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372 THE LETTER.
The pride of our eyes,
I swear is a prize, You never will see her again,
Unless thro' surprise,
You are brought where she lies, A prisoner from the false main.
Oh Lord ! what a sight— I was struck with affright,
When the Diomede's shot round us fell, I feared that in spite, They'd have slain us outright,
And sent us directly to h—1.
The Quebec did fire,
Or I'm a curs'd liar, And the Astrea came up apace;
We could not retire,
From the confounded fire, They all were so eager in chase.
The Diomede's shot Was damnation hot, ■ She was several times in a blaze; |
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