The dead and dying round us lay,
But our foeman lay abeam;
Her open portholes maddened us;
We fired with shout and scream.
We felt our vessel settling fast,
We knew our time was brief;
"The pumps, the pumps!" But they who pumped,
And fought not, wept with grief.
"Oh, keep us but an hour afloat!
Oh, give us only time
To be the instruments of heaven
Against the traitors' crime!"
From captain down to powder-boy,
No hand was idle then;
Two soldiers, but by chance aboard,
Fought on like sailor-men.
And when a gun's crew lost a hand,
Some bold marine stepped out,
And jerked his braided jacket off,
And hauled the gun about.
Our forward magazine was drowned;
And up from the sick-bay
Crawled out the wounded, red with blood,
And round us gasping lay.
Yes, cheering, calling us by name,
Struggling with failing breath,
To keep their shipmates at the port,
While glory strove with death.
With decks afloat, and powder gone,
The last broadside we gave
From the guns' heated iron lips
Burst out beneath the wave.
So sponges, rammers, and handspikes—
As men-of-war's men should—
We placed within their proper racks,
And at our quarters stood.
"Up to the spar-deck! Save yourselves!"
Cried Selfridge. "Up, my men!
God grant that some of us may live
To fight yon ship again!"