Our captain did inspect her With glasses, and he said, "My boys, she means to fight us, But be you not afraid; All hands repair to quarters, See everything is clear, We'll give her a broadside, my boys, As soon as she comes near." She was prepared with nettings, And her men were well secured, And bore directly for us, And put us close on board; When the cannon roared like thunder, And the muskets fired amain, But soon we were alongside And grappled to her chain. And now the scene it altered, The cannon ceased to roar, We fought with swords and boarding-pikes One glass or something more, Till British pride and glory No longer dared to stay, But cut the Yankee grapplings, And quickly bore away. Our case was not so desperate As plainly might appear; Yet sudden death did enter On board our privateer. Mahoney, Crew, and Clemmons, The valiant and the brave, Fell glorious in the contest, And met a watery grave. Ten other men were wounded Among our warlike crew, With them our noble captain, To whom all praise is due; To him and all our officers Let's give a hearty cheer; Success to fair America And our good privateer. The Americans were not without their losses, and one of the most serious occurred early in 1778. On the morning of March 7, the 32-gun frigate Randolph, Captain Nicholas Biddle, while cruising off Barbadoes, fell in with the English 64-gun ship of the line Yarmouth, and attacked immediately. The fight had lasted about an hour when the Randolph's magazine was in some way fired, and the ship blew up. Of the crew of three hundred and fifteen, only four were saved. ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN NICHOLAS BIDDLE [March 7, 1778] What distant thunders rend the skies, What clouds of smoke in volumes rise, What means this dreadful roar! Is from his base Vesuvius thrown, Is sky-topt Atlas tumbled down, Or Etna's self no more! Shock after shock torments my ear; And lo! two hostile ships appear, Red lightnings round them glow: The Yarmouth boasts of sixty-four, The Randolph thirty-two--no more-- And will she fight this foe! The Randolph soon on Stygian streams Shall coast along the land of dreams, The islands of the dead! But fate, that parts them on the deep, Shall save the Briton, still to weep His ancient honors fled. Say, who commands that dismal blaze, Where yonder starry streamer plays; Does Mars with Jove engage! 'Tis Biddle wings those angry fires, Biddle, whose bosom Jove inspires With more than mortal rage. Tremendous flash! and hark, the ball Drives through old Yarmouth, flames and all; Her bravest sons expire; Did Mars himself approach so nigh, Even Mars, without disgrace, might fly The Randolph's fiercer fire.