Aye, lads, aye, we fought 'em,And we sent 'em to the bottom,And you'll say that I'm a-talkin' like a silly;I hear your cheers and jokes,But, lads, them's human folksWhat is soakin' in the water off Manilly.Aye, lads, and when we shotIt's just as like as notWe hit some mother's heart in old Granady.She didn't sink no Maine,'Way over there in Spain,But she won't never see her laddy's body.I kin see a black-eyed gal,Somethin' like my little Sal,What is cryin' out her eyes in old Sevilly;There's a widow in MadridWith a pore little kid,And his daddy has went down off Manilly.Aye, lads, aye, we fought 'em,And we sent 'em to the bottom,And I hopes you won't be thinkin' I'm a booby,But that little black-eyed gal,What reminds me so of Sal,She didn't never do no harm to Cuby.And if instead of Sanchy,It had been "the hated Yankee,"Which you know, my lads, is me and Jack, and Billy,You know who would be cryin'For us fellers, what was dyin'And a-soakin' in the water off Manilly.Edmund Vance Cooke.
Aye, lads, aye, we fought 'em,And we sent 'em to the bottom,And you'll say that I'm a-talkin' like a silly;I hear your cheers and jokes,But, lads, them's human folksWhat is soakin' in the water off Manilly.Aye, lads, and when we shotIt's just as like as notWe hit some mother's heart in old Granady.She didn't sink no Maine,'Way over there in Spain,But she won't never see her laddy's body.I kin see a black-eyed gal,Somethin' like my little Sal,What is cryin' out her eyes in old Sevilly;There's a widow in MadridWith a pore little kid,And his daddy has went down off Manilly.Aye, lads, aye, we fought 'em,And we sent 'em to the bottom,And I hopes you won't be thinkin' I'm a booby,But that little black-eyed gal,What reminds me so of Sal,She didn't never do no harm to Cuby.And if instead of Sanchy,It had been "the hated Yankee,"Which you know, my lads, is me and Jack, and Billy,You know who would be cryin'For us fellers, what was dyin'And a-soakin' in the water off Manilly.Edmund Vance Cooke.
Aye, lads, aye, we fought 'em,And we sent 'em to the bottom,And you'll say that I'm a-talkin' like a silly;I hear your cheers and jokes,But, lads, them's human folksWhat is soakin' in the water off Manilly.
Aye, lads, and when we shotIt's just as like as notWe hit some mother's heart in old Granady.She didn't sink no Maine,'Way over there in Spain,But she won't never see her laddy's body.
I kin see a black-eyed gal,Somethin' like my little Sal,What is cryin' out her eyes in old Sevilly;There's a widow in MadridWith a pore little kid,And his daddy has went down off Manilly.
Aye, lads, aye, we fought 'em,And we sent 'em to the bottom,And I hopes you won't be thinkin' I'm a booby,But that little black-eyed gal,What reminds me so of Sal,She didn't never do no harm to Cuby.
And if instead of Sanchy,It had been "the hated Yankee,"Which you know, my lads, is me and Jack, and Billy,You know who would be cryin'For us fellers, what was dyin'And a-soakin' in the water off Manilly.
Edmund Vance Cooke.
MANILA BAY
From keel to fighting top, I loveOur Asiatic fleet,I love our officers and crewsWho'd rather fight than eat.I love the breakfast ordered upWhen enemies ran short,But most I love our chaplainWith his head out of the port.Now, a naval chaplain cannot chargeAs chaplains can on land,With his Bible in his pocket,His revolver in his hand,He must wait and help the wounded,No danger must he court;So our chaplain helped the woundedWith his head out of the port.Beneath his red and yellow,At bay the Spaniard stoodTill the yellow rose in fireAnd the crimson sank in blood.And till the last fouled rifleSped its impotent retort,Our chaplain watched the SpaniardWith his head out of the port.Then here's our admiral on the bridgeAbove the bursting shell;And here's our sailors who went inFor victory or hell,And here's the ships and here's the guns,That silenced fleet and fort;But don't forget our chaplainWith his head out of the port.Arthur Hale.May 1, 1898.
From keel to fighting top, I loveOur Asiatic fleet,I love our officers and crewsWho'd rather fight than eat.I love the breakfast ordered upWhen enemies ran short,But most I love our chaplainWith his head out of the port.Now, a naval chaplain cannot chargeAs chaplains can on land,With his Bible in his pocket,His revolver in his hand,He must wait and help the wounded,No danger must he court;So our chaplain helped the woundedWith his head out of the port.Beneath his red and yellow,At bay the Spaniard stoodTill the yellow rose in fireAnd the crimson sank in blood.And till the last fouled rifleSped its impotent retort,Our chaplain watched the SpaniardWith his head out of the port.Then here's our admiral on the bridgeAbove the bursting shell;And here's our sailors who went inFor victory or hell,And here's the ships and here's the guns,That silenced fleet and fort;But don't forget our chaplainWith his head out of the port.Arthur Hale.May 1, 1898.
From keel to fighting top, I loveOur Asiatic fleet,I love our officers and crewsWho'd rather fight than eat.I love the breakfast ordered upWhen enemies ran short,But most I love our chaplainWith his head out of the port.
Now, a naval chaplain cannot chargeAs chaplains can on land,With his Bible in his pocket,His revolver in his hand,He must wait and help the wounded,No danger must he court;So our chaplain helped the woundedWith his head out of the port.
Beneath his red and yellow,At bay the Spaniard stoodTill the yellow rose in fireAnd the crimson sank in blood.And till the last fouled rifleSped its impotent retort,Our chaplain watched the SpaniardWith his head out of the port.
Then here's our admiral on the bridgeAbove the bursting shell;And here's our sailors who went inFor victory or hell,And here's the ships and here's the guns,That silenced fleet and fort;But don't forget our chaplainWith his head out of the port.
Arthur Hale.
May 1, 1898.
A BALLAD OF MANILA BAY
Your threats how vain, Corregidor;Your rampired batteries, feared no more;Your frowning guard at Manila gate,—When our Captain went before!Lights out. Into the unknown gloomFrom the windy, glimmering, wide sea-roomChallenging fate in that dark straitWe dared the hidden doom.But the death in the deep awoke not then;Mine and torpedo they spoke not then;From the heights that loomed on our passing lineThe thunders broke not then.Safe through the perilous dark we sped,Quiet each ship as the quiet dead,Till the guns of El Fraile roared—too late,And the steel prows forged ahead.Mute each ship as the mute-mouth grave,A ghost leviathan cleaving the wave;But deep in its heart the great fires throb,The travailing engines rave.The ponderous pistons urge like fate,The red-throat furnaces roar elate,And the sweating stokers stagger and swoonIn a heat more fierce than hate.So through the dark we stole our wayPast the grim warders and into the bay,Past Kalibuyo, and past Salinas,—And came at the break of dayWhere strong Cavité stood to oppose,—Where, from a sheen of silver and rose,A thronging of masts, a soaring of towers,The beautiful city arose.How fine and fair! But the shining airWith a thousand shattered thunders thereFlapped and reeled. For the fighting foe—We had caught him in his lair.Surprised, unready, his proud ships layIdly at anchor in Bakor Bay:—Unready, surprised, but proudly bold,Which was ever the Spaniard's way.Then soon on his pride the dread doom fell,Red doom,—for the ruin of shot and shellLit every vomiting, bursting hulkWith a crimson reek of hell.But to the brave though beaten, hail!All hail to them that dare and fail!To the dauntless boat that charged our fleetAnd sank in the iron hail!*****Manila Bay! Manila Bay!How proud the song on our lips to-day!A brave old song of the true and strong,And the will that has its way;Of the blood that told in the days of DrakeWhen the fight was good for the fighting's sake!For the blood that fathered FarragutIs the blood that fathered Blake;And the pride of the blood will not be undoneWhile war's in the world and a fight to be won.For the master now, as the master of old,Is "the man behind the gun."The dominant blood that daunts the foe,That laughs at odds, and leaps to the blow,—It is Dewey's glory to-day, as Nelson'sA hundred years ago!Charles George Douglas Roberts.
