To the cockpit in silence they carried him past, And sad were the looks that were after him cast; His face with a kerchief he tried to conceal, But we knew him too well from the truck to the keel. When the Captain reported a victory won, "Thank God!" he kept saying, "my duty I've done." At last came the moment to kiss him good-bye, And the Captain for once had the salt in his eye. "Now anchor, dear Hardy," the Admiral cried; But before we could make it he fainted and died. All night in the trough of the sea we were tossed, And for want of ground-tackle good prizes were lost. Then we hauled down the flag, at the fore it was red, And blue at the mizzen was hoisted instead By Nelson's famed Captain, the pride of each tar, Who fought in the _Victory_ off Cape Traflagar. Northumberland "The Old and Bold" When England sets her banner forth And bids her armour shine, She'll not forget the famous North, The lads of moor and Tyne; And when the loving-cup's in hand, And Honour leads the cry, They know not old Northumberland Who'll pass her memory by. When Nelson sailed for Trafalgar With all his country's best, He held them dear as brothers are, But one beyond the rest. For when the fleet with heroes manned To clear the decks began, The boast of old Northumberland He sent to lead the van. Himself by _Victory's_ bulwarks stood And cheered to see the sight; "That noble fellow Collingwood, How bold he goes to fight!" Love, that the league of Ocean spanned, Heard him as face to face; "What would he give, Northumberland, To share our pride of place?" The flag that goes the world around And flaps on every breeze Has never gladdened fairer ground Or kinder hearts than these. So when the loving-cup's in hand And Honour leads the cry, They know not old Northumberland Who'll pass her memory by. For A Trafalgar Cenotaph Lover of England, stand awhile and gaze With thankful heart, and lips refrained from praise; They rest beyond the speech of human pride Who served with Nelson and with Nelson died. Craven (Mobile Bay, 1864) Over the turret, shut in his iron-clad tower, Craven was conning his ship through smoke and flame; Gun to gun he had battered the fort for an hour, Now was the time for a charge to end the game. There lay the narrowing channel, smooth and grim, A hundred deaths beneath it, and never a sign; There lay the enemy's ships, and sink or swim The flag was flying, and he was head of the line. The fleet behind was jamming; the monitor hung Beating the stream; the roar for a moment hushed, Craven spoke to the pilot; slow she swung; Again he spoke, and right for the foe she rushed. Into the narrowing channel, between the shore And the sunk torpedoes lying in treacherous rank; She turned but a yard too short; a muffled roar, A mountainous wave, and she rolled, righted, and sank.