There in the gap the breakers croon
Their old unchanging rhythmic rune
(The noise is such a bore).
And week by week to climb that hill
The SULTAN sends some sweating knave
To scan the misty deep and hail
With hoisted nag the smoky trail
That means (hurrah!) the English mail,
So we still rule the wave!
Hurrah!—and yet what tales of woe!