The east wind drives three square-sailed masts from out the Breton bay, And "Clear for action!" Farmer shouts, and reefers yell "Hooray!" The Frenchmen's captain had a name I wish I could pronounce; A Breton gentleman was he, and wholly free from bounce, One like those famous fellows who died by guil- lotine For honour and the fleurs-de-lys, and Antoinette the Queen. The Catholic for Louis, the Protestant for George, Each captain drew as bright a sword as saintly smiths could forge; And both were simple seamen, but both could understand How each was bound to win or die for flag and native land. The French ship was la Surveillante, which means the watchful maid; She folded up her head-dress and began to cannonade. Her hull was clean, and ours was foul; we had to spread more sail. On canvas, stays, and topsail yards her bullets came like hail. Sore smitten were both captains, and many lads beside, And still to cut our rigging the foreign gunners tried. A sail-clad spar came flapping down athwart a blazing gun; We could not quench the rushing flames, and so the Frenchman won. Our quarter-deck was crowded, the waist was all aglow; Men hung upon the taffrail half scorched, but loth to go; Our captain sat where once he stood, and would not quit his chair. He bade his comrades leap for life, and leave him bleeding there. The guns were hushed on either side, the French- men lowered boats, They flung us planks and hencoops, and every- thing that floats. They risked their lives, good fellows! to bring their rivals aid. 'Twas by the conflagration the peace was strangely made. _La Surveillante_ was like a sieve; the victors had no rest. They had to dodge the east wind to reach the port of Brest, And where the waves leapt lower, and the riddled ship went slower, In triumph, yet in funeral guise, came fisher- boats to tow her. They dealt with us as brethren, they mourned for Farmer dead; And as the wounded captives passed each Breton bowed the head. Then spoke the French Lieutenant, "'Twas fire that won, not we. You never struck your flag to us; you'll go to England free." 'Twas the sixth day of October, seventeen hundred seventy-nine, A year when nations ventured against us to ' combine, Quebec was burnt and Farmer slain, by us re- membered not; But thanks be to the French book wherein they're not forgot. Now you, if you've to fight the French, my youngster, bear in mind Those seamen of King Louis so chivalrous and kind; Think of the Breton gentlemen who took our lads to Brest, And treat some rescued Breton as a comrade and a guest. ----William Cory. KEITH OF RAVELSTON [Illustration: 9263] |The murmur of the mourning ghost