* * * * *
One more to the songs of the bold and free,
When your children gather about your knee;
When the Goths and Vandals come down in might
As they came to the walls of Rome one night;
When the lordly William of Deloraine
Shall ride by the Scottish lake again;
When the Hessian spectres shall flit in air
As Washington crosses the Delaware;
When the eyes of babes shall be closed in dread
As the story of Paul Revere is read;
When your boys shall ask what the guns are for,
Then tell them the tale of the Spanish war,
And the breathless millions that looked upon
The matchless race of the Oregon.
John James Meehan.
BATTLE-SONG OF THE OREGON
The billowy headlands swiftly fly
The crested path I keep,
My ribboned smoke stains many a sky,
My embers dye the deep;
A continent has hardly space—
Mid-ocean little more,
Wherein to trace my eager race
While clang the alarums of war.
I come, the warship Oregon,
My wake a whitening world,
My cannon shotted, thundering on
With battle-flags unfurled.
My land knows no successful foe—
Behold, to sink or save,
From stoker's flame to gunner's aim
The race that rules the wave!
A nation's prayers my bulwark are
Though ne'er so wild the sea;
Flow time or tide, come storm or star,
Throbs my machinery.
Lands Spain has lost forever peer
From every lengthening coast,
Till rings the cheer that proves me near
The flag of Columbia's host.
Defiantly I have held my way
From the vigorous shore where Drake
Dreamed a New Albion in the day
He left New Spain a-quake;
His shining course retraced, I fight
The self-same foe he fought,
All earth to light with signs of might
Which God our Captain wrought.
Made mad, from Santiago's mouth
Spain's ships-of-battle dart:
My bulk comes broadening from the south,
A hurricane at heart;
Its desperate armories blaze and boom,
Its ardent engines beat;
And fiery doom finds root and bloom
Aboard of the Spanish fleet....
The hundredweight of the Golden Hind
With me are ponderous tons,
The ordnance great her deck that lined
Would feed my ravening guns,
Her spacious reach in months and years
I've shrunk to nights and days;
Yet in my ears are ringing cheers
Sir Frank himself would raise: