There was no talk of shortening sail by him who walked the poop, And under the press of her pondering jib, the boom bent like a hoop! And the groaning waterways told the strain that held her stout main-tack, But he only laughed as he glanced abaft at the white and silvery track. The mid-tide meets in the channel waves that flow from shore to shore, And the mist hung heavy upon the land from Featherstone to Dunmore; And that sterling light on Tusker rock, where the old bell tolls the hour, And the beacon light that shone so bright was quenched on Waterford tower. The nightly robes our good ship wore were her three topsails set, The spanker and her standing jib, the spanker being fast; “Now, lay aloft, my heroes bold, let not a moment pass!” And royals and topgallant sails were quickly on each mast. What looms upon the starboard bow? What hangs upon the breeze? ’Tis time our good ship hauled her wind abreast the old Saltees; For by her ponderous press of sail and by her consorts four We saw our morning visitor was a British man-of-war. Up spoke our noble captain then, as a shot ahead of us passed, “Haul snug your flowing courses, lay your topsail to the mast!” The Englishmen gave three loud hurrahs from the deck of their covered ark, And we answered back by a solid broadside from the decks of our patriot bark. “Out, booms! Out, booms!” our skipper cried, “Out, booms, and give her sheet!” And the swiftest keel that ever was launched shot ahead of the British fleet. And amidst a thundering shower of shot, with stunsails hoisting away, Down the North Channel Paul Jones did steer, just at the break of day. ANONYMOUS. 8 THE RIDE OF JENNIE M’NEAL Paul Revere was a rider bold-- Well has his valorous deed been told; Sheridan’s ride was a glorious one-- Often has it been dwelt upon. But why should men do all the deeds On which the love of a patriot feeds? Hearken to me, while I reveal The dashing ride of Jennie M’Neal. On a spot as pretty as might be found In the dangerous length of the Neutral Ground, In a cottage, cosy, and all their own, She and her mother lived alone. Safe were the two, with their frugal store, From all of the many who passed their door; For Jennie’s mother was strange to fears, And Jennie was large for fifteen years; With vim her eyes were glistening, Her hair was the hue of the blackbird’s wing; And while the friends who knew her well The sweetness of her heart could tell, A gun that hung on the kitchen wall Looked solemnly quick to heed her call; And they who were evil-minded knew Her nerve was strong and her aim was true. So all kind words and acts did deal To generous, black-eyed Jennie M’Neal.