Bret Harte.
[CXX]
WHAT THE BULLET SANG
O Joy of creation To be! O rapture to fly And be free! Be the battle lost or won Though its smoke shall hide the sun, I shall find my love—the one Born for me!
I shall know him where he stands, All alone, With the power in his hands Not o'erthrown; I shall know him by his face, By his god-like front and grace; I shall hold him for a space All my own!
It is he—O my love! So bold! It is I—All thy love Foretold! It is I. O love! what bliss! Dost thou answer to my kiss? O sweetheart! what is this Lieth there so cold?
Bret Harte.
[CXXI]
A BALLAD OF THE ARMADA
King Philip had vaunted his claims; He had sworn for a year he would sack us; With an army of heathenish names He was coming to fagot and stack us; Like the thieves of the sea he would track us, And shatter our ships on the main; But we had bold Neptune to back us— And where are the galleons of Spain?
His carackes were christened of dames To the kirtles whereof he would tack us; With his saints and his gilded stern-frames He had thought like an egg shell to crack us; Now Howard may get to his Flaccus, And Drake to his Devon again, And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus— For where are the galleons of Spain?
Let his Majesty hang to St. James The axe that he whetted to hack us; He must play at some lustier games Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us; To his mines of Peru he would pack us To tug at his bullet and chain; Alas! that his Greatness should lack us!— But where are the galleons of Spain?