Your threats how vain, Corregidor;Your rampired batteries, feared no more;Your frowning guard at Manila gate,—When our Captain went before!Lights out. Into the unknown gloomFrom the windy, glimmering, wide sea-roomChallenging fate in that dark straitWe dared the hidden doom.But the death in the deep awoke not then;Mine and torpedo they spoke not then;From the heights that loomed on our passing lineThe thunders broke not then.Safe through the perilous dark we sped,Quiet each ship as the quiet dead,Till the guns of El Fraile roared—too late,And the steel prows forged ahead.Mute each ship as the mute-mouth grave,A ghost leviathan cleaving the wave;But deep in its heart the great fires throb,The travailing engines rave.The ponderous pistons urge like fate,The red-throat furnaces roar elate,And the sweating stokers stagger and swoonIn a heat more fierce than hate.So through the dark we stole our wayPast the grim warders and into the bay,Past Kalibuyo, and past Salinas,—And came at the break of dayWhere strong Cavité stood to oppose,—Where, from a sheen of silver and rose,A thronging of masts, a soaring of towers,The beautiful city arose.How fine and fair! But the shining airWith a thousand shattered thunders thereFlapped and reeled. For the fighting foe—We had caught him in his lair.Surprised, unready, his proud ships layIdly at anchor in Bakor Bay:—Unready, surprised, but proudly bold,Which was ever the Spaniard's way.Then soon on his pride the dread doom fell,Red doom,—for the ruin of shot and shellLit every vomiting, bursting hulkWith a crimson reek of hell.But to the brave though beaten, hail!All hail to them that dare and fail!To the dauntless boat that charged our fleetAnd sank in the iron hail!*****Manila Bay! Manila Bay!How proud the song on our lips to-day!A brave old song of the true and strong,And the will that has its way;Of the blood that told in the days of DrakeWhen the fight was good for the fighting's sake!For the blood that fathered FarragutIs the blood that fathered Blake;And the pride of the blood will not be undoneWhile war's in the world and a fight to be won.For the master now, as the master of old,Is "the man behind the gun."The dominant blood that daunts the foe,That laughs at odds, and leaps to the blow,—It is Dewey's glory to-day, as Nelson'sA hundred years ago!Charles George Douglas Roberts.
Your threats how vain, Corregidor;Your rampired batteries, feared no more;Your frowning guard at Manila gate,—When our Captain went before!
Lights out. Into the unknown gloomFrom the windy, glimmering, wide sea-roomChallenging fate in that dark straitWe dared the hidden doom.
But the death in the deep awoke not then;Mine and torpedo they spoke not then;From the heights that loomed on our passing lineThe thunders broke not then.
Safe through the perilous dark we sped,Quiet each ship as the quiet dead,Till the guns of El Fraile roared—too late,And the steel prows forged ahead.
Mute each ship as the mute-mouth grave,A ghost leviathan cleaving the wave;But deep in its heart the great fires throb,The travailing engines rave.
The ponderous pistons urge like fate,The red-throat furnaces roar elate,And the sweating stokers stagger and swoonIn a heat more fierce than hate.
So through the dark we stole our wayPast the grim warders and into the bay,Past Kalibuyo, and past Salinas,—And came at the break of day
Where strong Cavité stood to oppose,—Where, from a sheen of silver and rose,A thronging of masts, a soaring of towers,The beautiful city arose.
How fine and fair! But the shining airWith a thousand shattered thunders thereFlapped and reeled. For the fighting foe—We had caught him in his lair.
Surprised, unready, his proud ships layIdly at anchor in Bakor Bay:—Unready, surprised, but proudly bold,Which was ever the Spaniard's way.
Then soon on his pride the dread doom fell,Red doom,—for the ruin of shot and shellLit every vomiting, bursting hulkWith a crimson reek of hell.
But to the brave though beaten, hail!All hail to them that dare and fail!To the dauntless boat that charged our fleetAnd sank in the iron hail!
*****
Manila Bay! Manila Bay!How proud the song on our lips to-day!A brave old song of the true and strong,And the will that has its way;
Of the blood that told in the days of DrakeWhen the fight was good for the fighting's sake!For the blood that fathered FarragutIs the blood that fathered Blake;
And the pride of the blood will not be undoneWhile war's in the world and a fight to be won.For the master now, as the master of old,Is "the man behind the gun."
The dominant blood that daunts the foe,That laughs at odds, and leaps to the blow,—It is Dewey's glory to-day, as Nelson'sA hundred years ago!
Charles George Douglas Roberts.
THE BATTLE OF MANILA
A FRAGMENT
[May 1, 1898]
By Cavité on the bay'Twas the Spanish squadron lay;And the red dawn was creepingO'er the city that lay sleepingTo the east, like a bride, in the May.There was peace at Manila,In the May morn at Manila,—When ho, the Spanish admiralAwoke to find our lineHad passed by gray Corregidor,Had laughed at shoal and mine,And flung to the sky its bannersWith "Remember" for the sign!With the ships of Spain beforeIn the shelter of the shore,And the forts on the right,They drew forward to the fight,And the first was the gallant CommodoreIn the bay of Manila,In the doomed bay of Manila—With succor half the world away,No port beneath that sky,With nothing but their ships and gunsAnd Yankee pluck to try,They had left retreat behind them,They had come to win or die!*****For we spoke at Manila,We said it at Manila,Oh be ye brave, or be ye strong,Ye build your ships in vain;The children of the sea queen's broodWill not give up the main;We hold the sea against the worldAs we held it against Spain.Be warned by Manila,Take warning by Manila,Ye may trade by land, ye may fight by land,Ye may hold the land in fee;But not go down to the sea in shipsTo battle with the free;For England and AmericaWill keep and hold the sea!Richard Hovey.
By Cavité on the bay'Twas the Spanish squadron lay;And the red dawn was creepingO'er the city that lay sleepingTo the east, like a bride, in the May.There was peace at Manila,In the May morn at Manila,—When ho, the Spanish admiralAwoke to find our lineHad passed by gray Corregidor,Had laughed at shoal and mine,And flung to the sky its bannersWith "Remember" for the sign!With the ships of Spain beforeIn the shelter of the shore,And the forts on the right,They drew forward to the fight,And the first was the gallant CommodoreIn the bay of Manila,In the doomed bay of Manila—With succor half the world away,No port beneath that sky,With nothing but their ships and gunsAnd Yankee pluck to try,They had left retreat behind them,They had come to win or die!*****For we spoke at Manila,We said it at Manila,Oh be ye brave, or be ye strong,Ye build your ships in vain;The children of the sea queen's broodWill not give up the main;We hold the sea against the worldAs we held it against Spain.Be warned by Manila,Take warning by Manila,Ye may trade by land, ye may fight by land,Ye may hold the land in fee;But not go down to the sea in shipsTo battle with the free;For England and AmericaWill keep and hold the sea!Richard Hovey.
By Cavité on the bay'Twas the Spanish squadron lay;And the red dawn was creepingO'er the city that lay sleepingTo the east, like a bride, in the May.There was peace at Manila,In the May morn at Manila,—When ho, the Spanish admiralAwoke to find our lineHad passed by gray Corregidor,Had laughed at shoal and mine,And flung to the sky its bannersWith "Remember" for the sign!
With the ships of Spain beforeIn the shelter of the shore,And the forts on the right,They drew forward to the fight,And the first was the gallant CommodoreIn the bay of Manila,In the doomed bay of Manila—With succor half the world away,No port beneath that sky,With nothing but their ships and gunsAnd Yankee pluck to try,They had left retreat behind them,They had come to win or die!
*****
For we spoke at Manila,We said it at Manila,Oh be ye brave, or be ye strong,Ye build your ships in vain;The children of the sea queen's broodWill not give up the main;We hold the sea against the worldAs we held it against Spain.
Be warned by Manila,Take warning by Manila,Ye may trade by land, ye may fight by land,Ye may hold the land in fee;But not go down to the sea in shipsTo battle with the free;For England and AmericaWill keep and hold the sea!
Richard Hovey.
This remarkable victory amazed the world, and set America wild with excitement and enthusiasm. Dewey became a popular hero, and Congress made haste to revive the grade of admiral and to confer it upon him.
This remarkable victory amazed the world, and set America wild with excitement and enthusiasm. Dewey became a popular hero, and Congress made haste to revive the grade of admiral and to confer it upon him.
