Some ship somewhere or city there beneath the Indian sky—
What matter whether east or west!—some ship with decks built high,
With treasure packed from stem to stern: some huge ship of the line,
Against whose ports we'll cram our ports, while all our cannon shine
And thunder; then, with blade to blade, and shouting horde on horde,
Swarm up her sides and sweep her decks with pistol and with sword;
And, sink or swim, our flag flies there, we boucaniers aboard.
Say, what availed your patron saints, Iago and Saint Marc,
Lanceros, Adelantados, against Ravenau's barque?
O butchers of good Jean Ribault, well might your cheeks turn pale