“From the smiling bays of Devonshire To the frowning cliffs of Filey, Leaps forth every son of an English sire, To fight for his native isley. He hath drawn the sword of his father now From the rusty sheath it rattled in; And Dobbin, who dragged the peaceful plough, Is neighing for the battle-din. CHORUS For Albion still is Ocean-Queen, and though her sons be few, They challenge the world with a dauntless mien, and the flag of Billy Blue. 4 “Then pledge me your English palm, my lad; Keep the knuckles for Sir Frenchman; No slave can you be till you change your dad, And no son of yours a henchman. The fight is to come; and we will not brag, Nor expect whatever we sigh for, But stand as the rock that bears the flag Our duty is to die for. CHORUS For Englishmen confront serene whatever them betideth; And England shall be Ocean's Queen as long as the world abideth.” What with the drum and the fifes of one of the regiments now at Stonnington, and the mighty bass of some sea-captains vehement in chorus, these rough and rolling lines were enough to frighten a thousand Frenchmen, while proving the vigour of British nerve, and fortitude both of heart and ear. When people have done a thing well, they know it, and applaud one another to include themselves; and even the ladies, who were meant to be unseen, forgot that and waved their handkerchiefs. Then up and spoke Blyth Scudamore, in the spirit of the moment; and all that he said was good and true, well-balanced and well-condensed, like himself. His quiet melodious voice went further than the Lord-Lieutenant's, because it was new to the air of noise, and that fickle element loves novelty. All was silence while he spoke, and when he ceased--great uproar. “That lad will do,” said the Marquis to his supporter on the right hand; “I was just like him at that age myself. Let me draw this cork--it is the bottle of the evening. None but my own fellows understand a cork, and they seem to have got away somewhere. What the doose are they about--why, halloa, Darling! What's the meaning of all this, at such a time?” “Well, my lord, you must judge for yourself,” said the Admiral, who had made his way quietly from the bottom of the table. “We know that false alarms are plentiful. But this looks like business, from the paper it is written on; and I know that old Dudgeon is as solid as myself. Vickers the Coast-guard brought it in, from an officer whose horse was blown, who had orders to get somehow to Stonnington.” “Is Vickers a knave, or a fool who is likely to be made the victim of a very low joke? There are hundreds of jealous scoundrels eager to spoil every patriotic gathering. Ah, this looks rather serious, though, if you can vouch for the paper.”