Ten sail had joined us just in time, and a right good sort they sent ;

We numbered thirteen seventy-fours, and after them we

went

With every stitch of canvas set, due East for Egypt bound,

For well we guessed the Frenchmen there full surely would be found.

And there we should have found them, but we passed them on the way,

And blank we looked when not a mast showed in Aboukir's bay;

We'd beat them just by three days and they were safe awhile,

As North again in search of them, we bore up from the Nile.

That was the first of August when next we reached that shore,

For there it flew, on mast and fort, the flaunting tricolor, And a sight that did our eyes good-there anchored round the bay,

And ours at last, just thirteen sail, all safe the Frenchmen lay.

From east to west, right in to shore, their line of battle

ran,

And shoal and fort they thought made safe the head ships of their van;

But of shoal and fort we never thought, for in our Admiral's look

We plainly saw, if they were safe, his meaning we mistook.

For days-till they were his at last-till now there lay their line,

He had not slept or eat: 'Now, men,' he laughing said, 'I'll dine.'

It might have been his wedding-day, so happy was his smile,

He knew that many a year would tell of Nelson and the

'Where they can swing, there we can swim; both sides their line,' he said,

'We'll have at them ;' and so, at six, inside brave Foley led.

Inside led the Goliath, by four more followed fast,

And, leading five outside their line, into their fire we passed;

On, grim and silent as the grave, through shot and shell we went,

With many a splintering hole below-above, full many

a rent.

On went we, furling sails above-below, hushed round

each gun;

While, as we near and nearer drew, fast down went many a one.

We had some thoughts, I tell you; those minutes were like years

Until we shaved their Spartiate-then you might hear our cheers.

Then they who looked on Nelson's face, they saw the conquering smile

That told what music were to him our broadsides at the Nile.

'Twas six when we began the game, at seven went down the sun;

The sudden night showed but the light flashed fast from every gun;

But, friend from foe, we still could know, if we were at

a loss,

By our four lights at each mizen-peak and St. George's

blood-red cross.

Two thousand guns were roaring death, but who their roaring feared,

Though three times, from dead and wounded, our foremost guns we cleared;

We knew that we were winning; we knew he could but win,

And hours went by like minutes as we hurled our broadsides in.

By nine three riddled Mounseers had sickened of the

game,

By ten their Admiral's L'Orient was burning bright aflame;

And well our conquering hero, though wounded sore, might smile

As he learned how flag on flag was struck that midnight at the Nile.

At last their huge four-decker was hurled up with a

roar

That struck the fight to silence for minutes ten and

more;

At twelve the battle slackened, and when upsprung

the day,

Not a Frenchman's flag was flying but on two that

stood away.

Of thirteen sail, the Guillaume Tell and Généreux 'scaped alone;

The fire had two; the other nine were, safe and sure,

our own.

'Twas 'a conquest, not a victory' our glorious Nelson

said;

As there he, blinded, lay below, with the wounded and the dead;

As the hush of victory told him, as ceased the latest gun, Not the tomb in the old Abbey, but the Peerage, he had

won.

Then he said, 'Let God be thanked, men!' and who but thanked God while

We thought that He had spared to us our Nelson of the Nile?

THE DUTCHMAN'S BROOM.

THERE's a day in our ocean-story
That in mind should be always kept:
When Van Tromp through our seas, in glory,
With the broom at his mast-head, swept.
Unready, the Dutch had caught us;

Blake had fought; his cannon might boom;
But Mynheer, he for two months taught us
To make way for the Dutchman's broom.

Not long was that besom flaunted,
For 'twas England's grand old day,
When Cromwell did more than he vaunted,
And Blake swept all foes away;

'Twas not weakness or sloth that forced us
To Van Tromp two months, to give room;
'Twas rashness the Channel lost us
When 'twas swept by the Dutchman's broom.

Rare wisdom that old December
Taught to us, beyond all price;
That wisdom shall we remember,
Or dare to be taught it twice?
Our fleets must our seas be keeping
Too well for foes to presume
To think of our Channel sweeping,

As 'twas swept by the Dutchman's broom.

Then a word to the men who rule us :
For cash we may something care,
But never a foe shall fool us,
Whatever our wealth must spare.
Let who will for our fancy blame us,
We'll have fleets that shall leave no room
For a foe for an hour to shame us

With the sweep of the Dutchman's broom.

OAK AND IRON.

A SONG FOR OUR IRONSIDES.

YES, the days of our wooden walls are ended, And the days of our iron ones begun ; But who cares by what our land's defended, While the hearts that fought and fight are one? 'Twas not the oak that fought each battle, 'Twas not the wood that victory won;

'Twas the hands that made our broadsides rattle, 'Twas the hearts of oak that served each gun. Then be ours iron ships or oaken,

So long as Britons serve each gun, The spell of glory lives unbroken;

Our foes shall strike to us or run.

They may change the stuff in which we're floating, But what matters that to old Dame Fame ? She'll ship with English tars, unnoting

The change, while we are still the same;

So long as English blood is sailing

The ships in which with us she swims,
She sticks to us with pride unfailing,
And Victory with her shares her whims.
In oak or iron who will doubt us?
As long as Britons serve each gun,
There's the knack of drubbing foes about us,
Of making foes to strike or run.

Then don't let any friends mistake us ;
We are as our fathers chose to be,

We are what those fathers chose to make us:
The roamers and rulers of the sea.