“Soon a sail we espies,
Says the skipper—‘My eyes!
That’s the stuff for us lads of the trade, oh!
Bales of silk in his hold,
Casks of rum—maybe gold—
Not forgetting the real Trinidado!’
“Then it’s ‘Stand by! My sons!
Steady! Run out your guns—
We’ve the Don’s weather-gage. Who’s afraid, oh!’
So we takes him aback,