Macdonough holds his men, alert, devout: “He that wavereth is like a wave of the sea Driven with the wind. Behold the ships, that be So great, are turned about Even with a little helm.” Jock tightens the blue clout Around his waist, and watches casually Close-by a game-cock, in a coop, who stirs And spreads his spurs. Now, bristling near, the British war-birds swoop Wings, and the Yankee Eagle screams in fire; The English Linnet answers, aiming higher, And _crash_ along Jock’s poop Her hurtling shot of iron crackles the game-cock’s coop, Where, lo! the ribald cock, like a town crier Strutting a gunslide, flaps to the cheering crew-- _Yankee-doodle-doo!_ Boys yell, and yapping laughter fills the roar: “You bet we’ll do ’em!” “You’re a prophet, cocky!” “Hooray, old rooster!” “Hip, hip, hip!” cries Jockie. Calmly the Commodore Touches his cannon’s fuse and fires a twenty-four. Smoke belches black. “Huzza! That’s blowed ’em pocky!” And Downie’s men, like pins before the bowling, Fall scatter-rolling. _Boom!_ flash the long guns, echoed by the galleys. The Confiance, wind-baffled in the bay With both her port-bow anchors torn away, Flutters, but proudly rallies To broadside, while her gunboats range the water-alleys. Then Downie grips Macdonough in the fray, And double-shotted from his roaring flail Hurls the black hail. The hail turns red, and drips in the hot gloom. Jock snuffs the reek and spits it from his mouth And grapples with great winds. The winds blow south, And scent of lilac bloom Steals from his mother’s porch in his still sleeping-room. Lilacs! But now it stinks of blood and drouth! He staggers up, and stares at blinding light: “God! This is fight!” Fight! The sharp loathing retches in his loins; He gulps the black air, like a drowner swimming, Where little round suns in a dance go rimming The dark with golden coins; Round him and round the splintering masts and jangled quoins Reel, rattling, and overhead he hears the hymning-- Lonely and loud--of ululating choirs Strangling with wires. Fight! But no more the roll of chanting drums, The fifing flare, the flags, the magic spume Filling his spirit with a wild perfume; Now noisome anguish numbs His sense, that mocks and leers at monstrous vacuums. _Whang!_ splits the spanker near him, and the boom Crushes Macdonough, in a jumbled wreck, Stunned on the deck.