’Twas a pleasant Sunday morning while the spring was in its glory,
English spring of gentle glory; smoking by his cottage door,
Florid-faced, the man-o’-war’s-man told his white-head boy the story,
Noble story of Aboukir told a hundred times before.
“Here, the Theseus—here, the Vanguard;” as he spoke each name sonorous,—
Minotaur, Defence, Majestic, stanch old comrades of the brine,
That against the ships of Brueys made their broadsides roar in chorus,—
Ranging daisies on his doorstone, deft he mapped the battle-line.
Mapped the curve of tall three-deckers, deft as might a man left-handed,
Who had given an arm to England later on at Trafalgar.