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86  His sword was in its sheath, His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again Full charged with England's thunder, And plough the distant main:

But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more.

 

the British warrior queen,
 * Bleeding from the Roman rods,

Sought with an indignant mien
 * Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage beneath the spreading oak
 * Sat the Druid, hoary chief,

Every burning word he spoke 
 * Full of rage, and full of grief: