The gallant Benbow, in spite of the fearful wound he had received, lingered till the 4th of November, when he yielded up his brave spirit, feeling more the disgrace which his captains had brought upon the English flag than his own sufferings. All the time of his illness he continued to issue his orders, and showed more anxiety for the interests of the nation than for his private affairs. He received a proof of what would have been the result of the action had he been properly supported, in a letter from the brave French Admiral Du Casse. "Sir,--I had little hopes on Monday last but to have supped in your cabin, but it pleased God to order it otherwise. I am thankful for it. As for those cowardly captains who deserted you, hang them up, for by God they deserve it.-- Yours, Du Casse." The opinion of the nautical poets of the time is well shown in one of those sea-songs which have done so much to keep up the spirits of British tars. "The Death of Benbow." Come all ye sailors bold, Lend an ear, lend an ear, Come all ye sailors bold, lend an ear; 'Tis of our Admiral's fame, Brave Benbow called by name, How he fought on the main, You shall hear, you shall hear. Brave Benbow he set sail, For to fight, for to fight; Brave Benbow he set sail With a free and pleasant gale, But his captains they turned tail. In a fright, in a fright. Says Kirby unto Wade, I will run, I will run; Says Kirby unto Wade, I will run; I value not disgrace, Nor the losing of my place, My en'mies I'll not face With a gun, with a gun. 'Twas the _Ruby_ and _Noah's Ark_ Fought the French, fought the French; 'Twas the _Ruby_ and _Noah's Ark_ fought the French; And there was ten in all; Poor souls they fought them all, They valued them not at all, Nor their noise, nor their noise. It was our Admiral's lot, With a chain-shot, with a chain-shot; It was our Admiral's lot, with a chain-shot Our Admiral lost his legs; Fight on, my boys, he begs, 'Tis my lot, 'tis my lot. While the surgeon dressed his wounds, Thus he said, thus he said; While the surgeon dressed his wounds, thus he said, Let my cradle now, in haste, On the quarter-deck be placed, That my enemies I may face, Till I'm dead, till I'm dead. And there bold Benbow lay, Crying out, crying out; And there bold Benbow lay, crying out, Let us tack about once more, We'll drive them to their own shore; I don't value half-a-score, Nor their noise, nor their noise.