The challenge was accepted, the Americans came down,
A finer frigate ne'er belonged unto the British crown.
They brought her into action on the true British plan,
Nor fired a shot till within hail-then they the fight began.
Broadside for broadside then did yield a most tremendous roar, Like thunder it resounded, re-echoed from each shore.
This dreadful firing lasted near a quarter of an hour;
Then the enemy's ship drove right aboard, their yards were locked in ours.
Our captain went to their ship's side to see how she did lie,
When he beheld the enemy's men who from their guns did fly.
'All hands for boarding!' now he cry'd; 'the victory is sure.
Come bear a hand, my gallant boys, our prize we'll soon secure.'
Like lions then we rush'd on board, we fought them hand to hand,
And tho' they overnumbered us they could not us withstand.
They fought in desperation, disorder, and dismay,
And in about three minutes' time were forced to give way.
Their captain and lieutenant with seventy of the crew
Were killed in this sharp action, and an hundred wounded too.
The ship was taken to Halifax and the captain buried there,
And the remainder of his crew as his chief mourners were.
Have courage then, all British tars, and never be dismay'd,
But put the can of grog about and drink success to trade,
Likewise to gallant Captain Broke and all his valiant crew,
Who beat the bold Americans and brought their courage to.
A NEW SONG, CALLED THE ENDYMION'S TRIUMPH.
Come, all you valiant British tars, attend unto my theme.
In eighteen hundred and fifteen this fact I will proclaim :
As we were cruising off New York, the night it being clear,
Bold Mars to us a message sent an enemy was near.
On January fifteen, just by the dawn of day,
We 'spied a Yankee frigate that just had put to sea.
To her our squadron soon gave chace, but all soon dropt behind, Except the bold Endymion, who flew before the wind.
It was a handsome chace, my boys, as ever yet was seen,
Each man stood to his quarters, for victory was keen ;
When, about the hour of four o'clock, long tom began to tell, With her we soon came up, brave boys, our ship could sail so well.
Their Commodore Decatur all hands on deck did call,
Saying, 'Be of good courage, their vessel's very small;
Besides, we have two men to one--so, boys, be not asleep,
For in less than ten minutes we'll sink her in the deep.'
But soon he found his great mistake—at five o'clock at night
We gave to them three daring cheers, and began the bloody fight.
This was their boasted frigate, in her they did confide,
But soon the bold Endymion pull'd down their Yankee pride.
Two hours and forty minutes, with courage void of fear,
This bloody fight we did maintain and swept her decks so clear.
When she haul'd down her colours our valiant captain cries,
'Well done, well done, my brave boys, the President's our prize!'
We had twenty kill'd and wounded-thank God we had no more— Whilst one hundred of those Yankees lay weltering in their gore, And more than twenty wounded, most grevious was their cries, Their bitter moans and dying groans did rend the very skies.
The President she was well manned, five hundred was her crew ;
Three hundred and forty the Endymion were, 'tis true;
Yet, nurs'd in the lap of victory, those Yankees did despise,
For we were all bold British tars and stout courageous boys.
A curious observation, twelve months that day were spent
Since this proud Yankee commodore a challenge to us sent.
We joyfully accepted it, British honour to [de]fend,
But our commodore would not permit, nor yet the same commend.
Full sore it grieved bold Captain Hope that contest to decline, But now he may exult and say, 'Decatur, you are mine;
I long'd to meet you on this coast and sought you with much toil, And since I have you snug on board, I'll shew you British soil.'
This action we'll record in the annals of British fame,
Her sixty-three to forty-eight it was unequal game.
Since we left Plymouth Harbour in eighteen hundred and thirteen,
All along the Yankee coast we have thirty prizes ta'en.
Bold Captain Hope commanded us, his praises we'll proclaim,
To him the greatest honour's due, he merits British fame.
'Be silent, men !' was all his cry. Bring all your guns to bear,
And do not fire one shot in vain; both round and grape prepare.
It would take the quill of Homer or Virgil to indite
The valour of our officers display'd upon that night:
Our undaunted first lieutenant, bold Morgan of renown,
Mr. Garson, Mr. Ormon, bold Fanshaw and Yeaman.
