At

In the un-Pacific sea,

Stood a gunner with his mad up

Just as far as it could be—

Stood a gunner brave and ready

For the hated enemy.

Near the Isles of Philopena

Raged the battle all the morn,

And the plucky Spanish sailors

By the shot and shell were torn;

And the flag that floated o’er them

To oblivion was borne.

Every cannon belched projectiles,

Every cannon breathed forth hell,

Every cannon mowed the foeman

From the deck into the swell,

When amid the din of battle

Rang the silvery breakfast-bell.

“Stop your shooting! Come to breakfast!”

Cried the gallant Commodore.

 Prev. P 29/63 next