Blow, trumpets; clarions, sound your strain!

Strike, kettle-drum, the alarum in refrain.

Let the shrill fife, the flute, the sackbut ring

A summons to our Admiral, a salvo to our King!

The haughty Turk his scarlet shoe upon the stirrup placed,

Right easily he vaulted to his saddle-tree in haste.

His courser was Arabian, in whose crest and pastern show

A glossy coat as soft as silk, as white as driven snow.

One mark alone was on his flank! 'twas branded deep and dark;

The letter F in Arab script, stood out the sacred mark.