Long e'er Paris heard the thunder,
Herald of the Uhlan's lance,
Thou wast making Stockholm wonder
At the dying flame of France:
Not on wires, with no word written,
Thou hadst trod thine airy track,
Faster than the mailed mitten,
And behold our fleet was smitten
Somewhere near the Skager Rack.
So. And when their lines are broken,