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.
But say not a word till the shot is heard that tells the fight is on,
Till the long, deep roar grows more and more from the ships of "Yank" and "Don,"
Till over the deep the tempests sweep of fire and bursting shell,
And the very air is a mad Despair in the throes of a living hell;
Then down, deep down, in the mighty ship, unseen by the midday suns,
You'll find the chaps who are giving the raps—the men behind the guns!
Oh, well they know how the cyclones blow that they loose from their cloud of death,
And they know is heard the thunder-word their fierce ten-incher saith!
The steel decks rock with the lightning shock, and shake with the great recoil,
And the sea grows red with the blood of the dead and reaches for his spoil—
But not till the foe has gone below or turns his prow and runs,
Shall the voice of peace bring sweet release to the men behind the guns!
John Jerome Rooney.
Admiral Pasquale de Cervera, in command of the Spanish fleet, knew from the first how desperate the venture was. He made it only because forced to do so by direct orders from Madrid, the Spanish authorities fearing that Santiago would be taken and the whole fleet be made captive.
CERVERA
Hail to thee, gallant foe!
Well hast thou struck thy blow—
Hopeless of victory—
Daring unequal strife,
Valuing more than life
Honor and chivalry.
Forth from the harbor's room
Rushing to meet thy doom,
Lit by the day's clear light.
"Out to the waters free!
Out to the open sea!
There should a sailor fight."
Where the red battle's roar
Beats on the rocky shore,
Thunders proclaiming
How the great cannon's breath
Hurls forth a dreadful death,
Smoking and flaming.
While her guns ring and flash,
See each frail vessel dash,
Though our shots rend her,
Swift through the iron rain,
Bearing the flag of Spain,
Scorning surrender.