Soon a frigate hove in sight:-- As the wind was rather light, She, five barges, out of spite, Sent, to attack, with gun and blade. On our decks stood rugged men, Little more than three times ten; And I tremble, while my pen Tells the havoc that was made. Up they came, with colors red, One a stern, and one a head-- Shall I tell you what they said?-- Yankees! strike the buntin rag! Three were ranged on either side-- Then the ports were open'd wide, And the sea with blood was dyed; Ruin to the english flag! Now the angry cannons roar, Now they hurl the storm of war, Now in floods of human gore Swam the prince of Neufchatel! Then the captain, Ordonneaux, Seconded the seaman's blow, And the remnant of the foe Own'd the brig defended well. For the million she contain'd He contended, sword in hand, Follow'd by as brave a band Of tars, as ever, trod a deck. In these bloody barges, five, Scarce a man was left alive, And about the seas they drive; Some were sunk, and some a wreck. Every effort that they made With boarding pike, or carronade, Every effort was repaid, Scarcely with a parallel! Fortune, thus, upon the wave, Crown'd the valor of the brave:-- Little lost, and much to save, Had the prince of Neufchatel. [210] Of the numerous vessels fitted out during the war by private parties to prey on British commerce the Prince de Neufchatel was doubtless the most successful. THE PARADE AND SHAM-FIGHT A Pine Forest Picture--on a Training Day. ----Invictaque bello Dextera! non illi se quisquam impune tulisset Obvius armato---- _Virg._ The drum was beat, the flag display'd, The soldiers met upon parade, And all for action ready made With loud huzza! When forth a stately figure strode, Of stature such, of such a mode, As those who lived before the flood, If stuff'd with straw. His vigor seem'd by years unbroke; But then his phiz had such a look, As if preserved in Etna's smoke For half an age. God help us all to look our best! This man was captain of the rest, And valor seem'd to fire his breast With martial rage. His horse was of an iron grey; (A prancing steed he rode that day,) Not of the bold virginian breed, Nor yet remote from Quixote's steed. This chief was of the bullet mould; To meet the conflict, firm and bold, His coat was patch'd, his boots new soal'd, Ham stuff'd his maw: Two pounds of powder fill'd his horn, His pantaloons were old and worn, A cap and hat his head adorn-- The chapeau bras. With vengeance heated, long in store, He sallied forth, a man of war; And all that meet him, pray take care Of rusty pikes.