The Slaver swore that all our threats should not his courage scare, And that th' assault of such a sloop was quite beneath his care: Our captain calls, "Stand by, my lads! and when I give the word, We slap off two smart broadsides, and run her right on board." The signal then was given, a rattler we let fly, And many a gloomy Spaniard upon her decks did die: "Now fire again! my British boys, repeat the precious dose, For round and grape, when plied so well, they cannot long oppose." Now peals the roar of battle strife, now British hearts expand, And now the anxious sailor pants to combat hand to hand; With grapnels and with hawsers, we lash'd her to our beam, Although the muzzles of our guns did o'er our bulwarks gleam. "Away, my men!" the captain cries, "'tis just the time to board," Upon her decks we jump'd amain, with tomahawk and sword; The conflict now was sharp and fierce, for clemency had fled, And streams of gore mark'd every blow--the dying and the dead. Our captain heads the daring band, to make the Velos strike, But soon received a dangerous thrust, from a well-hove boarding pike. We thought 'twas all "clue up" with him, although he cheered us on, And we determined, every man, the Slaver should be won. We beat them on the main deck, till they could no longer stand, When our leader sings out "Quarter!" some mercy to command; But now the sherry which we made, with panic fill'd the horde, For some dived down the hatchways, and some leap'd overboard. Close to their scudding heels our lads did their attentions pay, Cutlass in hand, to hold their own--to capture more than slay; Through slippery gore we fought our way, the quarter-deck to gain, And in loud cheers her mizen peak soon lost the flag of Spain. Our prize we found was frigate-built, from Whydah she sail'd out, With near six hundred slaves on board, and eight score seamen stout; Equipp'd with stores of every sort, the missile war to wage, And twenty long guns through her ports seem'd frowning to engage. Of those that were made prisoners, they all were put abaft, And we with well-arm'd sentinels paraded fore and aft; We pick'd up all the slaughter'd men, and hove them in the deep, Where, full in number fifty, they take their final sleep. And twenty more disabled Dons, with eyelet holes and scars, Were treated by our surgeon the same as our own tars; For when they struck no time was lost, to the Primrose they were sent, And arms and legs, and broken heads, strict ordeal underwent. Our chief was badly wounded, likewise the master too, One midshipman, the boatswain, and nine of our ship's crew; Besides three seamen killed outright, who thus resign'd their breath, And in the hour of vict'ry gained a patriotic death.