"What passion must that heart inspire That dives the sea, to deal in fire, What can he fear, I trembling ask Who undertakes the daring task? "With engines of perdition spread, Amazed, I see the ocean's bed! And find with rage, regret, despair, I have no power to meet them there! "Alack! my nerves are on the rack-- They're hammering at the garboard streak! Some yankee dog is near the keel! Ho, sailors give the ship a heel: Go, chaplain, to the starboard chains And ask the rascal what he means? Who knows but Fulton's self is there With all his dark infernal gear: Who knows but he has fix'd his screws, And left a match, to fire the fuze-- Who knows, but in this very hour, The Ramillies will be no more! Will only live in empty fame, And I, myself, be but a name! "Should the torpedo take effect, Her carcass will be worse than wreck'd; In scatter'd fragments to the sky This ship of ships will clattering fly: And then--ah, chaplain!--ah, what then! Where will I be, and all my men? And where will you a lodging find, A traveller on a gale of wind! And where will be the pretty maid That sweeps my floor and makes my bed? Oh Fanny, Fanny! must we part?-- Torpedoes!--I am sick at heart!-- How will the flames those lips deface! How will they spoil that blooming face! How will they scorch your auburn hair--? --You'll have your plagues, and I my share. And must I all my fears impart; And do these guns my ship ensure? And must I ask my fluttering heart If on these decks I stand secure? "Do, Fanny, go and boil some tea: Come hither, love, and comfort me: A glass of wine! my spirits sink! The last perhaps that I shall drink!-- Or go--unlock the brandy case And let us have a dram a piece;-- No matter if your nose is red, We shall be sober when we're dead. "In fancy's view the mine is sprung, The rudder from the stern unhung, My valiant sailors torn asunder, The ship herself a clap of thunder, From fathoms down, a deadly blast Unbolts the keel, unsteps the mast, While Fulton, with a placid grin Exulting, views the infernal scene! The sails are vanish'd, tack and clue, The rigging burnt, by lord knows who, The star that glitter'd on my breast Is gone to Davy Jones's chest; The glorious ensign of st. George, Of Spain the dread, of France the scourge, Is from the staff, unpitied, torn And for a cloak by satan worn: The Lion mounted on the prow, To awe the subject sea below With flames that Lion is oppress'd-- They will not spare the royal beast.-- O vengeance! why does vengeance sleep? The yards are scatter'd o'er the deep, Our guns are buried in the seas, And thus concludes the Ramillies!