A BALLAD FOR A BOY
When George the Third was reigning a hundred
years ago,
He ordered Captain Farmer to chase the foreign
foe.
"You're not afraid of shot," said he, "you're
not afraid of wreck,
So cruise about the west of France in the frigate
called Quebec.
"Quebec was once a Frenchman's town, but
twenty years ago
King George the Second sent a man called
General Wolfe, you know,
To clamber up a precipice and look into Quebec,
As you'd look down a hatchway when standing
on the deck.
"If Wolfe could beat the Frenchmen then so
you can beat them now.
Before he got inside the town he died, I must
allow.
But since the town was won for us it is a lucky
name,
And you'll remember Wolfe's good work, and
you shall do the same."
Then Farmer said, "I'll try, sir," and Farmer
bowed so low
That George could see his pigtail tied in a velvet
bow.
George gave him his commission, and that it
might be safer,
Signed "King of Britain, King of France," and
sealed it with a wafer.
Then proud was Captain Farmer in a frigate of
his own,
And grander on his quarter-deck than George
upon the throne.
He'd two guns in his cabin, and on the spar-deck
ten,
And twenty on the gun-deck, and more than ten
score men.
And as a huntsman scours the brakes with six-
teen brace of dogs,
With two-and-thirty cannon the ship explored
the fogs.
From Cape la Hogue to Ushant, from Roche-
forte to Belleisle,
She hunted game till reef and mud were rubbing
on her keel.
The fogs are dried, the frigate's side is bright
with melting tar,
The lad up in the foretop sees square white sails
afar;
The east wind drives three square-sailed masts
from out the Breton bay,
And "Clear for action!" Farmer shouts, and
reefers yell "Hooray!"
The Frenchmen's captain had a name I wish I
could pronounce;
A Breton gentleman was he, and wholly free
from bounce,
One like those famous fellows who died by guil-
lotine
For honour and the fleurs-de-lys, and Antoinette
the Queen.
The Catholic for Louis, the Protestant for George,
Each captain drew as bright a sword as saintly
smiths could forge;
And both were simple seamen, but both could
understand
How each was bound to win or die for flag and
native land.
The French ship was la Surveillante, which means
the watchful maid;
She folded up her head-dress and began to
cannonade.
Her hull was clean, and ours was foul; we had
to spread more sail.
On canvas, stays, and topsail yards her bullets
came like hail.
Sore smitten were both captains, and many lads
beside,
And still to cut our rigging the foreign gunners
tried.
A sail-clad spar came flapping down athwart a
blazing gun;
We could not quench the rushing flames, and so
the Frenchman won.
Our quarter-deck was crowded, the waist was
all aglow;
Men hung upon the taffrail half scorched, but
loth to go;
Our captain sat where once he stood, and would
not quit his chair.
He bade his comrades leap for life, and leave
him bleeding there.
The guns were hushed on either side, the French-
men lowered boats,
They flung us planks and hencoops, and every-
thing that floats.
They risked their lives, good fellows! to bring
their rivals aid.
'Twas by the conflagration the peace was
strangely made.
La Surveillante was like a sieve; the victors had
no rest.
They had to dodge the east wind to reach the
port of Brest,
And where the waves leapt lower, and the
riddled ship went slower,
In triumph, yet in funeral guise, came fisher-
boats to tow her.
They dealt with us as brethren, they mourned
for Farmer dead;
And as the wounded captives passed each Breton
bowed the head.
Then spoke the French Lieutenant, "'Twas fire
that won, not we.
You never struck your flag to us; you'll go to
England free."
'Twas the sixth day of October, seventeen
hundred seventy-nine,
A year when nations ventured against us to '
combine,
Quebec was burnt and Farmer slain, by us re-
membered not;
But thanks be to the French book wherein
they're not forgot.
Now you, if you've to fight the French, my
youngster, bear in mind
Those seamen of King Louis so chivalrous and kind;
Think of the Breton gentlemen who took our
lads to Brest,
And treat some rescued Breton as a comrade and
a guest.
——William Cory.