men and more,
      Nine and forty guns in tackle running free;
    And they cheered her from the shore for her colours at the fore,
      When the bold Menelaus put to sea.

She was clear of Monte Cristo, she was heading for the land,
  When she spied a pennant red and white and blue;
They were foemen, and they knew it, and they'd half a league in hand,
  But she flung aloft her royals, and she flew.
She was nearer, nearer, nearer, they were caught beyond a doubt,
  But they slipped her into Orbetello Bay,
And the lubbers gave a shout as they paid their cables out,
  With the guns grinning round them where they lay.

Now, Sir Peter was a captain of a famous fighting race,
  Son and grandson of an admiral was he;
And he looked upon the batteries, he looked upon the chase,
  And he heard the shout that echoed out to sea.
And he called across the decks, "Ay! the cheering might be late
  If they kept it till the Menelaus runs;
Bid the master and his mate heave the lead and lay her straight
  For the prize lying yonder by the guns!"

When the summer moon was setting, into Orbetello Bay
  Came the Menelaus gliding like a ghost;
And her boats were manned in silence, and in silence pulled away,
  And in silence every gunner took his post.
With a volley from her broadside the citadel she woke,
  And they hammered back like heroes all the night;
But before the morning broke she had vanished through the smoke
  With her prize upon her quarter grappled tight.

It was evening at St. Helen's in the great and gallant time,
  And the sky behind the down was flushing far;
And the flags were all a-flutter, and the bells were all a-chime,
  When the frigate cast her anchor off the bar.
She'd a right fighting company, three hundred men and more,
  Nine and forty guns in tackle running free;
And they cheered her from the shore for the colours at the fore,
  When the bold Menelaus came from the sea.

    She'd a right fighting company, three hundred men and more,
      Nine and forty guns in tackle running free;
    And they cheered her from the shore for her colours at the fore,
      When the bold Menelaus came from the sea.

Hawke

In seventeen hundred and fifty-nine,
  When Hawke came swooping from the West,
The French King's Admiral with twenty of the line,
  Was sailing forth to sack us, out of Brest.
The ports of France were crowded, the quays of France a-hum
With thirty thousand soldiers marching to the drum,
For bragging time was over and fighting time was come
  When Hawke came swooping from the West.

'Twas long past noon of a wild November day
  When Hawke came swooping from the West;
He heard the breakers thundering in Quiberon Bay,
  But he flew the flag for battle, line abreast.
Down upon the quicksands roaring out of sight
Fiercely beat the storm-wind, darkly fell the night,
But they took the foe for pilot and the cannon's glare for light
  When Hawke came swooping from the West.

The Frenchmen turned like a covey down the wind
  When Hawke came swooping from the West;
One he sank with all hands, one he caught and pinned,
  And the shallows and the storm took the rest.
The guns that should have conquered us they rusted on the shore,
The men that would have mastered us they drummed and marched no more,
For England was England, and a mighty brood she bore
  When Hawke came swooping from the West.

The Bright Medusa

(1807)

She's the daughter of the breeze,
She's the darling of the seas,
  And we call her, if you please, the bright Medu—sa;
From beneath her bosom bare
To the snakes among her hair
  She's a flash o' golden light, the bright Medu—sa.

When the ensign dips above
And the guns are all for love,
  She's as gentle as a dove, the bright Medu—sa;
But when the shot's in rack
And her forestay flies the Jack,
  He's a merry man would slight the bright Medu—sa.

When she got the word to go
Up to Monte Video,
  There she found the river low, the bright Medu—sa;
So she tumbled out her guns
And a hundred of her sons,
  And she taught the Dons to fight the bright Medu—sa.

When the foeman can be found
With the pluck to cross her ground,
  First she walks him round and round, the bright Medu—sa;
Then she rakes him fore and aft
Till he's just a jolly raft,
  And she grabs him like a kite, the bright Medu—sa.

She's the daughter of the breeze,
She's the darling of the seas,
  And you'll call her, if you please, the bright Medu—sa;
For till England's sun be set—
And it's not for setting yet—
  She shall bear her name by right, the bright Medu—sa.

The Old Superb

The wind was rising easterly, the morning sky was blue,
  The Straits before us opened wide and free;
We looked towards the Admiral, where high the Peter flew,
  And all our hearts were dancing like the sea.
"The French are gone to Martinique with four and twenty sail!
  The Old Superb is old and foul and slow,
But the French are gone to Martinique, and Nelson's on the trail.
  And where he goes the Old Superb must go!"

    So Westward ho! for Trinidad, and Eastward ho! for Spain,
      And "Ship ahoy!" a hundred times a day;
    Round the world if need be, and round the world again,
      With a lame duck lagging all the way.

The Old Superb was barnacled and green as grass below,
  Her sticks were only fit for stirring grog;
The pride of all her midshipmen was silent long ago,
  And long ago they ceased to heave the log.
Four year out from home she was, and ne'er a week in port,
  And nothing save the guns aboard her bright;
But Captain Keats he knew the game, and swore to share the sport,
  For he never yet came in too late to fight.

    So Westward ho! for Trinidad, and Eastward ho! for Spain,
      And "Ship ahoy!" a hundred times a day;
    Round the world if need be, and round the world again,
      With a lame duck lagging all the way.

"Now up, my lads," the Captain cried, "for sure the case were hard
  If longest out were first to fall behind;
Aloft, aloft with studding sails, and lash them on the yard,
  For night and day the Trades are driving blind!"
So all day long and all day long behind the fleet we crept,
  And how we fretted none but Nelson guessed;
But every night the Old Superb she sailed when others slept,
  Till we ran the French to earth with all the rest.

    Oh, 'twas Westward ho! for Trinidad, and Eastward ho! for Spain,
      And "Ship ahoy!" a hundred times a day;
    Round the world if need be, and round the world again,
      With a lame duck lagging all the way.

The Quarter-Gunner's