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COPENHAGEN
Oh, death—it was a sight
Filled our eyes ! But we rescued many a crew From the waves of scarlet hue Ere the Cross of England flew
O'er her prize. |
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Why cease not here the strife,
O ye brave ? Why bleeds old England's band By the fire of Danish land, That smites the very hand
Stretched to save ? |
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But the Britons sent to warn
Denmark's town: ' Proud foes, let vengeance sleep ! If another chain-shot sweep— All your navy in the deep
Shall go down. |
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Then, peace instead of death
Let us bring ! If you'll yield your conquered fleet, With the crews, at England's feet, And make submission meet
To our King.' |
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The Dane returned, a truce
Glad to bring: He would yield his conquered fleet, With the crews, at England's feet, And make submission meet
To our King. |
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Then Death withdrew his pall
From the day; And the sun looked smiling bright On a wide and woful sight Where the fires of funeral light
Died away. |
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