DEWEY IN MANILA BAY
He took a thousand islands and he didn't lose a man(Raise your heads and cheer him as he goes!)—He licked the sneaky Spaniard till the fellow cut and ran,For fighting's part of what a Yankee knows.He fought 'em and he licked 'em, without any fuss or flam(It was only his profession for to win),He sank their boats beneath 'em, and he spared 'em as they swam,And then he sent his ambulances in.He had no word to cheer him and had no bands to play,He had no crowds to make his duty brave;But he risked the deep torpedoes at the breaking of the day,For he knew he had our self-respect to save.He flew the angry signal crying justice for the Maine,He flew it from his flagship as he fought.He drove the tardy vengeance in the very teeth of Spain,And he did it just because he thought he ought.He busted up their batteries and sank eleven ships(He knew what he was doing, every bit);He set the Maxims going like a hundred cracking whips,And every shot that crackled was a hit.He broke 'em and he drove 'em, and he didn't care at all,He only liked to do as he was bid;He crumpled up their squadron and their batteries and all,—He knew he had to lick 'em and he did.And when the thing was finished and they flew the frightened flag,He slung his guns and sent his foot ashore,And he gathered in their wounded, and he quite forgot to brag,For he thought he did his duty, nothing more.Oh, he took a thousand islands and he didn't lose a man(Raise your heads and cheer him as he goes!)—He licked the sneaky Spaniard till the fellow cut and ran,For fighting's part of what a Yankee knows!R. V. Risley.
He took a thousand islands and he didn't lose a man(Raise your heads and cheer him as he goes!)—He licked the sneaky Spaniard till the fellow cut and ran,For fighting's part of what a Yankee knows.He fought 'em and he licked 'em, without any fuss or flam(It was only his profession for to win),He sank their boats beneath 'em, and he spared 'em as they swam,And then he sent his ambulances in.He had no word to cheer him and had no bands to play,He had no crowds to make his duty brave;But he risked the deep torpedoes at the breaking of the day,For he knew he had our self-respect to save.He flew the angry signal crying justice for the Maine,He flew it from his flagship as he fought.He drove the tardy vengeance in the very teeth of Spain,And he did it just because he thought he ought.He busted up their batteries and sank eleven ships(He knew what he was doing, every bit);He set the Maxims going like a hundred cracking whips,And every shot that crackled was a hit.He broke 'em and he drove 'em, and he didn't care at all,He only liked to do as he was bid;He crumpled up their squadron and their batteries and all,—He knew he had to lick 'em and he did.And when the thing was finished and they flew the frightened flag,He slung his guns and sent his foot ashore,And he gathered in their wounded, and he quite forgot to brag,For he thought he did his duty, nothing more.Oh, he took a thousand islands and he didn't lose a man(Raise your heads and cheer him as he goes!)—He licked the sneaky Spaniard till the fellow cut and ran,For fighting's part of what a Yankee knows!R. V. Risley.
He took a thousand islands and he didn't lose a man(Raise your heads and cheer him as he goes!)—He licked the sneaky Spaniard till the fellow cut and ran,For fighting's part of what a Yankee knows.
He fought 'em and he licked 'em, without any fuss or flam(It was only his profession for to win),He sank their boats beneath 'em, and he spared 'em as they swam,And then he sent his ambulances in.
He had no word to cheer him and had no bands to play,He had no crowds to make his duty brave;But he risked the deep torpedoes at the breaking of the day,For he knew he had our self-respect to save.
He flew the angry signal crying justice for the Maine,He flew it from his flagship as he fought.He drove the tardy vengeance in the very teeth of Spain,And he did it just because he thought he ought.
He busted up their batteries and sank eleven ships(He knew what he was doing, every bit);He set the Maxims going like a hundred cracking whips,And every shot that crackled was a hit.
He broke 'em and he drove 'em, and he didn't care at all,He only liked to do as he was bid;He crumpled up their squadron and their batteries and all,—He knew he had to lick 'em and he did.
And when the thing was finished and they flew the frightened flag,He slung his guns and sent his foot ashore,And he gathered in their wounded, and he quite forgot to brag,For he thought he did his duty, nothing more.
Oh, he took a thousand islands and he didn't lose a man(Raise your heads and cheer him as he goes!)—He licked the sneaky Spaniard till the fellow cut and ran,For fighting's part of what a Yankee knows!
R. V. Risley.
Another fleet, and a much more powerful one than Dewey's, had been collected at Key West, under command of Admiral Sampson, ready to proceed to Cuba, and on April 21 orders came for it to sail. On the morning of April 22, it put to sea and steamed slowly off toward Havana.
Another fleet, and a much more powerful one than Dewey's, had been collected at Key West, under command of Admiral Sampson, ready to proceed to Cuba, and on April 21 orders came for it to sail. On the morning of April 22, it put to sea and steamed slowly off toward Havana.
"MENE, MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSIN"
[April 22, 1898]
Behold, we have gathered together our battleships, near and afar;Their decks they are cleared for action, their guns they are primed for war.From the East to the West there is hurry; in the North and the South a pealOf hammers in fort and ship-yard, and the clamor and clang of steel;And the rush and roar of engines, and clanking of derrick and crane,—Thou art weighed in the scales and found wanting, the balance of God, O Spain!Behold, I have stood on the mountains, and this was writ in the sky:"She is weighed in the scales and found wanting, the balance God holds on high!"The balance He once weighed Babylon, the Mother of Harlots, in:One scale holds thy pride and power and empire, begotten of sin,Heavy with woe and torture, the crimes of a thousand years,Mortared and welded together with fire and blood and tears;In the other, for justice and mercy, a blade with never a stain,Is laid the Sword of Liberty, and the balance dips, O Spain!Summon thy vessels together! great is thy need for these!Cristobal Colon, Vizcaya, Oquendo, Marie Therese.Let them be strong and many, for a vision I had by night,That the ancient wrongs thou hast done the world came howling to the fight;From the New World shores they gathered, Inca and Aztec, slain,To the Cuban shot but yesterday, and our own dead seamen, Spain!Summon thy ships together, gather a mighty fleet!For a strong young nation is arming that never hath known defeat.Summon thy ships together, there on thy blood-stained sands!For a shadowy army gathers with manacled feet and hands,A shadowy host of sorrows and of shames, too black to tell,That reach with their horrible wounds for thee to drag thee down to hell;Myriad phantoms and spectres, thou warrest against in vain!Thou art weighed in the scales and found wanting, the balance of God, O Spain!Madison Cawein.
Behold, we have gathered together our battleships, near and afar;Their decks they are cleared for action, their guns they are primed for war.From the East to the West there is hurry; in the North and the South a pealOf hammers in fort and ship-yard, and the clamor and clang of steel;And the rush and roar of engines, and clanking of derrick and crane,—Thou art weighed in the scales and found wanting, the balance of God, O Spain!Behold, I have stood on the mountains, and this was writ in the sky:"She is weighed in the scales and found wanting, the balance God holds on high!"The balance He once weighed Babylon, the Mother of Harlots, in:One scale holds thy pride and power and empire, begotten of sin,Heavy with woe and torture, the crimes of a thousand years,Mortared and welded together with fire and blood and tears;In the other, for justice and mercy, a blade with never a stain,Is laid the Sword of Liberty, and the balance dips, O Spain!Summon thy vessels together! great is thy need for these!Cristobal Colon, Vizcaya, Oquendo, Marie Therese.Let them be strong and many, for a vision I had by night,That the ancient wrongs thou hast done the world came howling to the fight;From the New World shores they gathered, Inca and Aztec, slain,To the Cuban shot but yesterday, and our own dead seamen, Spain!Summon thy ships together, gather a mighty fleet!For a strong young nation is arming that never hath known defeat.Summon thy ships together, there on thy blood-stained sands!For a shadowy army gathers with manacled feet and hands,A shadowy host of sorrows and of shames, too black to tell,That reach with their horrible wounds for thee to drag thee down to hell;Myriad phantoms and spectres, thou warrest against in vain!Thou art weighed in the scales and found wanting, the balance of God, O Spain!Madison Cawein.
Behold, we have gathered together our battleships, near and afar;Their decks they are cleared for action, their guns they are primed for war.From the East to the West there is hurry; in the North and the South a pealOf hammers in fort and ship-yard, and the clamor and clang of steel;And the rush and roar of engines, and clanking of derrick and crane,—Thou art weighed in the scales and found wanting, the balance of God, O Spain!
Behold, I have stood on the mountains, and this was writ in the sky:"She is weighed in the scales and found wanting, the balance God holds on high!"The balance He once weighed Babylon, the Mother of Harlots, in:One scale holds thy pride and power and empire, begotten of sin,Heavy with woe and torture, the crimes of a thousand years,Mortared and welded together with fire and blood and tears;In the other, for justice and mercy, a blade with never a stain,Is laid the Sword of Liberty, and the balance dips, O Spain!
