Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel And laid her on her side. A land-breeze shook the shrouds, And she was overset; Down went the _Royal George_ With all her crew complete. Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea-fight is fought, His work of glory done. It was not in the battle; No tempest gave the shock, She sprang no fatal leak, She ran upon no rock. His sword was in its sheath, His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men. Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again Full charged with England's thunders And plough the distant main: But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more. BOADICEA WHEN the British warrior queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien, Counsel of her country's gods, Sage beneath the spreading oak Sat the Druid, hoary chief; Every burning word he spoke Full of rage, and full of grief. 'Princess, if our aged eyes Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties All the terrors of our tongues. 'Rome shall perish--write that word In the blood that she has spilt; Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd, Deep in ruin as in guilt. 'Rome, for empire far renown'd, Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground-- Hark! the Gaul is at her gates! 'Other Romans shall arise, Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame. 'Then the progeny that springs From the forests of our land, Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command. 'Regions Caesar never knew Thy posterity shall sway; Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they.' Such the bard's prophetic words, Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords Of his sweet but awful lyre. She, with all a monarch's pride, Felt them in her bosom glow; Rush'd to battle, fought, and died; Dying hurl'd them at the foe. 'Ruffians, pitiless as proud, Heaven awards the vengeance due Empire is on us bestow'd, Shame and ruin wait for you.' _DAVID GARRICK_ HEARTS OF OAK Come, cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer, To add something more to this wonderful year, To honour we call you not press you like slaves, For who are so free as the sons of the waves? Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men, We always are ready, Steady, boys, steady, We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again. We ne'er see our foes but we wish them to stay, They never see us but they wish us away; If they run, why, we follow, and run them ashore, For if they won't fight us, we cannot do more. Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men, We always are ready, Steady, boys, steady, We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.