RIGHT on our flank the crimson sun went down; | |
| The deep sea rolled around in dark repose; | |
| When, like the wild shriek from some captured town, | |
| A cry of women rose. | |
| |
| The stout ship “Birkenhead” lay hard and fast, | 5 |
| Caught without hope upon a hidden rock; | |
| Her timbers thrilled as nerves, when through them passed | |
| The spirit of that shock. | |
| |
| And ever like base cowards, who leave their ranks | |
| In danger’s hour, before the rush of steel, | 10 |
| Drifted away disorderly the planks | |
| From underneath her keel. | |
| |
| So calm the air, so calm and still the flood, | |
| That low down in its blue translucent glass | |
| We saw the great fierce fish, that thirst for blood, | 15 |
| Pass slowly, then repass. | |
| |
| They tarried, the waves tarried for their prey! | |
| The sea turned one clear smile! Like things asleep | |
| Those dark shapes in the azure silence lay, | |
| As quiet as the deep. | 20 |
| |
| Then amidst oath, and prayer, and rush and wreck, | |
| Faint screams, faint questions waiting no reply, | |
| Our Colonel gave the word, and on the deck | |
| Formed us in line to die. | |
| |
| To die!—’twas hard whilst the sleek ocean glowed | 25 |
| Beneath a sky as fair as summer flowers:— | |
| “All to the boats!” cried one:—he was, thank God, | |
| No officer of ours! | |
| |
| Our English hearts beat true:—we would not stir; | |
| That base appeal we heard but heeded not: | 30 |
| On land, on sea, we had our Colours, sir, | |
| To keep without a spot! | |
| |
| They shall not say in England, that we fought | |
| With shameful strength, unhonoured life to seek; | |
| Into mean safety, mean deserters, brought | 35 |
| By trampling down the weak. | |
| |
| So we made women with their children go, | |
| The oars ply back again, and yet again; | |
| Whilst, inch by inch, the drowning ship sank low, | |
| Still under steadfast men. | 40 |
| |
| —What follows, why recall?—The brave who died, | |
| Died without flinching in the bloody surf, | |
| They sleep as well beneath that purple tide, | |
| As others under turf;— | |
| |
| They sleep as well! and, roused from their wild grave, | 45 |
| Wearing their wounds like stars, shall rise again, | |
| Joint-heirs with Christ, because they bled to save | |
| His weak ones, not in vain. | |
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