Summon thy vessels together! great is thy need for these!Cristobal Colon, Vizcaya, Oquendo, Marie Therese.Let them be strong and many, for a vision I had by night,That the ancient wrongs thou hast done the world came howling to the fight;From the New World shores they gathered, Inca and Aztec, slain,To the Cuban shot but yesterday, and our own dead seamen, Spain!
Summon thy ships together, gather a mighty fleet!For a strong young nation is arming that never hath known defeat.Summon thy ships together, there on thy blood-stained sands!For a shadowy army gathers with manacled feet and hands,A shadowy host of sorrows and of shames, too black to tell,That reach with their horrible wounds for thee to drag thee down to hell;Myriad phantoms and spectres, thou warrest against in vain!Thou art weighed in the scales and found wanting, the balance of God, O Spain!
Madison Cawein.
A blockade was proclaimed of Havana and a number of other ports. But no attempt was made to enter the harbor, which was crammed with mines and defended by strong fortifications.
A blockade was proclaimed of Havana and a number of other ports. But no attempt was made to enter the harbor, which was crammed with mines and defended by strong fortifications.
THE SPIRIT OF THE MAINE
In battle-line of sombre grayOur ships-of-war advance,As Red Cross Knights in holy frayCharged with avenging lance.And terrible shall be thy plight,O fleet of cruel Spain!Forever in our van doth fightThe spirit of the Maine!As when beside Regillus LakeThe Great Twin Brethren cameA righteous fight for Rome to makeAgainst the Deed of Shame—So now a ghostly ship shall doomThe fleet of treacherous Spain:Before her guilty soul doth loomThe Spirit of the Maine!A wraith arrayed in peaceful white,As when asleep she layAbove the traitorous mine that nightWithin Havana Bay,She glides before the avenging fleet,A sign of woe to Spain,Brave though her sons, how shall they meetThe Spirit of the Maine!Tudor Jenks.
In battle-line of sombre grayOur ships-of-war advance,As Red Cross Knights in holy frayCharged with avenging lance.And terrible shall be thy plight,O fleet of cruel Spain!Forever in our van doth fightThe spirit of the Maine!As when beside Regillus LakeThe Great Twin Brethren cameA righteous fight for Rome to makeAgainst the Deed of Shame—So now a ghostly ship shall doomThe fleet of treacherous Spain:Before her guilty soul doth loomThe Spirit of the Maine!A wraith arrayed in peaceful white,As when asleep she layAbove the traitorous mine that nightWithin Havana Bay,She glides before the avenging fleet,A sign of woe to Spain,Brave though her sons, how shall they meetThe Spirit of the Maine!Tudor Jenks.
In battle-line of sombre grayOur ships-of-war advance,As Red Cross Knights in holy frayCharged with avenging lance.And terrible shall be thy plight,O fleet of cruel Spain!Forever in our van doth fightThe spirit of the Maine!
As when beside Regillus LakeThe Great Twin Brethren cameA righteous fight for Rome to makeAgainst the Deed of Shame—So now a ghostly ship shall doomThe fleet of treacherous Spain:Before her guilty soul doth loomThe Spirit of the Maine!
A wraith arrayed in peaceful white,As when asleep she layAbove the traitorous mine that nightWithin Havana Bay,She glides before the avenging fleet,A sign of woe to Spain,Brave though her sons, how shall they meetThe Spirit of the Maine!
Tudor Jenks.
Spain also had a fleet, and a strong one, on the ocean. It had been gathered together at the Cape Verde Islands, and on April 29, 1898, it put to sea, and steamed westward into the Atlantic, for a destination which could only be conjectured.
Spain also had a fleet, and a strong one, on the ocean. It had been gathered together at the Cape Verde Islands, and on April 29, 1898, it put to sea, and steamed westward into the Atlantic, for a destination which could only be conjectured.
THE DRAGON OF THE SEAS[15]
They say the Spanish ships are outTo seize the Spanish main;Reach down the volume, boy, and readThe story o'er again.How when the Spaniard had the might,He drenched the earth, like rain,With human blood, and made it deathTo sail the Spanish main.With torch and steel, and stake and rack,He trampled out all truce,Until Queen Bess her leashes slipt,And turned her sea-dogs loose.God! how they sprang! And how they tore!The Grenvilles, Hawkins, Drake!Remember, boy, they were your sires!They made the Spaniard quake.They sprang, like lions, for their prey,Straight for the throat, amain!By twos, by scores, where'er they caughtThey fought the ships of Spain.When Spain, in dark Ulloa's bay,Broke doubly-plighted faith,Bold Hawkins fought his way through fireFor great Elizabeth.A bitter malt Spain brewed that day—She drained it to the lees;Her faithless guns that morn awokeThe Dragon of the Seas.From sea to sea he ravaged far,A scourge with flaming breath—Where'er the Spaniard sailed his shipsSailed Francis Drake and Death.No port was safe against his ire,Secure no furthest shore;The fairest day oft sank in fireBefore the Dragon's roar.He made th' Atlantic surges redRound every Spanish keel;Piled Spanish decks with Spanish dead,The noblest of Castile.From Del Fuego's beetling coastTo sleety Hebrides,He hounded down the Spanish host,And swept the flaming seas.He fought till on Spain's inmost lakes'Mid orange bowers set,La Mancha's daughters feared to sailLest they the Dragon met.King Philip, of his raven reft,As forfeit claimed his head.The great Queen laughed his wrath to scorn,And knighted Drake instead.And gave him ships and sent him forthTo clear the Spanish mainFor England and for England's brood,And sink the fleets of Spain.And well he wrought his mighty work,Till on that fatal day,He met his only conqueror,In Nombre Dios Bay.There, in his shotted hammock swung,Amid the surges' sweep,He waits the lookouts' signalAcross the quiet deep.And dreams of dark Ulloa's bayAnd Spanish treachery;And how he tracked Magellan farAcross the unknown sea.But if Spain fires a single shotUpon the Spanish main,She'll come to deem the Dragon deadHas waked to life again.Thomas Nelson Page.
They say the Spanish ships are outTo seize the Spanish main;Reach down the volume, boy, and readThe story o'er again.How when the Spaniard had the might,He drenched the earth, like rain,With human blood, and made it deathTo sail the Spanish main.With torch and steel, and stake and rack,He trampled out all truce,Until Queen Bess her leashes slipt,And turned her sea-dogs loose.God! how they sprang! And how they tore!The Grenvilles, Hawkins, Drake!Remember, boy, they were your sires!They made the Spaniard quake.They sprang, like lions, for their prey,Straight for the throat, amain!By twos, by scores, where'er they caughtThey fought the ships of Spain.When Spain, in dark Ulloa's bay,Broke doubly-plighted faith,Bold Hawkins fought his way through fireFor great Elizabeth.A bitter malt Spain brewed that day—She drained it to the lees;Her faithless guns that morn awokeThe Dragon of the Seas.From sea to sea he ravaged far,A scourge with flaming breath—Where'er the Spaniard sailed his shipsSailed Francis Drake and Death.No port was safe against his ire,Secure no furthest shore;The fairest day oft sank in fireBefore the Dragon's roar.He made th' Atlantic surges redRound every Spanish keel;Piled Spanish decks with Spanish dead,The noblest of Castile.From Del Fuego's beetling coastTo sleety Hebrides,He hounded down the Spanish host,And swept the flaming seas.He fought till on Spain's inmost lakes'Mid orange bowers set,La Mancha's daughters feared to sailLest they the Dragon met.King Philip, of his raven reft,As forfeit claimed his head.The great Queen laughed his wrath to scorn,And knighted Drake instead.And gave him ships and sent him forthTo clear the Spanish mainFor England and for England's brood,And sink the fleets of Spain.And well he wrought his mighty work,Till on that fatal day,He met his only conqueror,In Nombre Dios Bay.There, in his shotted hammock swung,Amid the surges' sweep,He waits the lookouts' signalAcross the quiet deep.And dreams of dark Ulloa's bayAnd Spanish treachery;And how he tracked Magellan farAcross the unknown sea.But if Spain fires a single shotUpon the Spanish main,She'll come to deem the Dragon deadHas waked to life again.Thomas Nelson Page.
