The Sinking of the Maine.
Words by John James Welsh.
On the fifteenth day of February, in the year of 'ninety-eight,
'Twas on a Tuesday evening, and the hour was getting late;
When our American battleship, the one we called the Maine,
Was sunk from sight that fatal night, and never rose again.
Right well we know who struck the blow, those crafty ones of Spain,
But I tell you, we'll make them rue, they ever saw the Maine.
Our ship had anchored in the Bay a day or two before.
Was lying peacefully at rest within a mile or more
Of beautiful Havana, that city of renown.
The brightest gem of all the jewels set in the Spanish crown.
To help the Cuban Island to get free from foreign reign
Was the object of the visit or our gallant warship Maine.
The sailors sleeping in their berths ne'er thought of danger near,
Perhaps some of them were dreaming of home and loved ones dear;
When they were 'roused tip by a shock, caused by an enemy,
And instantly they all were plunged into the cold, dark sea;
From which until the judgment day they'll never rise again,
God help the mothers of those sons who perished in the Maine.
The men comprising the ship's crew had come from every land,
And nowhere on the sea that night could be found a braver band;
Some came from Norway's icy shore, and some from warm Japan,
From France and Greece, and Prussia, too, and one Romanian;
They came from Ireland, Scotland, but not a one from Spain
Had perished in Havana Bay from off the warship Maine.
Our nation is in mourning, our people are in tears,
To think we've been the target for Spanish balls and jeers;
If they would come forth in the day and not prowl out at night,
And meet us openly like men, we'd show them how to fight.
We are trying to keep our temper, but fear we can't refrain
From sweeping from the face of earth those wreckers of the Maine.