The Fighting Téméraire
It was eight bells ringing,
For the morning watch was done,
And the gunner's lads were singing As they polished every gun.
It was eight bells ringing,
And the gunner's lads were singing,
For the ship she rode a-swinging,
As they polished every gun. Oh! to see the linstock lighting, Téméraire!
Téméraire! Oh! to hear the round shot biting, Téméraire!
Téméraire! Oh! to see the linstock lighting, And to hear the round shot biting, For we're all in love with fighting On the fighting Téméraire.
It was noontide ringing,
And the battle just begun,
When the ship her way was winging,
As they loaded every gun.
It was noontide ringing,
When the ship her way was winging,
And the gunner's lads were singing As they loaded every gun. There'll be many grim and gory, Téméraire!
Téméraire! There'll be few to tell the story, Téméraire!
Téméraire! There'll be many grim and gory, There'll be few to tell the story, But we'll all be one in glory With the Fighting Téméraire.
There's a far bell ringing At the setting of the sun,
And a phantom voice is singing Of the great days done.
There's a far bell ringing,
And a phantom voice is singing Of renown for ever clinging To the great days done. Now the sunset breezes shiver, Téméraire!
Téméraire! And she's fading down the river, Téméraire!
Téméraire! Now the sunset's breezes shiver, And she's fading down the river, But in England's song for ever She's the Fighting Téméraire.
Sir Henry Newbolt
Other author posts
For A Trafalgar Cenotaph
Lover of England, stand awhile and With thankful heart, and lips refrained from praise; They rest beyond the speech of human Who served with Nelson and with Nelson died
Ireland Ireland
Down thy valleys, Ireland, Ireland, Down thy valleys green and sad, Still thy spirit wanders wailing, Wanders wailing, wanders mad Long ago that anguish took thee, Ireland,
England
Praise thou with praise unending, The Master of the Wine; To all their portions sending Himself he mingled thine: The sea-born flush of morning, The sea-born hush of night, The East wind comfort scorning, And the North wind driving ...
The Only Son
O bitter wind toward the sunset blowing, What of the dales tonight In yonder gray old hall what fires are glowing, What ring of festal lights
