“'Fore Gad, the Chaplain of the Fleet would bless my picaroon!” By two and three the flags blew free to lash the laughing air: -- “We have sold our spars to the merchantman -- we know that his price is fair.” The skipper winked his Western eye, and swore by a China storm: -- “They ha' rigged him a Joseph's jury-coat to keep his honour warm.” The halliards twanged against the tops, the bunting bellied broad, The skipper spat in the empty hold and mourned for a wasted cord. Masthead -- masthead, the signal sped by the line o' the British craft; The skipper called to his Lascar crew, and put her about and laughed: -- “It's mainsail haul, my bully boys all -- we'll out to the seas again -- Ere they set us to paint their pirate saint, or scrub at his grapnel-chain. It's fore-sheet free, with her head to the sea, and the swing of the unbought brine -- We'll make no sport in an English court till we come as a ship o' the Line: Till we come as a ship o' the Line, my lads, of thirty foot in the sheer, Lifting again from the outer main with news of a privateer; Flying his pluck at our mizzen-truck for weft of Admiralty, Heaving his head for our dipsey-lead in sign that we keep the sea. Then fore-sheet home as she lifts to the foam -- we stand on the outward tack, We are paid in the coin of the white man's trade -- the bezant is hard, ay, and black. The frigate-bird shall carry my word to the Kling and the Orang-Laut How a man may sail from a heathen coast to be robbed in a Christian port; How a man may be robbed in Christian port while Three Great Captains there Shall dip their flag to a slaver's rag -- to show that his trade is fair!” THE BALLAD OF THE “CLAMPHERDOWN” It was our war-ship _Clampherdown_ Would sweep the Channel clean, Wherefore she kept her hatches close When the merry Channel chops arose, To save the bleached marine. She had one bow-gun of a hundred ton, And a great stern-gun beside; They dipped their noses deep in the sea, They racked their stays and stanchions free In the wash of the wind-whipped tide. It was our war-ship _Clampherdown_, Fell in with a cruiser light That carried the dainty Hotchkiss gun And a pair o' heels wherewith to run From the grip of a close-fought fight. She opened fire at seven miles -- As ye shoot at a bobbing cork -- And once she fired and twice she fired, Till the bow-gun drooped like a lily tired That lolls upon the stalk. “Captain, the bow-gun melts apace, The deck-beams break below, 'Twere well to rest for an hour or twain, And botch the shattered plates again.” And he answered, “Make it so.” She opened fire within the mile -- As ye shoot at the flying duck -- And the great stern-gun shot fair and true, With the heave of the ship, to the stainless blue, And the great stern-turret stuck.