Have you any notion, you landsmen,
Who have seen a field-fight won,
Of canister, grape-shot, and shrapnel
Hurled out from a ten-inch gun?
I tell you, the air is nigh solid
With the howling iron flight;
And 'twas such a tempest blew o'er us
Where the Hartford lay that night.
Perched aloft in the forward rigging,
With his restless eyes aglow,
Sat Farragut, shouting his orders
To the men who fought below.
And the fort's huge faces of granite
Were splintered and rent in twain,
And the masses seemed slowly melting,
Like snow in a torrid rain.
Now quicker and quicker we fired,
Till between us and the foe
A torrent of blazing vapor
Was leaping to and fro;
While the fort, like a mighty caldron,
Was boiling with flame and smoke,
And the stone flew aloft in fragments,
And the brick into powder broke.
So thick fell the clouds o'er the river,
You hardly could see your hand;
When we heard, from the foremast rigging,
Old Farragut's sharp command:
"Full ahead! Steam across to Saint Philip!
Starboard battery, mind your aim!
Forecastle there, shift your pivots! Now,
Give them a taste of the same!"
Saint Philip grew faint in replying,
Its voice of thunder was drowned;
"But ha! what is this? Back the engines!
Back, back, the ship is aground!"
Straight down the swift current came sweeping
A raft, spouting sparks and flame;
Pushed on by an iron-clad rebel,
Under our port side it came.