Spoke the noble Portuguese to the stranger: “Have no fear; They are neutral waters these, and your ship is sacred here As if fifty stout armadas stood to shelter you from harm, For the honor of the Briton will defend you from his arm.” But the privateersman said, “Well we know the Englishmen, And their faith is written red in the Dartmoor slaughter-pen. Come what fortune God may send, we will fight them to the end, And the mercy of the sharks may spare us then.” “Seize the pirate where she lies!” cried the English Admiral: “If the Portuguese protect her, all the worse for Portugal!” And four launches at his bidding leaped impatient for the fray, Speeding shoreward where the _Armstrong_, grim and dark and ready, lay. Twice she hailed and gave them warning; but the feeble menace scorning, On they came in splendid silence, till a cable’s length away. Then the Yankee pivot spoke; Pico’s thousand echoes woke; And four baffled, beaten launches drifted helpless on the bay. Then the wrath of Lloyd arose till the lion roared again, And he called out all his launches and he called five hundred men; And he gave the word “No quarter!” and he sent them forth to smite. Heaven help the foe before him when the Briton comes in might! Heaven helped the little _Armstrong_ in her hour of bitter need; God Almighty nerved the heart and guided well the arm of Reid. Launches to port and starboard, launches forward and aft, Fourteen launches together striking the little craft. They hacked at the boarding-nettings, they swarmed above the rail; But the Long Tom roared from his pivot and the grapeshot fell like hail; Pike and pistol and cutlass, and hearts that knew not fear, Bulwarks of brawn and mettle, guarded the privateer. And ever where fight was fiercest the form of Reid was seen: Ever where foes drew nearest, his quick sword fell between. Once in the deadly strife The boarder’s leader pressed Forward of all the rest Challenging life for life; But ere their blades had crossed A dying sailor tossed His pistol to Reid, and cried, “Now riddle the lubber’s hide!” But the privateersman laughed, and flung the weapon aside, And he drove his blade to the hilt, and the foeman gasped and died. Then the boarders took to their launches, laden with hurt and dead, But little with glory burdened, and out of the battle fled. Now the tide was at flood again, and the night was almost done, When the sloop-of-war came up with her odds of two to one, And she opened fire; but the _Armstrong_ answered her, gun for gun, And the gay _Carnation_ wilted in half an hour of sun.