And were waiting, calm and ready, for the last forlorn attack;
When the stainless flag of England, that has braved a thousand years,
Was shot clean from the masthead; and they gave three hearty cheers.
'Twas the purpose of a moment, and the bravest of our tars
Plunged headlong in the boiling surf, amid the broken spars;
He snatched the shot-torn colours, and wound them round his arm,
Then climbed upon the deck again, and there stood safe and calm
He paused but for a moment—for it was no time to stay—
Then leaped into the rigging that had yet survived the fray;
Higher yet he climbed and higher, till he gained a dizzy height,