Princes of courtesy, merciful, proud and strong

Drake, he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come, (Captain, art tha sleepin' there below?) Slung atween the roundshot, list'ning for the drum, And dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.

To set the cause above renown, To love the game above the prize.

The work of the world must still be done, And minds are many though truth be one.

And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat, Or the selfish hope of a season's fame, But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote -- 'Play up! play up! and play the game!'

To pomp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire, The damsel's of humble descent; The cottager, Peace, is well known for her sire, And shepherds have nam'd her Content.

Those who live on vanity must not unreasonably expect to die of mortification.