There is no time for thought or word,
The French are coming fast;
Again the signal flag is hung
Unnoticed at his mast
A raking fire sweeps through her deck,
The Breda has resigned;
For the first time her sails are spread,
And with the foe behind.
They take the dying Admiral,
They carry him ashore;
They lay him on the bed of death
From whence he rose no more.
But not unhonoured is his name—
Recalled and honoured long;
His name on many a song that speeds
The midnight watch along.
But for the cowards who could leave
The brave man to his doom,
Their’s was the scorned memory,
And their’s the nameless tomb.
They died—their long dishonour flung
Forever on the wave;
Time brings no silence to the shame
Cast on the coward’s grave.
