That slumbers on the tide,
There is no sound from stem to stern,
For peace has plucked her pride.
The masts are down, the cannon mute,
She shews nor sheet nor sail;
Nor starts forth with the seaward breeze,
Nor answers shout nor hail.
Her merry men with all their mirth,
Have sought some other shore;
And she with all her glory on,
Shall rule the sea no more.

So landsmen speak.--Lo! her top-masts
Are quivering in the sky
Her sails are spread, her anchor's raised,
There sweeps she gallant by.
A thousand warriors fill her decks;
Within her painted side
The thunder sleeps--man's might has nought
Can match or mar her pride.
In victor glory goes she forth,
Her stainless flag flies free,
Kings of the earth come and behold
How Britain reigns on sea!

When on your necks the armed foot
Of fierce Napoleon trod;
And all was his save the wide sea,
Where we triumphant rode:
He launched his terror and his strength,