And now be glad as when we had Granada in our hold,
And stabbed the city's sentinels and took the city's gold:
New Spain's good homes and churches, aye, will not forget too soon
The boucanier, John Davis, sirs, who taught their Dons a tune—
Dutch serenades of belts and blades they danced to by the moon!
What helped the Latin of their monks to curse what Satan blessed!
Those pieces,—broad,—of eight and plate we counted in our chest.
And now that we may double or may treble every piece,
Pipe up the anchor, boatswain! and, before the hawser cease,
Let every sail salute the gale and every rope be taunt—