They say the Spanish ships are outTo seize the Spanish main;Reach down the volume, boy, and readThe story o'er again.
How when the Spaniard had the might,He drenched the earth, like rain,With human blood, and made it deathTo sail the Spanish main.
With torch and steel, and stake and rack,He trampled out all truce,Until Queen Bess her leashes slipt,And turned her sea-dogs loose.
God! how they sprang! And how they tore!The Grenvilles, Hawkins, Drake!Remember, boy, they were your sires!They made the Spaniard quake.
They sprang, like lions, for their prey,Straight for the throat, amain!By twos, by scores, where'er they caughtThey fought the ships of Spain.
When Spain, in dark Ulloa's bay,Broke doubly-plighted faith,Bold Hawkins fought his way through fireFor great Elizabeth.
A bitter malt Spain brewed that day—She drained it to the lees;Her faithless guns that morn awokeThe Dragon of the Seas.
From sea to sea he ravaged far,A scourge with flaming breath—Where'er the Spaniard sailed his shipsSailed Francis Drake and Death.
No port was safe against his ire,Secure no furthest shore;The fairest day oft sank in fireBefore the Dragon's roar.
He made th' Atlantic surges redRound every Spanish keel;Piled Spanish decks with Spanish dead,The noblest of Castile.
From Del Fuego's beetling coastTo sleety Hebrides,He hounded down the Spanish host,And swept the flaming seas.
He fought till on Spain's inmost lakes'Mid orange bowers set,La Mancha's daughters feared to sailLest they the Dragon met.
King Philip, of his raven reft,As forfeit claimed his head.The great Queen laughed his wrath to scorn,And knighted Drake instead.
And gave him ships and sent him forthTo clear the Spanish mainFor England and for England's brood,And sink the fleets of Spain.
And well he wrought his mighty work,Till on that fatal day,He met his only conqueror,In Nombre Dios Bay.
There, in his shotted hammock swung,Amid the surges' sweep,He waits the lookouts' signalAcross the quiet deep.
And dreams of dark Ulloa's bayAnd Spanish treachery;And how he tracked Magellan farAcross the unknown sea.
But if Spain fires a single shotUpon the Spanish main,She'll come to deem the Dragon deadHas waked to life again.
Thomas Nelson Page.
THE SAILING OF THE FLEET
Two fleets have sailed from Spain. The one would seekWhat lands uncharted ocean might conceal.Despised, condemned, and pitifully weak,It found a world for Leon and Castile.The other, mighty, arrogant, and vain,Sought to subdue a people who were free.Ask of the storm-gods where its galleons be,—Whelmed 'neath the billows of the northern main!A third is threatened. On the westward track,Once gloriously traced, its vessels speed,With gold and crimson battle-flags unfurled.On Colon's course, but to Sidonia's wrack,Sure fated, if so need shall come to need,For Sons of Drake are lords of Colon's world.
Two fleets have sailed from Spain. The one would seekWhat lands uncharted ocean might conceal.Despised, condemned, and pitifully weak,It found a world for Leon and Castile.The other, mighty, arrogant, and vain,Sought to subdue a people who were free.Ask of the storm-gods where its galleons be,—Whelmed 'neath the billows of the northern main!A third is threatened. On the westward track,Once gloriously traced, its vessels speed,With gold and crimson battle-flags unfurled.On Colon's course, but to Sidonia's wrack,Sure fated, if so need shall come to need,For Sons of Drake are lords of Colon's world.
Two fleets have sailed from Spain. The one would seekWhat lands uncharted ocean might conceal.Despised, condemned, and pitifully weak,It found a world for Leon and Castile.
The other, mighty, arrogant, and vain,Sought to subdue a people who were free.Ask of the storm-gods where its galleons be,—Whelmed 'neath the billows of the northern main!
A third is threatened. On the westward track,Once gloriously traced, its vessels speed,With gold and crimson battle-flags unfurled.On Colon's course, but to Sidonia's wrack,Sure fated, if so need shall come to need,For Sons of Drake are lords of Colon's world.
A portion of the American fleet started off to look for the Spaniards, and the remainder engaged in various minor operations off the Cuban coast. On May 11 a party rowed in and cut the cables at Cienfuegos, under a heavy fire.
A portion of the American fleet started off to look for the Spaniards, and the remainder engaged in various minor operations off the Cuban coast. On May 11 a party rowed in and cut the cables at Cienfuegos, under a heavy fire.
"CUT THE CABLES"
AN INCIDENT OF CIENFUEGOS
[May 11, 1898]
"Cut the cables!" the order read,And the men were there; there was no delay.The ships hove to in Cienfuegos Bay,—The Windom, Nashville, Marblehead,—Beautiful, grim, and alert were they,It was midway, past in the morning gray."Cut the cables!" the order said—Over the clouds of the dashing spray,The guns were trained and ready for play;Picked from the Nashville, Winslow led,—Grim death waits ashore, they say;"Lower the boats, Godspeed, give way."Did "our untried navy lads" obey?Away to their perilous work they sped.Now, steady the keel, keep stroke the oar!They must go in close, they must find the wires;Grim death is alert on that watching shore,That deadly shore of the "Hundred Fires."In the lighthouse tower,—along the ledge,—In the blockhouse, waiting,—the guns are there;On the lowland, too, in the tall, dry sedge;They are holding the word till the boats draw near.One hundred feet from the water's edge,Dazzling clear is the sunlit air;Quick, my men,—the moments are dear!Two hundred feet from the rifle-pit,And our "untried" lads still show no fear—When they open now they're sure to hit;No question, even by sign, they ask,In silence they bend to their dangerous task.Quick now!—the shot from a smokeless gunCuts close and spatters the glistening brine;Now follows the roar of the battle begun,But the boys were bent in the blazing sunLike peaceful fishermen, "wetting a line."They searched the sea while a shrieking blastSwept shoreward, swift as the lightning flies,—While the fan-like storm of the shells went pastLike a death-wing clearing the hissing skies.Like a sheltering wing,—for the hurricane cameFrom our own good guns, and the foe might tellWhat wreck was wrought by their deadly aim;For the foe went down where the hurricane fell.It shattered the blockhouse, levelled the tower,It ripped the face of the smoking hill,It beat the battle back, hour by hour,And then, for a little, our guns were still.For a little, but that was the fatal breath,—That moment's lull in the friendly crash,—For the long pit blazed with a vicious flash,And eight fell,—two of them done to death.Once more the screen of the screaming shotWith its driving canopy covered the men,While they dragged, and grappled, and, faltering not,Still dragged, and searched, and grappled again.And they stayed right there till the work was done,The cables were found and severed, each one,With an eighty-foot gap, and the "piece" hauled in,And stowed in place,—then, under the dinOf that deafening storm, that had swept the airFor three long hours, they turned from shore("Steady the keel" there; "stroke" the oar),To the smoke-wreathed ships, and, under the guns,They went up the side,—our "untried" ones.Quiet, my brave boys; hats off, all!They are here, our "untried" boys in blue.Steady the block, now, all hands haul!Slow on the line there!—look to that crew!Six lads hurt!—and the colors there?Wrap two of them?—hold! Ease back the bow!Slow, now, on the line!—slack down with care!Steady! they're back on their own deck now!The cables are cut, sir, eighty-foot spread,Six boys hurt, and—two of them dead.Half-mast the colors! there's work to do!There are two red marks on the starboard gun,There is still some work that is not quite done,For our "untried" boys that are tried and true.It wasn't all play when they cut the wires,—Well named is that bay of the "Hundred Fires."Robert Burns Wilson.June 2, 1898.
