Why, I’ve nothing but my life; here’s my head!” cries Hervé Riel.

Not a minute more to wait.

“Steer us in, then, small and great!

Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!” cried its chief.

“Captains, give the sailor place!”

He is admiral, in brief.

Still the north-wind, by God’s grace.

See the noble fellow’s face

As the big ship, with a bound,

Clears the entry like a hound,

Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide seas profound!

See, safe through shoal and rock,

How they follow in a flock.

Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground,

Not a spar that comes to grief!

[Pg 42]

The peril, see, is past,

All are harbored to the last;

And just as Hervé Riel halloos, “Anchor!”—sure as fate,

Up the English come, too late.

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