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Poem by William Watson
The Battle of the Bight
Had I the fabled herb That brought to life the dead, Whom would I dare disturb In his eternal bed? Great Grenville would I wake, And with glad tidings make The soul of mighty Drake Heave up a glorying head. As rose the misty sun, Our men the North Sea scanned, And each rejoicing gun Welcomed a Foe at hand, And thundering its delight, Opened its mouth outright, And bit them in the Bight, The Bight of Helgoland. With Captains who could each Do aught but yield or flee; With guns that spake the speech Shall keep this Kingdom free; We hammered to their doom Four Giants mid the gloom, And one to a fiercer tomb Sent blazing down the sea. Sleep on, O Drake, sleep well, In days not wholly dire! Grenville, whom nought could quell, Unquenched is still thy fire. And thou that hadst no peer, Nelson! thou need'st not fear: Thy sons and heirs are here, Nor shall they shame their sire.
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