And twenty long guns through her ports seem’d frowning to engage.
Of those that were made prisoners, they all were put abaft,
And we with well-arm’d sentinels paraded fore and aft;
We pick’d up all the slaughter’d men, and hove them in the deep,
Where, full in number fifty, they take their final sleep.
And twenty more disabled Dons, with eyelet holes and scars,
Were treated by our surgeon the same as our own tars;
For when they struck no time was lost, to the Primrose they were sent,
And arms and legs, and broken heads, strict ordeal underwent.
Our chief was badly wounded, likewise the master too,