"Cut the cables!" the order read,And the men were there; there was no delay.The ships hove to in Cienfuegos Bay,—The Windom, Nashville, Marblehead,—Beautiful, grim, and alert were they,It was midway, past in the morning gray."Cut the cables!" the order said—Over the clouds of the dashing spray,The guns were trained and ready for play;Picked from the Nashville, Winslow led,—Grim death waits ashore, they say;"Lower the boats, Godspeed, give way."Did "our untried navy lads" obey?Away to their perilous work they sped.Now, steady the keel, keep stroke the oar!They must go in close, they must find the wires;Grim death is alert on that watching shore,That deadly shore of the "Hundred Fires."In the lighthouse tower,—along the ledge,—In the blockhouse, waiting,—the guns are there;On the lowland, too, in the tall, dry sedge;They are holding the word till the boats draw near.One hundred feet from the water's edge,Dazzling clear is the sunlit air;Quick, my men,—the moments are dear!Two hundred feet from the rifle-pit,And our "untried" lads still show no fear—When they open now they're sure to hit;No question, even by sign, they ask,In silence they bend to their dangerous task.Quick now!—the shot from a smokeless gunCuts close and spatters the glistening brine;Now follows the roar of the battle begun,But the boys were bent in the blazing sunLike peaceful fishermen, "wetting a line."They searched the sea while a shrieking blastSwept shoreward, swift as the lightning flies,—While the fan-like storm of the shells went pastLike a death-wing clearing the hissing skies.Like a sheltering wing,—for the hurricane cameFrom our own good guns, and the foe might tellWhat wreck was wrought by their deadly aim;For the foe went down where the hurricane fell.It shattered the blockhouse, levelled the tower,It ripped the face of the smoking hill,It beat the battle back, hour by hour,And then, for a little, our guns were still.For a little, but that was the fatal breath,—That moment's lull in the friendly crash,—For the long pit blazed with a vicious flash,And eight fell,—two of them done to death.Once more the screen of the screaming shotWith its driving canopy covered the men,While they dragged, and grappled, and, faltering not,Still dragged, and searched, and grappled again.And they stayed right there till the work was done,The cables were found and severed, each one,With an eighty-foot gap, and the "piece" hauled in,And stowed in place,—then, under the dinOf that deafening storm, that had swept the airFor three long hours, they turned from shore("Steady the keel" there; "stroke" the oar),To the smoke-wreathed ships, and, under the guns,They went up the side,—our "untried" ones.Quiet, my brave boys; hats off, all!They are here, our "untried" boys in blue.Steady the block, now, all hands haul!Slow on the line there!—look to that crew!Six lads hurt!—and the colors there?Wrap two of them?—hold! Ease back the bow!Slow, now, on the line!—slack down with care!Steady! they're back on their own deck now!The cables are cut, sir, eighty-foot spread,Six boys hurt, and—two of them dead.Half-mast the colors! there's work to do!There are two red marks on the starboard gun,There is still some work that is not quite done,For our "untried" boys that are tried and true.It wasn't all play when they cut the wires,—Well named is that bay of the "Hundred Fires."Robert Burns Wilson.June 2, 1898.
"Cut the cables!" the order read,And the men were there; there was no delay.The ships hove to in Cienfuegos Bay,—The Windom, Nashville, Marblehead,—Beautiful, grim, and alert were they,It was midway, past in the morning gray."Cut the cables!" the order said—Over the clouds of the dashing spray,The guns were trained and ready for play;Picked from the Nashville, Winslow led,—Grim death waits ashore, they say;"Lower the boats, Godspeed, give way."Did "our untried navy lads" obey?Away to their perilous work they sped.
Now, steady the keel, keep stroke the oar!They must go in close, they must find the wires;Grim death is alert on that watching shore,That deadly shore of the "Hundred Fires."In the lighthouse tower,—along the ledge,—In the blockhouse, waiting,—the guns are there;On the lowland, too, in the tall, dry sedge;They are holding the word till the boats draw near.One hundred feet from the water's edge,Dazzling clear is the sunlit air;Quick, my men,—the moments are dear!Two hundred feet from the rifle-pit,And our "untried" lads still show no fear—When they open now they're sure to hit;No question, even by sign, they ask,In silence they bend to their dangerous task.
Quick now!—the shot from a smokeless gunCuts close and spatters the glistening brine;Now follows the roar of the battle begun,But the boys were bent in the blazing sunLike peaceful fishermen, "wetting a line."They searched the sea while a shrieking blastSwept shoreward, swift as the lightning flies,—While the fan-like storm of the shells went pastLike a death-wing clearing the hissing skies.Like a sheltering wing,—for the hurricane cameFrom our own good guns, and the foe might tellWhat wreck was wrought by their deadly aim;For the foe went down where the hurricane fell.It shattered the blockhouse, levelled the tower,It ripped the face of the smoking hill,It beat the battle back, hour by hour,And then, for a little, our guns were still.For a little, but that was the fatal breath,—That moment's lull in the friendly crash,—For the long pit blazed with a vicious flash,And eight fell,—two of them done to death.
Once more the screen of the screaming shotWith its driving canopy covered the men,While they dragged, and grappled, and, faltering not,Still dragged, and searched, and grappled again.And they stayed right there till the work was done,The cables were found and severed, each one,With an eighty-foot gap, and the "piece" hauled in,And stowed in place,—then, under the dinOf that deafening storm, that had swept the airFor three long hours, they turned from shore("Steady the keel" there; "stroke" the oar),To the smoke-wreathed ships, and, under the guns,They went up the side,—our "untried" ones.
Quiet, my brave boys; hats off, all!They are here, our "untried" boys in blue.Steady the block, now, all hands haul!Slow on the line there!—look to that crew!Six lads hurt!—and the colors there?Wrap two of them?—hold! Ease back the bow!Slow, now, on the line!—slack down with care!Steady! they're back on their own deck now!The cables are cut, sir, eighty-foot spread,Six boys hurt, and—two of them dead.Half-mast the colors! there's work to do!There are two red marks on the starboard gun,There is still some work that is not quite done,For our "untried" boys that are tried and true.It wasn't all play when they cut the wires,—Well named is that bay of the "Hundred Fires."
Robert Burns Wilson.
June 2, 1898.
A few days later, on May 24, 1898, the battleship Oregon arrived at Jupiter Inlet, Florida, after one of the most remarkable voyages in history. On March 9 the ship, then at San Francisco, wasordered to circle South America and join the Atlantic squadron, and the journey of nearly fifteen thousand miles was accomplished without starting a rivet.
A few days later, on May 24, 1898, the battleship Oregon arrived at Jupiter Inlet, Florida, after one of the most remarkable voyages in history. On March 9 the ship, then at San Francisco, wasordered to circle South America and join the Atlantic squadron, and the journey of nearly fifteen thousand miles was accomplished without starting a rivet.
THE RACE OF THE OREGON
Lights out! And a prow turned towards the South,And a canvas hiding each cannon's mouth,And a ship like a silent ghost releasedIs seeking her sister ships in the East.A rush of water, a foaming trail,An ocean hound in a coat of mail,A deck long-lined with the lines of fate,She roars good-by at the Golden Gate.On! On! Alone without gong or bell,But a burning fire, like the fire of hell,Till the lookout starts as his glasses showThe white cathedral of Callao.A moment's halt 'neath the slender spire;Food, food for the men, and food for the fire.Then out to the sea to rest no moreTill her keel is grounded on Chili's shore.South! South! God guard through the unknown wave,Where chart nor compass may help or save,Where the hissing wraiths of the sea abideAnd few may pass through the stormy tide.North! North! For a harbor far away,For another breath in the burning day;For a moment's shelter from speed and pain,And a prow to the tropic sea again.Home! Home! With the mother fleet to sleepTill the call shall rise o'er the awful deep;And the bell shall clang for the battle there,And the voice of guns is the voice of prayer!*****One more to the songs of the bold and free,When your children gather about your knee;When the Goths and Vandals come down in mightAs they came to the walls of Rome one night;When the lordly William of DeloraineShall ride by the Scottish lake again;When the Hessian spectres shall flit in airAs Washington crosses the Delaware;When the eyes of babes shall be closed in dreadAs the story of Paul Revere is read;When your boys shall ask what the guns are for,Then tell them the tale of the Spanish war,And the breathless millions that looked uponThe matchless race of the Oregon.John James Meehan.
Lights out! And a prow turned towards the South,And a canvas hiding each cannon's mouth,And a ship like a silent ghost releasedIs seeking her sister ships in the East.A rush of water, a foaming trail,An ocean hound in a coat of mail,A deck long-lined with the lines of fate,She roars good-by at the Golden Gate.On! On! Alone without gong or bell,But a burning fire, like the fire of hell,Till the lookout starts as his glasses showThe white cathedral of Callao.A moment's halt 'neath the slender spire;Food, food for the men, and food for the fire.Then out to the sea to rest no moreTill her keel is grounded on Chili's shore.South! South! God guard through the unknown wave,Where chart nor compass may help or save,Where the hissing wraiths of the sea abideAnd few may pass through the stormy tide.North! North! For a harbor far away,For another breath in the burning day;For a moment's shelter from speed and pain,And a prow to the tropic sea again.Home! Home! With the mother fleet to sleepTill the call shall rise o'er the awful deep;And the bell shall clang for the battle there,And the voice of guns is the voice of prayer!*****One more to the songs of the bold and free,When your children gather about your knee;When the Goths and Vandals come down in mightAs they came to the walls of Rome one night;When the lordly William of DeloraineShall ride by the Scottish lake again;When the Hessian spectres shall flit in airAs Washington crosses the Delaware;When the eyes of babes shall be closed in dreadAs the story of Paul Revere is read;When your boys shall ask what the guns are for,Then tell them the tale of the Spanish war,And the breathless millions that looked uponThe matchless race of the Oregon.John James Meehan.