But on the seventeenth, brave boys, at twelve o'clock at night
We lost our fore and main mast, to us a doleful sight;
To see us in this dreadful gale an adamant heart would weep,
Our quarter-deck and forecastle guns we plunged in the deep.
But soon we rigged our jurymast when that the gale was o'er,
The weather it came fine and clear, the billows ceas'd to roar;
But soon another gale arose, which lasted three whole days,
In the Gulph Stream we were toss'd about, tremendous were the
Our prize she was dismasted and much injury sustain'd;
Thank God she's now arrived safe, the anchorage she's gain'd.
Thus kind Heaven protected us, all dangers we surviv'd,
For now in sweet Bermuda our ship and she's arriv'd.
Now let Commodore Decatur and all his Yankee crew
Write home to cowardly Madison what British tars can do,
Whilst our trophies we'll bring home unto the British shore,
And cans of grog we'll pledge, my boys, now tempests cease to
So fill to me a flowing bowl and let the toast go round:
God prosper long bold Captain Hope, with laurels he is crown'd; Success to our bold officers and all our valiant crew,
And may all British seamen their victories pursue.
Come all you thoughtless young men, a warning take by me,
And never leave your happy homes to sail the raging sea,
For I have ploughed the raging main this twenty years or more,
But now I'm turned adrift to starve upon my native shore.
When war at first assail'd us I quickly left my trade,
Our country was in danger, I flew to lend my aid.
And in my country's service, long, long fatigues I bore,
But now I'm turned adrift to starve upon my native shore.
By storms and raging tempest shipwreck'd three times I've been, And many a bloody battle upon the seas I've seen;
I've seen the cannon's glaring flash, I've heard its murderous roar, Tho' now I'm turned adrift to starve upon my native shore.
The British seaman's valour to all the world is known,
We conquer still where'er we go, the action is our own.
The meteor flag of England triumphantly we bore ;
But now we are turned adrift to starve upon our native shore.
Should hostile fleets e'er venture upon the raging main,
True hearts of oak we British Tars we'll push to sea again;
And bravely bring their ships to port as we have done before.
So help us now while we're in want upon our native shore.
Come pity, ye gentle strangers, a luckless British Tar,
In your defence he yet may hurl the thunderbolts of war.
Come lend some kind assistance, and heaven will bless your store,
For now I'm turned adrift to starve upon my native shore.
It is of a fine Frigate, dare not mention her name;
And in the West Indies she bore great fame,
For cruel hard usage in every degree,
Like slaves in a galley we plough the salt sea.
At four in the morning the game is begun,
To the cock pit the waisters for buckets must run;
For fore and main topmen so loud they do bawl,
For sand and for stones both large and small.
O Master Make-clever, you know very well,
He comes upon deck and cuts a great swell;
It's 'bear a hand here, boys,' and 'bear a hand there,'
And in the lee gangway he takes a broad sheer.
Half a dozen he starts, and so he goes on;
You're sure of a hiding, boys, every one;
For soldier or sailor he cares not a damn,
But he'll hide you as long as you're able to stand.
Our decks being wash'd and our sheets being home,
Stand by your hammocks, boys, every one;
Seven turns with your lashings so equal must show,
And all of a size, boys, and through the hoop go.
Our hammocks being stowed, and our breakfast done, We're ranked in divisions with our white hats all on ; With our speeguls and lashings so black they must shine, With our white frocks and trousers we must all be a line.
Our division officer then takes his round,
Not a hole nor a spot on your clothes must be found;
For an hour or more in this form we must be,
Our ropes they are flemished either in harbour or at sea.
Our divisions being over, the next thing comes on,
Jack o' Clubs he is calling for swabs in his song;
Three or four dry swabs each cook they must find,
And the bright iron hoops on our mess-kids must shine.
There is pulling and hauling all the four hours round,
On deck or below there's no peace to be found;
Either paint room, or store room, you're sure for to clear,
To find out what blacking or paint is to spare.
Pass the word for the painters, fore and aft is the cry,
Neither booms nor gangway I would have you draw nigh,
Nor yet in the ports I would have you be found,
For six dozen or more to your name will go round.
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