And if we manned the fleet with tailors,
'Twould in a month be fit for war.
Bomb-proof, hull-sunk, iron-roofed, we steam on,
Nor ball nor boarder fear we now;
And when our foe we run abeam on,
He sinks at once beneath our prow.
Them Yankee swabs, from shot a-shrinking:
Fight under water, so they tells;