They stand to the deck through the battle’s wreck when the great shells roar and screech—
And never they fear when the foe is near to practice what they preach:
But off with your hat and three times three for Columbia’s true-blue sons,
The men below who batter the foe—the men behind the guns!
Oh, light and merry of heart are they when they swing into port once more,
When, with more than enough of the “green-backed stuff,” they start for their leave-o’-shore;
And you’d think, perhaps, that the blue-bloused chaps who loll along the street
Are a tender bit, with salt on it, for some fierce “mustache” to eat—
Some warrior bold, with straps of gold, who dazzles and fairly stuns
The modest worth of the sailor boys—the lads who serve the guns.