Who fought for him, and conquered, Who've won with sweat and gore, Nobility which he shall have

Whene'er he touch the shore.
Oh! would I were our Admiral,
To order with a word;

To lose a dozen drops of blood,
And so rise up a lord!

I'd shout e'en to yon shark, there,
Who follows in our lee,

"Some day, I'll make thee carry me, Like lightning through the sea."

The Admiral grew paler,
And paler as we flew ;
Still talked he to his officers,

And smiled upon his crew;

And he looked up at the heavens,
And he looked down on the sea,
And at last he spied the creature
That kept following in our lee.
He shook-'twas but an instant;
For speedily the pride
Ran crimson to his heart,

Till all chances he defied:

It threw boldness on his forehead;
It gave firmness to his breath;
And he stood like some grim warrior
New risen up from death.

That night a horrid whisper

Fell on us where we lay;

And we knew our fine old Admiral
Was changing into clay;

And we heard the wash of waters,
Though nothing could we see,

And a whistle and a plunge

Among the billows in our lee!
Till dawn we watched the body,
In its dead and ghastly sleep,
And next evening at sunset,

It was slung into the deep!
And never from that moment,-
Save one shudder through the sea,

Saw we or heard the shark

That followed in our lee!

BARRY CORNWALL.

TWENTY SAIL AND MORE.

"How many?" said our good Captain.

"Twenty sail and more."

We were homeward bound,

Scudding in a gale with our jib towards the Nore.

Right athwart our tack,

The foe came thick and black,

Like Hell-birds and foul weather-you might count them

by the score.

The Betsy Jane did slack

To see the game in view.

They knew the Union Jack,

And the tyrant's flag we knew!

Our Captain shouted "clear the decks !" and the Bo'sun's

whistle blew.

Then our gallant Captain,

With his hand he seized the wheel,

And pointed with his stump to the middle of the foe. "Hurrah, lads, in we go!"

(You should hear the British cheer

Fore and aft.)

“There are twenty sail," sang he,

"But little Betsy Jane bobs to nothing on the sea!"

(You should hear the British cheer,

Fore and aft.)

"See yon ugly craft

With the pennon at her main !

Hurrah, my merry boys.

There goes the Betsy Jane!"

(You should hear the British cheer

Fore and aft.)

The foe, he beat to quarters, and the Russian bugles sound;

And the little Betsy Jane she leaps upon the sea.

"Port and starboard!" cried our Captain;

"Pay it in, my hearts!" sang he.

"We're old England's sons,

And we'll fight for her to-day!"

(You should hear the British cheer, Fore and aft.)

"Fire away!"

In she runs

And her guns

Thunder round.

SIDNEY DObell.

THE DYING MIDSHIPMAN.

An Incident of the attack on the Peiho River, 1859.

FAR off on the Peiho river,

As the fierce sun sunk low,

Boom'd on in a sullen thunder
The cannon of the foe.

Over mud, and stakes, and ditches,
The storming foe had rush'd,

Each eye with honour bright'ning,

Each face with brave dreams flush'd.

As leaves on an autumn ev'ning
Crimson the weeping ground,
Comrade upon comrade, stricken,
Fell miserably round.

Gallant Hope, the old sea-lion,
Stood on the bloody deck,

As black gunboat after gunboat
Crept by a crippled wreck

By a rope he holds on smiling,
While in his bleeding side
A deep splinter wound is gaping-
Gaping four fingers wide.

Mad with their stinging dishonour,
Caught in such dev'lish snare,

The sons of a line of sea-kings
Fought on in grim despair.

Fought on till the solemn twilight
Shrouded the noble dead;

And the sea-breeze like a mother,
Moan'd from its ocean-bed.

Out on the foul mud-flats lying,
A little Middy lay;

The torn colours clench'd around him,
His right leg shot away!

In a quiet home of England,
A mother on her knees

Prays for her own blue-eyed darling
Whom in sad dreams she sees,

On his death-couch God is smiling,
Heaven's sunshine crowns his brow;

And his soul is with the angels,
Though his body stay below,

He is thinking of dishonour

Staining the flag he bore;
For his dying hands are scraping
A grave on the mud-shore.