"They, who support torpedo plans
Should have no plaudit for their pains;
Should be employ'd on dark designs,
Explorers of peruvian mines;
Such have not felt the patriot glow,
A feeling they could never know:
For treasons they were surely made,
Have princes slain and kings betray'd.—
Ye powers above! and must I wait
Till these prevail in every state,
Till pale disease, or shivering age
Drives such false patriots from the stage!
"The chaplain said he heard me snore,
But many a fib he told before;
And if I snored, I'm satisfied
Twas when my eyes were open wide.
"Torpedoes! who contrived the word?
Torpedoes! worse than gun or sword!
They are a mode of naval war
We cannot have a relish for:—
In all the chronicles I read
Of former times, they nothing said
Of such a horrible machine
That would disgrace an algerine,
And only yankees would employ,
Not to distress, but to destroy.
"What human eye, without dismay
Can see torpedo-lightning's play?
What mortal heart, but dreads a foe
That fights unseen from fields below!
"What passion must that heart inspire
That dives the sea, to deal in fire,
What can he fear, I trembling ask
Who undertakes the daring task?
"With engines of perdition spread,
Amazed, I see the ocean's bed!
And find with rage, regret, despair,
I have no power to meet them there!
"Alack! my nerves are on the rack—
They're hammering at the garboard streak!
Some yankee dog is near the keel!
Ho, sailors give the ship a heel:
Go, chaplain, to the starboard chains
And ask the rascal what he means?
Who knows but Fulton's self is there
With all his dark infernal gear:
Who knows but he has fix'd his screws,
And left a match, to fire the fuze—
Who knows, but in this very hour,
The Ramillies will be no more!
Will only live in empty fame,
And I, myself, be but a name!
"Should the torpedo take effect,
Her carcass will be worse than wreck'd;
In scatter'd fragments to the sky
This ship of ships will clattering fly:
And then—ah, chaplain!—ah, what then!
Where will I be, and all my men?
And where will you a lodging find,
A traveller on a gale of wind!
And where will be the pretty maid
That sweeps my floor and makes my bed?
Oh Fanny, Fanny! must we part?—
Torpedoes!—I am sick at heart!—
How will the flames those lips deface!
How will they spoil that blooming face!
How will they scorch your auburn hair—?
—You'll have your plagues, and I my share.
And must I all my fears impart;
And do these guns my ship ensure?
And must I ask my fluttering heart
If on these decks I stand secure?