Drake nor devil nor Spaniard feared, Their cities he put to the sack; He singed His Catholic Majesty’s beard, And harried his ships to wrack. He was playing at Plymouth a rubber of bowls When the great Armada came; But he said, ‘They must wait their turn, good souls,’ And he stooped and finished the game. Fifteen sail were the Dutchmen bold, Duncan he had but two; But he anchored them fast where the Texel shoaled, And his colours aloft he flew. ‘I’ve taken the depth to a fathom,’ he cried, ‘And I’ll sink with a right good will: For I know when we’re all of us under the tide My flag will be fluttering still.’ Splinters were flying above, below, When Nelson sailed the Sound: ‘Mark you, I wouldn’t be elsewhere now,’ Said he, ‘for a thousand pound!’ The Admiral’s signal bade him fly, But he wickedly wagged his head: He clapped the glass to his sightless eye, And ‘I’m damned if I see it!’ he said. Admirals all, they said their say (The echoes are ringing still). Admirals all, they went their way To the haven under the hill. But they left us a kingdom none can take-- The realm of the circling sea-- To be ruled by the rightful sons of Blake, And the Rodneys yet to be. _Admirals all, for England’s sake, Honour be yours and fame! And honour, as long as waves shall break, To Nelson’s peerless name!_ _Henry Newbolt._ CXIII DRAKE’S DRUM Drake he’s in his hammock an’ a thousand mile away, (Capten, art tha sleepin’ there below?) Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay, An’ dreamin’ arl the time o’ Plymouth Hoe. Yarnder lumes the island, yarnder lie the ships, Wi’ sailor lads a-dancin’ heel-an’-toe, An’ the shore-lights flashin’, an’ the night-tide dashin’, He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago. Drake he was a Devon man, an’ rüled the Devon seas, (Capten, art tha sleepin’ there below?), Rovin’ tho’ his death fell, he went wi’ heart at ease, An’ dreamin’ arl the time o’ Plymouth Hoe. ‘Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore, Strike et when your powder’s runnin’ low; If the Dons sight Devon, I’ll quit the port o’ Heaven, An’ drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago.’ Drake he’s in his hammock till the great Armadas come, (Capten, art tha sleepin’ there below?), Slung atween the round shot, listenin’ for the drum, An’ dreamin’ arl the time o’ Plymouth Hoe. Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound, Call him when ye sail to meet the foe; Where the old trade’s plyin’ an’ the old flag flyin’, They shall find him ware an’ wakin’, as they found him long ago! _Henry Newbolt._ CXIV A TOAST