They valued them not at all,
Nor their noise, nor their noise.
It was our admiral's lot,
With a chain-shot, with a chain-shot, It was our admiral's lot with a chain-shot: Our admiral lost his legs,
And to his men he begs,
Fight on, my brave boys, he says,
"Tis my lot, 'tis my lot.
While the surgeon dress'd his wounds,
Thus he said, thus he said,
While the surgeon dress'd his wounds, thus he said:
Let my cradle now in haste
On the quarter-deck be placed,
That my enemies I may face
Till I'm dead, till I'm dead.
And there bold Benbow lay
Crying out, crying out,
And there bold Benbow lay, crying out:
Let us tack once more,
We'll drive them to their own shore,
I value not half a score,
Nor their noise, nor their noise.
As near Porto-Bello lying
On the gently-swelling flood,
At midnight, with streamers flying,
Our triumphant navy rode;
There while Vernon sate all-glorious
From the Spaniards' late defeat:
And his crews, with shouts victorious,
Drank success to England's fleet;
On a sudden, shrilly sounding,
Hideous yells and shrieks were heard;
Then, each heart with fear confounding,
A sad troop of ghosts appeared;
All in dreary hammocks shrouded,
Which for winding-sheets they wore,
And, with looks by sorrow clouded,
Frowning on that hostile shore.
On them gleamed the moon's wan lustre,
When the shade of Hosier brave
His pale bands was seen to muster,
Rising from their wat❜ry grave:
O'er the glimmering wave he hied him,
Where the Burford rear'd her sail,
With three thousand ghosts beside him,
And in groans did Vernon hail.
Heed, oh! heed our fatal story;
I am Hosier's injur'd ghost;
You who now have purchas'd glory
At this place where I was lost,
Tho' in Porto-Bello's ruin
You now triumph, free from fears,
When you think of my undoing,
You will mix your joys with tears.
See these mournful spectres, sweeping
Ghastly o'er this hated wave,
Whose wan cheeks are stain'd with weeping,
These were English captains brave:
Mark those numbers, pale and horrid,
Who were once my sailors bold;
Lo! each hangs his drooping forehead,
While his dismal tale is told.
I, by twenty ships attended
Did this Spanish town affright, Nothing then its wealth defended, But my orders, not to fight. Oh! that in this rolling ocean
I had cast them with disdain,
And obey'd my heart's warm motion
To have quell'd the pride of Spain.
For resistance I could fear none,
But with twenty ships had done What thou, brave and happy Vernon, Hast atchiev'd with six alone. Then the Bastimentos never
Had our foul dishonour seen,
Nor the sea the sad receiver
Of this gallant train had been.
Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying,
And her galleons leading home,
Though, condemn'd for disobeying,
I had met a traitor's doom;
To have fall'n, my country crying
He has play'd an English part,
Had been better far than dying
Of a griev'd and broken heart.
Unrepining at thy glory,
Thy successful arms we hail;
But remember our sad story,
And let Hosier's wrongs prevail.
Sent in this foul clime to languish,
Think what thousands fell in vain,
Wasted with disease and anguish,
Not in glorious battle slain.
Hence with all my train attending
From their oozy tombs below,
Through the hoary foam ascending,
Here I feed my constant woe :
Here the Bastimentos viewing,
We recall our shameful doom,
And, our plaintive cries renewing,
Wander through the midnight gloom.
O'er these waves, for ever mourning
Shall we roam, depriv'd of rest,
If, to Britain's shores returning,
You neglect my just request:
After this proud foe subduing,
When your patriot friends you see,
Think on vengeance for my ruin,
And for England-sham'd in me.
COME all ye jolly Sailors bold,
Whose hearts are cast in honour's mould,
While England's glory I unfold,
Huzza to the Arethusa.
She is a Frigate tight and brave,
As ever stemm'd the dashing wave;
Her men are staunch
To their fav'rite Launch,
And when the foe shall meet our fire,
Sooner than strike we'll all expire,
On board of the Arethusa.
"Twas with the spring-fleet she went out,
The English Channel to cruize about,
When four French sail, in show so stout,
Bore down on the Arethusa.
The fam'd Belle Poule straight ahead did lie,
The Arethusa seem'd to fly,
Not a sheet, or a Tack,
Or a brace did she slack,
Tho' the French men laugh'd, and thought it stuff, But they knew not the handful of men, how tough, On board of the Arethusa.
On deck five hundred men did dance,
The stoutest they could find in France,
We, with two hundred, did advance,
On board of the Arethusa.
Our captain hail'd the Frenchman, ho!
The Frenchman cry'd out hallo!
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