And when a gun’s crew lost a hand, Some bold marine stepped out, And jerked his braided jacket off, And hauled the gun about.
Our forward magazine was drowned; And up from the sick-bay Crawled out the wounded, red with blood, And round us gasping lay.
Yes, cheering, calling us by name, Struggling with failing breath, To keep their shipmates at the port, While glory strove with death.
With decks afloat, and powder gone, The last broadside we gave From the guns’ heated iron lips Burst out beneath the wave.
So sponges, rammers, and handspikes— As men-of-war’s men should— We placed within their proper racks, And at our quarters stood.
“Up to the spar-deck! Save yourselves!” Cried Selfridge. “Up, my men! God grant that some of us may live To fight yon ship again!”
We turned—we did not like to go; Yet staying seemed but vain, Knee-deep in water; so we left; Some swore, some groaned with pain.
We reached the deck. Here Randall stood: “Another turn, men—so!” Calmly he aimed his pivot-gun: “Now, Tenney, let her go!”
It did our sore hearts good to hear The song our pivot sang, As rushing on, from wave to wave, The whirring bomb-shell sprang.
Brave Randall leaped upon the gun, And waved his cap in sport; “Well done! well aimed! I saw that shell Go through an open port.”