Classic Poem

Let us sing how the boast of the Saracen host
In the gulf of Lepanto was scattered,
When each knight of St. John's from his cannon of bronze
With grape-shot their argosies battered.
Oh! we taught the Turks then that of Europe the men
Could defy every infidel menace —
And that still o'er the main float the galleys of Spain,
And the red-lion standard of Venice!

Quick we made the foe skulk, as we blazed at each hulk,
While they left us a splinter to fire at;
And the rest of them fled o'er the waters, blood red
With the gore of the Ottoman pirate;
And our navy gave chase to the infidel race,
Nor allowed them a moment to rally;
And we forced them at length to acknowledge our strength
In the trench, in the field, in the galley!

Then our men gave a shout, and the ocean throughout
Heard of Christendom's triumph with rapture.
Galeottes eighty-nine of the enemy's line
To our swift-sailing ships fell a capture:
And I firmly maintain that the number of slain
To at least sixty thousand amounted; —
To be sure 'twas sad work — if the life of a Turk
For a moment were worth being counted.

We may well feel elate; though I'm sorry to state,
That albeit by the myriad we've slain 'em,
Still, the sons of the Cross have to weep for the loss
Of six thousand who fell by the Paynim.
Full atonement was due for each man that they slew,
And a hecatomb paid for each hero:
But could all that we'd kill give a son to Castile,
Or to Malta a brave cavalhero?

St. Mark for the slain intercedes not in vain —
There's a mass at each altar in Venice;
And the saints we implore for the banner they bore
Are Our Lady, St. George , and St. Denis .
For the brave while we grieve, in our hearts they shall live —
In our mouths shall their praise be incessant;
And again and again we will boast of the men
Who have humbled the pride of the Crescent.