Lights out! And a prow turned towards the South,And a canvas hiding each cannon's mouth,And a ship like a silent ghost releasedIs seeking her sister ships in the East.
A rush of water, a foaming trail,An ocean hound in a coat of mail,A deck long-lined with the lines of fate,She roars good-by at the Golden Gate.
On! On! Alone without gong or bell,But a burning fire, like the fire of hell,Till the lookout starts as his glasses showThe white cathedral of Callao.
A moment's halt 'neath the slender spire;Food, food for the men, and food for the fire.Then out to the sea to rest no moreTill her keel is grounded on Chili's shore.
South! South! God guard through the unknown wave,Where chart nor compass may help or save,Where the hissing wraiths of the sea abideAnd few may pass through the stormy tide.
North! North! For a harbor far away,For another breath in the burning day;For a moment's shelter from speed and pain,And a prow to the tropic sea again.
Home! Home! With the mother fleet to sleepTill the call shall rise o'er the awful deep;And the bell shall clang for the battle there,And the voice of guns is the voice of prayer!
*****
One more to the songs of the bold and free,When your children gather about your knee;When the Goths and Vandals come down in mightAs they came to the walls of Rome one night;When the lordly William of DeloraineShall ride by the Scottish lake again;When the Hessian spectres shall flit in airAs Washington crosses the Delaware;When the eyes of babes shall be closed in dreadAs the story of Paul Revere is read;When your boys shall ask what the guns are for,Then tell them the tale of the Spanish war,And the breathless millions that looked uponThe matchless race of the Oregon.
John James Meehan.
BATTLE-SONG OF THE OREGON
The billowy headlands swiftly flyThe crested path I keep,My ribboned smoke stains many a sky,My embers dye the deep;A continent has hardly space—Mid-ocean little more,Wherein to trace my eager raceWhile clang the alarums of war.I come, the warship Oregon,My wake a whitening world,My cannon shotted, thundering onWith battle-flags unfurled.My land knows no successful foe—Behold, to sink or save,From stoker's flame to gunner's aimThe race that rules the wave!A nation's prayers my bulwark areThough ne'er so wild the sea;Flow time or tide, come storm or star,Throbs my machinery.Lands Spain has lost forever peerFrom every lengthening coast,Till rings the cheer that proves me nearThe flag of Columbia's host.Defiantly I have held my wayFrom the vigorous shore where DrakeDreamed a New Albion in the dayHe left New Spain a-quake;His shining course retraced, I fightThe self-same foe he fought,All earth to light with signs of mightWhich God our Captain wrought.Made mad, from Santiago's mouthSpain's ships-of-battle dart:My bulk comes broadening from the south,A hurricane at heart;Its desperate armories blaze and boom,Its ardent engines beat;And fiery doom finds root and bloomAboard of the Spanish fleet....The hundredweight of the Golden HindWith me are ponderous tons,The ordnance great her deck that linedWould feed my ravening guns,Her spacious reach in months and yearsI've shrunk to nights and days;Yet in my ears are ringing cheersSir Frank himself would raise:For conquereth not mine engines' breathNor sides steel-clad and strong,Nor bulk, nor rifles red with death:To Spain, too, these belong;What made that old Armada breakThis newer victory won:Jehovah spake by the sons of DrakeAt each incessant gun.I come, the warship Oregon,My wake a whitening world,My cannon shotted, thundering onWith battle-flags unfurled.My land knows no successful foe—Behold, to sink or save,From stoker's flame to gunner's aimThe race that rules the wave!Wallace Rice.
The billowy headlands swiftly flyThe crested path I keep,My ribboned smoke stains many a sky,My embers dye the deep;A continent has hardly space—Mid-ocean little more,Wherein to trace my eager raceWhile clang the alarums of war.I come, the warship Oregon,My wake a whitening world,My cannon shotted, thundering onWith battle-flags unfurled.My land knows no successful foe—Behold, to sink or save,From stoker's flame to gunner's aimThe race that rules the wave!A nation's prayers my bulwark areThough ne'er so wild the sea;Flow time or tide, come storm or star,Throbs my machinery.Lands Spain has lost forever peerFrom every lengthening coast,Till rings the cheer that proves me nearThe flag of Columbia's host.Defiantly I have held my wayFrom the vigorous shore where DrakeDreamed a New Albion in the dayHe left New Spain a-quake;His shining course retraced, I fightThe self-same foe he fought,All earth to light with signs of mightWhich God our Captain wrought.Made mad, from Santiago's mouthSpain's ships-of-battle dart:My bulk comes broadening from the south,A hurricane at heart;Its desperate armories blaze and boom,Its ardent engines beat;And fiery doom finds root and bloomAboard of the Spanish fleet....The hundredweight of the Golden HindWith me are ponderous tons,The ordnance great her deck that linedWould feed my ravening guns,Her spacious reach in months and yearsI've shrunk to nights and days;Yet in my ears are ringing cheersSir Frank himself would raise:For conquereth not mine engines' breathNor sides steel-clad and strong,Nor bulk, nor rifles red with death:To Spain, too, these belong;What made that old Armada breakThis newer victory won:Jehovah spake by the sons of DrakeAt each incessant gun.I come, the warship Oregon,My wake a whitening world,My cannon shotted, thundering onWith battle-flags unfurled.My land knows no successful foe—Behold, to sink or save,From stoker's flame to gunner's aimThe race that rules the wave!Wallace Rice.
The billowy headlands swiftly flyThe crested path I keep,My ribboned smoke stains many a sky,My embers dye the deep;A continent has hardly space—Mid-ocean little more,Wherein to trace my eager raceWhile clang the alarums of war.
I come, the warship Oregon,My wake a whitening world,My cannon shotted, thundering onWith battle-flags unfurled.My land knows no successful foe—Behold, to sink or save,From stoker's flame to gunner's aimThe race that rules the wave!
A nation's prayers my bulwark areThough ne'er so wild the sea;Flow time or tide, come storm or star,Throbs my machinery.Lands Spain has lost forever peerFrom every lengthening coast,Till rings the cheer that proves me nearThe flag of Columbia's host.
Defiantly I have held my wayFrom the vigorous shore where DrakeDreamed a New Albion in the dayHe left New Spain a-quake;His shining course retraced, I fightThe self-same foe he fought,All earth to light with signs of mightWhich God our Captain wrought.
Made mad, from Santiago's mouthSpain's ships-of-battle dart:My bulk comes broadening from the south,A hurricane at heart;Its desperate armories blaze and boom,Its ardent engines beat;And fiery doom finds root and bloomAboard of the Spanish fleet....
The hundredweight of the Golden HindWith me are ponderous tons,The ordnance great her deck that linedWould feed my ravening guns,Her spacious reach in months and yearsI've shrunk to nights and days;Yet in my ears are ringing cheersSir Frank himself would raise:
For conquereth not mine engines' breathNor sides steel-clad and strong,Nor bulk, nor rifles red with death:To Spain, too, these belong;What made that old Armada breakThis newer victory won:Jehovah spake by the sons of DrakeAt each incessant gun.
I come, the warship Oregon,My wake a whitening world,My cannon shotted, thundering onWith battle-flags unfurled.My land knows no successful foe—Behold, to sink or save,From stoker's flame to gunner's aimThe race that rules the wave!
Wallace Rice.
A few days before, Sampson's fleet had bombarded San Juan, Porto Rico, ineffectually, and then came word that the Spanish squadron had slipped into the harbor of Santiago, Cuba, to coal and refit. It was not until May 29 that its presence there was discovered by the Americans, who proceeded at once to blockade the harbor.
A few days before, Sampson's fleet had bombarded San Juan, Porto Rico, ineffectually, and then came word that the Spanish squadron had slipped into the harbor of Santiago, Cuba, to coal and refit. It was not until May 29 that its presence there was discovered by the Americans, who proceeded at once to blockade the harbor.
