"They sewed him up in his shroud

With a round-shot top and toe,

To sink him under the salt sharp sea

Where all good seamen go.

"They lowered him down in the deep,

And there in the sunset light

They boomed a broadside over his grave,

As meanin' to say 'Good-night.'

"They sailed away in the dark

To the dear little isle they knew;

And they hung his drum by the old sea-wall

The same as he told them to.

* * * *

"Two hundred years went by,

And the guns began to roar,

And England was fighting hard for her life,

As ever she fought of yore.

"'It's only my dead that count,'

She said, as she says to-day;

'It isn't the ships and it isn't the guns

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