I tell you a tale to-night 
    Which a seaman told to me, 
With eyes that gleamed in the lanthorn light 
    And a voice as low as the sea. 

You could almost hear the stars 
    Twinkling up in the sky, 
And the old wind woke and moaned in the spars 
    And the same old waves went by. 

Singing the same old song 
    As ages and ages ago, 
While he froze my blood in that deep-sea night 
    With the things he seemed to know. 

A bare foot pattered on deck; 
    Ropes creaked; then—all grew still, 
And he pointed his finger straight in my face 
    And growled, as a sea-dog will. 

“Do 'ee know who Nelson was? 
    That pore little shrivelled form 
With the patch on his eye and the pinned-up sleeve 
    And a soul like a North Sea storm? 

“Ask of the Devonshire men! 
    They know, and they'll tell you true; 
He wasn't the pore little chawed-up chap 
    That Hardy thought he knew. 

“He wasn't the man you think! 
    His patch was a dern disguise! 
For he knew that they'd find him out, d'you see, 
    If they looked him in both his eyes. 

“He was twice as big as he seemed; 
    But his clothes were cunningly made. 
He'd both of his hairy arms alright! 
    The sleeve was a trick of the trade. 

“You've heard of sperrits, no doubt; 
    Well there's more in the matter than that! 
But he wasn't the patch and he wasn't the sleeve, 
    And he wasn't the laced cocked-hat. 

“Nelson was just-a Ghost! 
    You may laugh! But the Devonshire men 
They knew that he'd come when England called, 
    And they know that he'll come again. 

    “I'll tell you the way it was 
(For none of the landsmen know) , 
And to tell it you right, you must go a-starn 
    Two hundred years or so. 

            * * * * * * * 

“The waves were lapping and slapping 
    The same as they are today; 
And Drake lay dying aboard his ship 
    In Nombre Dios Bay. 

“The scent of foreign flowers 
    Came floating all around; 
'But I'd give my soul for the smell o' the pitch, ' 
    Says he, 'in Plymouth Sound. 

‘’ 'What shall I do, ' he says, 
    'When the guns begin to roar, 
An' England wants me, and me not there 
    To shatter 'er fores once more? ' 

“(You've heard what he said, maybe, 
    But I'll mark you the p'ints again; 
For I want you to box your compass right 
    And get my story plain.) 

“ 'You must take my drum', he says, 
    'To the old sea-wall at home; 
And if ever you strike that drum, ' he says, 
    'Why, strike me blind, I'll come! 

''If England needs me, dead 
    Or living, I'll rise that day! 
I'll rise from the darkness under the sea 
    Ten thousand miles away.' 

“That's what he said; and he died; 
    An' his pirates, listenin' roun' 
With their crimson doublets and jewelled swords 
    That flashed as the sun went down. 

“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 meaning 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 today; 
'It isn't the ships and it isn't the guns 
    'Ull sweep Trafalgar's Bay.' 

“ 'D'you guess who Nelson was? 
    You may laugh, but it's true as true! 
There was more in that pore little chawed-up chap 
    Than ever his best friend knew. 

“The foe was creepin' close, 
    In the dark, to our white-cliffed isle; 
They were ready to leap at England's throat, 
    When—O, you may smile, you may smile; 

“But—ask of the Devonshire men; 
    For they heard in the dead of night 
The roll of a drum, and they saw him pass 
    On a ship all shining white. 

“He stretched out his dead cold face 
    And he sailed in the grand old way! 
The fishes had taken an eye and an arm, 
    But he swept Trafalgar's Bay. 

“Nelson-was Francis Drake! 
    O, what matters the uniform, 
Or the patch on your eye or your pinned-up sleeve, 
    If your soul's like a North Sea storm?”