When our leader sings out “Quarter!” some mercy to command;
But now the sherry which we made, with panic fill’d the horde,
For some dived down the hatchways, and some leap’d overboard.
Close to their scudding heels our lads did their attentions pay,
Cutlass in hand, to hold their own—to capture more than slay;
Through slippery gore we fought our way, the quarter-deck to gain,
And in loud cheers her mizen peak soon lost the flag of Spain.
Our prize we found was frigate-built, from Whydah she sail’d out,
With near six hundred slaves on board, and eight score seamen stout;
Equipp’d with stores of every sort, the missile war to wage,