THE BATTLE OF THE "YATCHES."
The Rhythmical Lamentation of a British Tar On the Occasion of the Famous Victory
of the Yankee Yacht America in English Waters.
In no branch of sport is there a trophy more valuable or highly cherished than that which is so dear to the hearts of American yachtsmen—the America's Cup. While the original cost of this celebrated piece of silverware was only about five hundred dollars, the expenses of fitting out challengers and defenders and maintaining them while in commission have aggregated many millions of dollars.
The cup was originally offered by the Royal Yacht Club and was won on August 22, 1851, by the American schooner-yacht America, which had as competitors no less than fourteen British yachts. The Yankee boat won by eighteen minutes, and her victory inspired a general feeling of chagrin among the owners and crews of the British boats who had regarded their nation as invincible in the yachting world. The following verses, published shortly after the America's victory, are said to have been written by a sailor on a British ship of war from which a view of the race had been obtained:
Oh, weep, ye British sailors true,
Above or under hatches,
Here's Yankee Doodle's been and come,
And beat our crackest yatches!
They started all to run a race,
And wor well timed with watches;
But oh! they never had no chance,
Had any of our yatches.
The Yankee she delayed at first,
Says they, "She'll never catch us,"
And flung up their tarpaulin hats—
The owners of the yatches!
But presently she walked along;
"Oh, dear," says they, "she'll match us!"
And stuck on their tarpaulin hats,
The builder of our yatches.
Then deep we plows along the sea,
The Yankee scarcely scratches;
And cracks on every stitch of sail
Upon our staggering yatches.
But one by one she passes us,
While bitterly we watches,
And utters imprecations on
The builder of our yatches.
And now she's quite hull down a-head,
Her sails like little patches,
For sand-barges and colliers we
May sell our boasted yatches.
We faintly hear the club-house gun—
The silver cup she snatches—
And all the English clubs are done,
The English clubs of yatches!
They say she didn't go by wind,
But wheels, and springs, and satches;
And that's the way she weathered on
Our quickest-going yatches.
But them's all lies, I'm bound to say—
Although they're told by batches—
'Twas bulk of hull, and cut of sail,
That did for all our yatches.