STRIKE THE BLOW
The four-way winds of the world have blown,And the ships have ta'en the wave;The legions march to the trumps' shrill call'Neath the flag of the free and brave.The hounds of the seaHave trailed the foe,They have trailed and tracked him down,—Then wait no longer, but strike, O land,With the dauntless strength of thy strong right hand,Strike the blow!The armored fleets, with their grinning guns,Have the Spaniard in his lair;They have tracked him down where the ramparts frown,And they'll halt and hold him there.They have steamed in his wake,They have seen him go,They have bottled and corked him up;Then send him home to the under-foam,Till the wide sea shakes to the far blue dome;Strike the blow!The Cuban dead and the dying call,The children starved in the lightOf the aid that waits till the hero deedBreaks broad on the tyrant's might.The starved and the weakIn their hour of woeAre calling, land, on thee;Then why delay in thy dauntless sway?On, on, to the charge of the freedom-way,Strike the blow!They have ta'en the winds of the Carib seas,Thy fleets that know not fear;Their ribs of steel have yearned to reelIn the dance of the cannoneer.Thy sons of the blueThat wait to goWould leap with a will to the charge,Then send them the word so long deferred;They have listened late, but they have not heard;Strike the blow!They have listened late in the desolate land,They have looked through brimming eyes,And starving women have held dead babesTo their heart with a thousand sighs.On, on to the end,O land, the foeBeneath thy sword shall fall,Thy ships of steel have tracked them home,Ye are king of the land and king of the foam.Strike the blow!
The four-way winds of the world have blown,And the ships have ta'en the wave;The legions march to the trumps' shrill call'Neath the flag of the free and brave.The hounds of the seaHave trailed the foe,They have trailed and tracked him down,—Then wait no longer, but strike, O land,With the dauntless strength of thy strong right hand,Strike the blow!The armored fleets, with their grinning guns,Have the Spaniard in his lair;They have tracked him down where the ramparts frown,And they'll halt and hold him there.They have steamed in his wake,They have seen him go,They have bottled and corked him up;Then send him home to the under-foam,Till the wide sea shakes to the far blue dome;Strike the blow!The Cuban dead and the dying call,The children starved in the lightOf the aid that waits till the hero deedBreaks broad on the tyrant's might.The starved and the weakIn their hour of woeAre calling, land, on thee;Then why delay in thy dauntless sway?On, on, to the charge of the freedom-way,Strike the blow!They have ta'en the winds of the Carib seas,Thy fleets that know not fear;Their ribs of steel have yearned to reelIn the dance of the cannoneer.Thy sons of the blueThat wait to goWould leap with a will to the charge,Then send them the word so long deferred;They have listened late, but they have not heard;Strike the blow!They have listened late in the desolate land,They have looked through brimming eyes,And starving women have held dead babesTo their heart with a thousand sighs.On, on to the end,O land, the foeBeneath thy sword shall fall,Thy ships of steel have tracked them home,Ye are king of the land and king of the foam.Strike the blow!
The four-way winds of the world have blown,And the ships have ta'en the wave;The legions march to the trumps' shrill call'Neath the flag of the free and brave.The hounds of the seaHave trailed the foe,They have trailed and tracked him down,—Then wait no longer, but strike, O land,With the dauntless strength of thy strong right hand,Strike the blow!
The armored fleets, with their grinning guns,Have the Spaniard in his lair;They have tracked him down where the ramparts frown,And they'll halt and hold him there.They have steamed in his wake,They have seen him go,They have bottled and corked him up;Then send him home to the under-foam,Till the wide sea shakes to the far blue dome;Strike the blow!
The Cuban dead and the dying call,The children starved in the lightOf the aid that waits till the hero deedBreaks broad on the tyrant's might.The starved and the weakIn their hour of woeAre calling, land, on thee;Then why delay in thy dauntless sway?On, on, to the charge of the freedom-way,Strike the blow!
They have ta'en the winds of the Carib seas,Thy fleets that know not fear;Their ribs of steel have yearned to reelIn the dance of the cannoneer.Thy sons of the blueThat wait to goWould leap with a will to the charge,Then send them the word so long deferred;They have listened late, but they have not heard;Strike the blow!
They have listened late in the desolate land,They have looked through brimming eyes,And starving women have held dead babesTo their heart with a thousand sighs.On, on to the end,O land, the foeBeneath thy sword shall fall,Thy ships of steel have tracked them home,Ye are king of the land and king of the foam.Strike the blow!
On June 1, 1898, a great portion of Sampson's fleet was off the harbor, and it was decided to block the entrance by sinking the collier Merrimac in the channel. The enterprise was intrusted to Lieutenant Richmond Pearson Hobson, and a crew of eight volunteers.
On June 1, 1898, a great portion of Sampson's fleet was off the harbor, and it was decided to block the entrance by sinking the collier Merrimac in the channel. The enterprise was intrusted to Lieutenant Richmond Pearson Hobson, and a crew of eight volunteers.
EIGHT VOLUNTEERS
Eight volunteers! on an errand of death!Eight men! Who speaks?Eight men to go where the cannon's hot breathBurns black the cheeks.Eight men to man the old Merrimac's hulk;Eight men to sink the old steamer's black bulk,Blockade the channel where Spanish ships skulk,—Eight men! Who speaks?"Eight volunteers!" said the Admiral's flags!Eight men! Who speaks?Who will sail under El Morro's black crags?—Sure death he seeks.Who is there willing to offer his life?Willing to march to this music of strife,—Cannon for drum and torpedo for fife?Eight men! Who speaks?Eight volunteers! on an errand of death!Eight men! Who speaks?Was there a man who in fear held his breath?With fear-paled cheeks?From ev'ry war-ship ascended a cheer!From ev'ry sailor's lips burst the word "Here!"Four thousand heroes their lives volunteer!Eight men! Who speaks?Lansing C. Bailey.
Eight volunteers! on an errand of death!Eight men! Who speaks?Eight men to go where the cannon's hot breathBurns black the cheeks.Eight men to man the old Merrimac's hulk;Eight men to sink the old steamer's black bulk,Blockade the channel where Spanish ships skulk,—Eight men! Who speaks?"Eight volunteers!" said the Admiral's flags!Eight men! Who speaks?Who will sail under El Morro's black crags?—Sure death he seeks.Who is there willing to offer his life?Willing to march to this music of strife,—Cannon for drum and torpedo for fife?Eight men! Who speaks?Eight volunteers! on an errand of death!Eight men! Who speaks?Was there a man who in fear held his breath?With fear-paled cheeks?From ev'ry war-ship ascended a cheer!From ev'ry sailor's lips burst the word "Here!"Four thousand heroes their lives volunteer!Eight men! Who speaks?Lansing C. Bailey.
Eight volunteers! on an errand of death!Eight men! Who speaks?Eight men to go where the cannon's hot breathBurns black the cheeks.
Eight men to man the old Merrimac's hulk;Eight men to sink the old steamer's black bulk,Blockade the channel where Spanish ships skulk,—Eight men! Who speaks?"Eight volunteers!" said the Admiral's flags!
Eight men! Who speaks?Who will sail under El Morro's black crags?—Sure death he seeks.Who is there willing to offer his life?Willing to march to this music of strife,—Cannon for drum and torpedo for fife?Eight men! Who speaks?
Eight volunteers! on an errand of death!Eight men! Who speaks?Was there a man who in fear held his breath?With fear-paled cheeks?From ev'ry war-ship ascended a cheer!From ev'ry sailor's lips burst the word "Here!"Four thousand heroes their lives volunteer!Eight men! Who speaks?
Lansing C. Bailey.
It was impossible to get the boat ready that night, but at last, at 3:30 on the morning of June 2, she stood away for the harbor. The Spaniards saw her as she entered and rained a storm of fire upon her. A moment later, torn by her own torpedoes and those of the enemy, she sank to the bottom. Hobson and his men were taken prisoners by the Spaniards.
It was impossible to get the boat ready that night, but at last, at 3:30 on the morning of June 2, she stood away for the harbor. The Spaniards saw her as she entered and rained a storm of fire upon her. A moment later, torn by her own torpedoes and those of the enemy, she sank to the bottom. Hobson and his men were taken prisoners by the Spaniards.
THE MEN OF THE MERRIMAC
[June 3, 1898]