Safe from the storms and prelates’ rage: He gave us this eternal spring Which here enamels everything, And sends the fowls to us in care On daily visits through the air. He hangs in shades the orange bright Like golden lamps in a green night, And does in the pomegranates close Jewels more rich than Ormus shows: He makes the figs our mouths to meet, And throws the melons at our feet; But apples plants of such a price, No tree could ever bear them twice. With cedars chosen by His hand From Lebanon He stores the land, And makes the hollow seas that roar Proclaim the ambergrease on shore. He cast (of which we rather boast) The Gospel’s pearl upon our coast, And in these rocks for us did frame A temple where to sound His name. O let our voice His praise exalt Till it arrive at Heaven’s vault, Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may Echo beyond the Mexique Bay!’ Thus sang they in the English boat A holy and a cheerful note: And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept the time.

_Andrew Marvell._

PARKER

XV

THE KING’S EXILE

Let rogues and cheats prognosticate Concerning kings’ or kingdoms’ fate, I think myself to be as wise As he that gazeth on the skies, Whose sight goes beyond The depth of a pond Or rivers in the greatest rain; For I can tell All will be well, When the King enjoys his own again!

Though for a time we see Whitehall With cobwebs hanging on the wall, Instead of gold and silver brave, Which formerly ’twas wont to have, With rich perfume In every room, Delightful to that princely train,-- Yet the old again shall be When the happy time you see That the King enjoys his own again.

Full forty years this royal crown Hath been his father’s and his own; And is there any one but he That in the same should sharer be? For who better may The sceptre sway Than he that hath such right to reign? Then let’s hope for a peace, For the wars will not cease Till the King enjoys his own again.

_Martin Parker._

ANONYMOUS

XVI

HERE’S A HEALTH

Here’s a health unto His Majesty, _With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!_ Confusion to his enemies, _With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!_ And he that will not drink his health, I wish him neither wit nor wealth, Nor yet a rope to hang himself, _With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!_

_Anonymous._

DRYDEN

XVII

A SONG OF KING ARTHUR

Come, if you dare, our trumpets sound; Come, if you dare, the foes rebound: We come, we come, we come, we come, Says the double, double, double beat of the thundering drum.

Now they charge on amain, Now they rally again: The gods from above the mad labour behold, And pity mankind, that will perish for gold.

The fainting Saxons quit their ground, Their trumpets languish in the sound: They fly, they fly, they fly, they fly; Victoria, Victoria, the bold Britons cry.

Now the victory’s won, To the plunder we run: We return to our lasses like fortunate traders, Triumphant with spoils of the vanquish’d invaders.

_John Dryden._

XVIII

LONDON IN 1666

Methinks already from this chymic flame I see a city of more precious mould, Rich as the town which gives the Indies name, With silver paved, and all divine with gold.

Already, labouring with a mighty fate, She shakes the rubbish from her mounting brow, And seems to have renewed her charter’s date Which Heaven will to the death of time allow.

More great than human now and more august, New deified she from her fires does rise: Her widening streets on new foundations trust, And, opening, into larger parts she flies.

Before, she like some shepherdess did show Who sate to bathe her by a river’s side, Not answering to her fame, but rude and low, Nor taught the beauteous arts of modern pride.

Now like a maiden queen she will behold From her high turrets hourly suitors come; The East with incense and the West with gold Will stand like suppliants to receive her dome.

The silver Thames, her own domestic flood, Shall bear her vessels like a sweeping train, And often wind, as of his mistress proud, With longing eyes to meet her face again.

The wealthy Tagus and the wealthier Rhine The glory of their towns no more shall boast, The Seine, that would with Belgian rivers join, Shall find her lustre stained and traffic lost.

The venturous merchant, who designed more far, And touches on our hospitable shore, Charmed with the splendour of this northern star Shall here unlade him and depart no more.

Our powerful navy shall no longer meet The wealth of France or Holland to invade; The beauty of this town without a fleet From all the world shall vindicate her trade.

And while this famed emporium we prepare, The British ocean shall such triumphs boast, That those who now disdain our trade to share Shall rob like pirates on our wealthy coast.

Already we have conquered half the war, And the less dangerous part is left behind; Our trouble now is but to make them dare And not so great to vanquish as to find.

Thus to the eastern wealth through storms we go, And now, the Cape once doubled, fear no more! A constant trade-wind will securely blow And gently lay us on the spicy shore.

_John Dryden._

THOMSON

XIX

RULE BRITANNIA

When Britain first at Heaven’s command Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of her land, And guardian angels sang the strain: _Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! Britons never shall be slaves_.

The nations not so blest as thee Must in their turn to tyrants fall, Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free-- The dread and envy of them all!

Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the last blast which tears the skies Serves but to root thy native oak.

Thee haughty tyrants ne’er shall tame; All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy generous flame, And work their woe and thy renown.

To thee belongs the rural reign; Thy cities shall with commerce shine; All thine shall be the subject main, And every shore it circles thine!

The Muses, still with Freedom found, Shall to thy happy coast repair; Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown’d, And manly hearts to guard the fair:-- _Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! Britons never shall be slaves!_

_James Thomson._

DYER

XX

DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN

Here’s a health to the King and a lasting peace, To faction an end, to wealth increase! Come, let’s drink it while we have breath, For there’s no drinking after death;-- And he that will this health deny, _Down among the dead men-- Down among the dead men-- Down, down, down, down, Down among the dead men let him lie!_

_John Dyer._

ANONYMOUS

XXI

GOD SAVE THE KING

God save our lord, the King, Long live our noble King,-- God save the King! Send him victorious, Happy and glorious, Long to reign over us,-- God save the King!

