By the color of his courser he wished it to be seen
That the soul of the King's Admiral was white and true and clean.
Oh, swift and full of mettle was the steed which that day bore
Mustapha, the High Admiral, down to the wave-beat shore!
The haughty Turk sails forth at morn, that Malta he may take,
But many the greater conquest his gallant men shall make;
For his heart is high and his soul is bent on death or victory,
And he pauses, as the clashing sound comes from the distant sea;
Blow, trumpets; clarions, sound your strain!
Strike, kettle-drum, the alarum in refrain.