"You've no taste for poetry, master," returned the young officer: "but come, I'll give you my last song; Plumstone has set it to music;" and with a clear sonorous voice he sang the following:
"Hail to the flag—the gallant flag! Britannia's proudest boast; Her herald o'er the distant sea, the guardian of her coast; Where'er 'tis spread, on field or flood, the blazonry of fame; And Britons hail its mastery with shouts of loud acclaim.
Hail to the flag—the gallant flag! in battle or in blast; Whether 'tis hoisted at the peak, or nail'd to splinter'd mast; Though rent by service or by shot, all tatter'd it may be, Old England's tars shall still maintain its dread supremacy.
Hail to the flag—the gallant flag, that Nelson proudly bore, When hostile banners waved aloft, amid the cannon's roar! When France and Spain in unison the deadly battle close, And deeper than its own red hue the vital current flows.
Hail to the flag—the gallant flag! for it is Victory's own, Though Trafalgar re-echoes still the hero's dying groan; The Spaniards dows'd their jaundiced rag on that eventful day, And Gallic eagles humbly crouch'd, acknowledging our sway.
Hail to the flag—the gallant flag! come, hoist it once again; And show the haughty nations round, our throne is on the main; Our ships are crowns and sceptres, whose titles have no flaw, And legislators are our guns dispensing cannon law.
Once more then hail the gallant flag! the seaman's honest pride, Who loves to see it flaunt the breeze, and o'er the ocean ride; Like the genius of his country, 'tis ever bold and free; And he will prove, where'er it flies, we're sovereigns of the sea."
"Very fair, very fair, Mr. Nugent," said his lordship; "and not badly sung, either."
"Ay, ay, my lord, the youngster's well enough," chimed in old Parallel; "but, what with his poetry and book-making, I'm half afraid he'll forget the traverse-tables altogether."
"And pray how does the book-making, as the master calls it, get on, Nugent?" inquired the captain: "have you made much progress?"