O Lord, our God, arise, Scatter his enemies, And make them fall! Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish tricks! On Thee our hopes we fix,-- God save us all!

Thy choicest gifts in store On him be pleased to pour,-- Long may he reign! May he defend our laws, And ever give us cause To sing with heart and voice God save the King!

_Anonymous._

GARRICK

XXII

HEARTS OF OAK

Come, cheer up, my lads, ’tis to glory we steer, To add something more to this wonderful year, To honour we call you, not press you like slaves, For who are so free as the sons of the waves? Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men, We always are ready, Steady, boys, steady, We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again.

We ne’er see our foes but we wish them to stay, They never see us but they wish us away; If they run, why, we follow, and run them ashore, For if they won’t fight us, we cannot do more. Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men, We always are ready, Steady, boys, steady, We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again.

Still Britain shall triumph, her ships plough the sea, Her standard be justice, her watchword ‘Be free’; Then, cheer up, my lads, with one heart let us sing Our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, our king. Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men, We always are ready, Steady, boys, steady, We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again.

_David Garrick._

COLLINS

XXIII

THE SLEEP OF THE BRAVE

How sleep the brave who sink to rest By all their country’s wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallow’d mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy’s feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung, By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall a while repair To dwell a weeping hermit there.

_William Collins._

COWPER

XXIV

BOADICEA

When the British warrior queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought with an indignant mien Counsel of her country’s gods,

Sage beneath the spreading oak Sat the Druid, hoary chief, Every burning word he spoke Full of rage, and full of grief:

‘Princess! if our aged eyes Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, ’Tis because resentment ties All the terrors of our tongues.

‘Rome shall perish,--write that word In the blood that she has spilt; Perish hopeless and abhorred, Deep in ruin as in guilt.

‘Rome, for empire far renowned, Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground,-- Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!

‘Other Romans shall arise Heedless of a soldier’s name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame.

‘Then the progeny that springs From the forests of our land, Armed with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command.

‘Regions Cæsar never knew Thy posterity shall sway; Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they.’

Such the bard’s prophetic words, Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords Of his sweet but awful lyre.

She with all a monarch’s pride Felt them in her bosom glow, Rushed to battle, fought, and died, Dying, hurled them at the foe:

‘Ruffians, pitiless as proud, Heaven awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestowed, Shame and ruin wait for you!’

_William Cowper._

XXV

THE _ROYAL GEORGE_

Toll for the Brave! The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave Fast by their native shore!

Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel And laid her on her side.

A land-breeze shook the shrouds And she was overset; Down went the _Royal George_ With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea-fight is fought, His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle; No tempest gave the shock, She sprang no fatal leak, She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath, His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again Full charged with England’s thunder, And plough the distant main:

But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o’er; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more.

_William Cowper._

DIBDIN

XXVI

TOM BOWLING

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew; No more he’ll hear the tempest howling, For death has broached him to. His form was of the manliest beauty, His heart was kind and soft, Faithful below he did his duty, And now he’s gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed, His virtues were so rare, His friends were many, and true-hearted, His Poll was kind and fair; And then he’d sing so blithe and jolly, Ah, many’s the time and oft! But mirth is turned to melancholy, For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather When He, who all commands, Shall give, to call life’s crew together, The word to pipe all hands. Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches, In vain Tom’s life has doffed, For though his body’s under hatches, His soul is gone aloft.

_Charles Dibdin._

XXVII

THE TRUE ENGLISH SAILOR

Jack dances and sings, and is always content, In his vows to his lass he’ll ne’er fail her; His anchor’s a-trip when his money’s all spent-- And this is the life of a sailor.

Alert in his duty, he readily flies Where winds the tir’d vessel are flinging; Though sunk to the sea-gods, or toss’d to the skies, Still Jack is found working and singing.

‘Long-side of an enemy, boldly and brave, He’ll with broadside on broadside regale her; Yet he’ll sigh from his soul o’er that enemy’s grave: So noble’s the mind of a sailor.

Let cannons road loud, burst their sides let the bombs, Let the winds a dead hurricane rattle; The rough and the pleasant he takes as it comes, And laughs at the storm and the battle.

In a Fostering Power while Jack puts his trust, As Fortune comes, smiling he’ll hail her; Resign’d still, and manly, since what must be must, And this is the mind of a sailor.

Though careless and headlong, if danger should press, And rank’d ’mongst the free list of rovers, Yet he’ll melt into tears at a tale of distress, And prove the most constant of lovers.

To rancour unknown, to no passion a slave, Nor unmanly, nor mean, nor a railer, He’s gentle as mercy, as fortitude brave, And this is a true English sailor.

_Charles Dibdin._

XXVIII

TOM TOUGH

My name, d’ye see, ’s Tom Tough, I’ve seed a little sarvice, Where mighty billows roll and loud tempests blow; I’ve sailed with valiant Howe, I’ve sailed with noble Jarvis, And in gallant Duncan’s fleet I’ve sung out ‘Yo heave ho!’ Yet more shall ye be knowing,-- I was coxon to Boscawen, And even with brave Hawke have I nobly faced the foe. Then put round the grog,-- So we’ve that and our prog, We’ll laugh in Care’s face, and sing ‘Yo heave ho!’