Eight hundred men, the pride of England's host,
In stern array stand marshall'd on her deck,
Calmly as though they knew not they were lost--
Lost in that shattered wreck.
IX.
Eight hundred men,--old England's tried and true,
Their hopes, their fears, their tasks of glory done,
Steadfast, till the last foe be conquered too,
And the last fight be won.
X.
Free floats their banner o'er them as they stand;
No mournful dirge may o'er the waters ring;
Out peals the anthem, glorious and grand,
"The king! God save the king!"
XI.
Lower and lower sinks the fated bark,
Closer and closer creeps the ruthless wave,
But loud outswells, across the waters dark,
The death-song of the brave.
XII.
Over their heads the gurgling billows sweep;
Still o'er the waves the last fond echoes ring,
Out-thrilling from the caverns of the deep,
"The king! God save the king!"