Not a knell gave out any funeral note,
As his corpse to the shingles we hurried;
And below water-mark we had bare leave got
That our countryman's bones should be buried.
We buried him, dog-like, on that mean site,
The tide on the point of turning,
At the wretched Spaniards' bigot spite
With contempt intensely burning.
No use in coffin enclosing his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud that bound him!