And then began the sailors’ jests: “What thing is that, I say?” “A ’long-shore meeting-house adrift Is standing down the bay!”
A frown came over Morris’ face; The strange, dark craft he knew; “That is the iron Merrimac, Manned by a rebel crew.
“So shot your guns, and point them straight; Before this day goes by, We’ll try of what her metal ’s made.” A cheer was our reply.
“Remember boys, this flag of ours Has seldom left its place; And where it falls, the deck it strikes Is covered with disgrace.
“I ask but this: or sink or swim, Or live or nobly die, My last sight upon earth may be To see that ensign fly!”
Meanwhile the shapeless iron mass Came moving o’er the wave, As gloomy as a passing hearse, As silent as the grave.
Her ports were closed, from stem to stem No sign of life appeared. We wondered, questioned, strained our eyes, Joked,—every thing but feared.
She reached our range. Our broadside rang, Our heavy pivots roared; And shot and shell, a fire of hell, Against her sides we poured.
God’s mercy! from her sloping roof The iron tempest glanced, As hail bounds from a cottage-thatch, And round her leaped and danced;