Classic Poem

Long the tyrant of our coast
Reigned the famous Guerrière;
Our little navy she defied,
Public ship and privateer:
On her sails in letters red,
To our captains were displayed
Words of warning, words of dread,
“All who meet me, have a care!
I am England's Guerrière.”

On the wide, Atlantic deep
(Not her equal for the fight)
The Constitution, on her way,
Chanced to meet these men of might;
On her sails was nothing said,
But her waist the teeth displayed
That a deal of blood could shed,
Which, if she would venture near,
Would stain the decks of the Guerrière.

Now our gallant ship they met—
And, to struggle with John Bull—
Who had come, they little thought,
Strangers, yet, to Isaac Hull:
Better soon to be acquainted:
Isaac hailed the Lord's anointed—
While the crew the cannon pointed,
And the balls were so directed
With a blaze so unexpected;

Isaac so did maul and rake her
That the decks of Captain Dacre
Were in such a woful pickle
As if death with scythe and sickle,
With his sling, or with his shaft
Had cut his harvest fore and aft.
Thus, in thirty minutes ended,
Mischiefs that could not be mended;
Masts, and yards, and ship descended,
All to David Jones's locker—
Such a ship in such a pucker!

Drink a bout to the Constitution!
She performed some execution,
Did some share of retribution
For the insults of the year
When she took the Guerrière.
May success again await her,
Let who will again command her,
Bainbridge, Rodgers, or Decatur—
Nothing like her can withstand her,
With a crew like that on board her
Who so boldly called “to order”
One bold crew of English sailors,
Long, too long our seamen's jailors,
Dacre and the Guerrière!