Back to Madrid went that Spanish Ambassador, Broken and bruised like a bull-beaten matador, And he bowed very low (It was etiquette so) And he cried, "Oh, that Queen is the devil in sooth. A fool, Sire, 'twas thought, for she danced so uncouth! But her bargains are hard as her heart and her hand, As her dreary dominions, her men and her land! And never be gulled by her feminine vanity, 'Tis only a pose, all her vacant inanity! Let us man an armada to crush her and raid her, To send her to hell to the demons who made her!" And they came, as you know: Heavy ships big and slow In a lumbering way, in a blundering way In that Tudor day. Proudly up channel their galleons swept, Swiftly our pinnaces hustled and leapt At their rear. Dogs tracking their prey And biting and snapping And snarling and yapping, Delighted and fierce at the chance of a fray. God! How the Spaniards fled in a panic When our fire-ships had neared them, And blazed them, and seared them, Wrapping their hulks in red flamings Satanic! God, how they scattered, Slipped anchor, and shattered, Sails tattered, Masts battered, Up to the north whilst a mighty sou'-wester Rose wildly and strong, to hinder and pester Their perilous flight; how they foundered and sank On that treacherous bank, Lost, lost evermore On our alien shore. With their grim freight of death And the poisonous breath Of scurvy and pestilence, hunger, despair, The struggling remainder of galleons bear Them back to the port of Corunna again, All, all that is left to the pride of proud Spain. Courageous and calm, with the valour of men Elizabeth waited the chances; and then "My children are fed And their enemies dead," Cried the frivolous Queen. Majestic of mien She towered, her wisdom and high inspiration, The might of a people, the soul of a nation. L'Envoie (And even to-day I will wager that no man Can fathom the mind or the depths of a woman!) The Death of Queen Elizabeth Only So lonely, Was ever woman quite so lonely? Clad in a rich bejewelled dress, unchanged For nigh a week, her stiff ruff disarranged, Her fierce eyes staring dully at the floor, Fear on that face, which ne'er knew fear before-- Elizabeth. Finger on lip she sits. Time has outgrown That gorgeous England, which was once her own. Those solemn courtiers pacing to and fro Outside the palace, neither care nor know The dying Queen is lonely!