In the stagnant pride of an outworn race
The Spaniard sail'd the sea:
Till we haled him up to God's judgment-place —
And smashed him by God's decree!

Out from the harbor, belching smoke,
Came dashing seaward the Spanish ships —
And from all our decks a great shout broke,
Then our hearts came up and set us a-choke
For joy that we had them at last at grips!

No need for signals to get us away —
We were off at score, with our screws a-gleam!
Through the blistering weeks we'd watched the bay
And our captains had need not a word to say —
Save to bellow and curse down the pipes for steam!

Leading the pack in its frightened flight
The Colon went foaming away to the west —
Her tall iron bulwarks, black as night,
And her great black funnels, sharp in sight
'Gainst the green-clad hills in their peace and rest.

Her big Hontaria blazed away
At the Indiana, our first in line.
The short-ranged shot drenched our decks with spray —
While our thirteen-inchers, in answering play,
Ripped straight through her frame to her very spine!
. . . . . . . .

Straight to its end went our winning fight
With the thunder of guns in a mighty roar.
Our bail of iron, casting withering blight,
Turning the Spanish ships in their flight
To a shorter death on the rock-bound shore.

The Colon, making her reckless race
With the Brooklyn and Oregon close a-beam,
Went dashing landward — and stopped the chase
By grinding her way to her dying-place
In a raging outburst of flame and steam.

So the others, facing their desperate luck,
Drove headlong on to their rock-dealt death —
The Vizcaya, yielding before she struck,
The riddled destroyers, a huddled ruck.
Sinking, and gasping for drowning breath.

So that flying battle surged down the coast,
With its echoing roar from the Cuban land;
So the dying war-ships gave up the ghost;
So we shattered and mangled the Philistine host —
So the fight was won that our Sampson planned!