Three hours the raging fire Did not slack; But the fourth, their signals drear Of distress and wreck appear, And the Dane a feeble cheer Sent us back. The voice decayed; their shots Slowly boom. They ceased--and all is wail, As they strike the shattered sail, Or in conflagration pale Light the gloom. Oh, death--it was a sight Filled our eyes! But we rescued many a crew From the waves of scarlet hue Ere the Cross of England flew O’er her prize. Why cease not here the strife, O ye brave? Why bleeds old England’s band By the fire of Danish land, That smites the very hand Stretched to save? But the Britons sent to warn Denmark’s town: ‘Proud foes, let vengeance sleep! If another chain-shot sweep-- All your navy in the deep Shall go down. ‘Then, peace instead of death Let us bring! If you’ll yield your conquered fleet, With the crews, at England’s feet, And make submission meet To our King.’ The Dane returned, a truce Glad to bring: He would yield his conquered fleet, With the crews, at England’s feet, And make submission meet To our King. Then Death withdrew his pall From the day; And the sun looked smiling bright On a wide and woful sight Where the fires of funeral light Died away. Yet, all amidst her wrecks And her gore, Proud Denmark blest our chief That he gave her wounds relief; And the sounds of joy and grief Filled her shore. All round, outlandish cries Loudly broke; But a nobler note was rung When the British, old and young, To their bands of music sung ‘Hearts of Oak!’ Cheer! cheer! from park and tower, London town! When the King shall ride in state From St. James’s royal gate, And to all his peers relate Our renown! The bells shall ring! the day Shall not close, But a blaze of cities bright Shall illuminate the night, And the wine-cup shine in light As it flows. Yes--yet amid the joy And uproar, Let us think of them that sleep Full many a fathom deep, All beside thy rocky steep, Elsinore! Brave hearts, to Britain’s weal Once so true! Though death has quenched your flame, Yet immortal be your name! For ye died the death of fame With Riou. Soft sigh the winds of Heaven O’er your grave! While the billow mournful rolls And the mermaid’s song condoles, Singing--glory to the souls Of the brave. _ACTION OFF COPENHAGEN._ You undaunted sons of Britannia, lend an ear, A story concerning a fight you shall hear. It was on March the 12th, my boys, our fleet did sail Out of Yarmouth with a sweet and pleasant gale.