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.