Huzza for old England! three cheers, and a damn! And up to the conflict they manfully came; On the bows and the quarters they grappled a hold, And board! was the word in those barges so bold; But board they could not--to no devil she strikes, So the Armstrong repell'd them with pistols and pikes-- From her musquetry fire They by dozens expire! And soon was the work of destruction complete, And soon was determined their total defeat--!
Three hundred brave fellows were wounded and kill'd, Their boats and their barges with slaughter were fill'd; With shame they retreated, the few that remain'd, To tell the event of the battle--not gain'd: Their commander in chief Was astounded with grief!-- Dont grieve, my good fellows--he hail'd them--I beg I too have my wounds--"an ox trod on my leg!"
But to save the stout Armstrong--even Reid could not do-- A ship of the line with a frigate in tow--! A brig of their navy accoutred for war--! All this was too much for e'en yankees to dare: So he scuttled his barque-- Nor need we remark That she sunk on the sands by the beach of Fayal With her colors all flying--no colors could fall!
Of neutrals what nonsense some tell us each day! Exists there a neutral where Britain has sway? The rights of a neutral!--away with such stuff-- What neutral remains that can England rebuff?-- To be safe from disgrace The deep seas are our place: The flag of no neutral our flag can defend, By ourselves we must fight, on ourselves must depend.
Now in bumpers of reason, success to brave Reid! Himself and his heroes are heroes indeed!-- In conquests, like this, can an englishman glory, One traitor among us, one Halifax tory? If they can--let them brag-- Here's success to our flag! May it ever be ready, the britons to maul, As the Armstrong behaved in the road of Fayal.--
Ordonneaux, commander, which arrived at Boston some time since, from a cruise of three months, chiefly in the english and irish channels, in which she captured thirteen or fourteen valuable prizes, to the amount, it was said, of more than a million of dollars.
What is wealth, that men will roam, Risque their all, and leave their home, Face the cannon, beat the drum, And their lives so cheaply sell!