Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE BALLAD OF JOHN PAUL JONES, by ARTHUR GUITERMAN


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE BALLAD OF JOHN PAUL JONES, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: He hath masted the flag of the crimson bars
Last Line: By the sweep of the moonlit steel!
Subject(s): Great Britain - Commonwealth & Colonies; Jones, John Paul (1747-1792); New York City - Revolutionary Period; British Empire; England - Empire


HE hath masted the flag of the crimson bars
To dance in a gladdened sky.
He hath claimed a salute for the Thirteen Stars,
And the cannon of France reply.

He hath harried the barks of the Narrow Seas,
He hath trodden the Scottish ling,
He hath flaunted his rebel blazonries
In the face of the stubborn king.

From the Frith of Forth through the startled North
The panic rumor runs,
And the coastguards south into Humber Mouth
Know the blare of the Yankee guns.

He had cruised that coast for a week, I wis,
And mickle the woe and loss,
When he was aware of the Serapis
That floated St. George's Cross.

And her sailors laughed: "Ho! merchant craft,
What cargo have ye got?"
"Have back your jape! We carry grape
And round and double shot!"

Then the thundering broadsides flashed and roared
And the musketry sped its rain;
But the second round that the Richard poured
Her great guns burst amain.

There was slaughter and wreck to her quarterdeck,
And the foemen knew her plight;
"Have you struck?" they sang. His answer rang:
"I have not begun to fight!"

He veered around till his counter ground
On the bows of the British craft;
He grappled her fast to his mizzenmast,
He grappled her fore and aft.

Their yards were locked as the horns of stags
That war on the trampled steep.
They strove in night as the dragons fight
In the darks of the churning deep.

And gun kissed gun with the kiss of hate
And the ban of the blazing lip;
And the gunners leant till the rammers went
Through the ports of the hostile ship.

And shot rent through and splinters flew;
It was fire and flood and wrack,
Red flame ashine on hissing brine
And red blood curdling black.

But ever the Richard's topmen swept
The decks of the shrinking foe;
They won their way with the musket-play
While the Briton raged below.

The sailors clung to the dizzy shrouds
And spars that bent and swayed;
Through the open keeps to the powder-heaps
They hurled the loud grenade.

A roar went up from the Serapis,
A roar and a cry of bale,
The smoke-cloud rolled from her shattered hold
And she leaped like a wounded whale.

A shout went up from the Richard's crew
As they swarmed o'er the side to strike,
And the moonlight played on the cutlass blade
And the flame on the boarding-pike.

A sullen hail from her quarter-deck,
A cheer from the Yankee tars;
St. George's Cross must own its loss,
To the steel of the Thirteen Stars.

. . . . .

He hath taken his prize to the Texel Roads
Where none should work him wrong,
But the British wrath is about his path,
And the British arm is strong.

And the Land of the Fen is scant of men;
Though her people speak him fair,
He must bend his mast ere a week be past,
For he may not harbor there.

"We know not your stripes and your dancing stars,
So choose ye, stout John Paul:
Will ye leave your prize where moored she lies,
Or away 'neath the flag of Gaul?"

"'Tis by evil chance that I leave to France
What we bought with the blood so red,
But away we'll slip in a weaker ship
With the free stars tossed o'erhead."

It was black as the maw of a witch's cat
And the wind was a shrieking gale.
'Twas a murk, murk night, and the waves threshed white
'Neath the strokes of the norther's flail.

"Oh, it's reef your sail to the sweeping gale
And the threat of the wintry skies,
For we're up and away from the churlish bay
'Neath the bonniest flag that flies!"

There are twoscore ships of the Channel Fleet
All alert for the rover dread;
And the king hath told a wealth in gold
As the price of the "pirate's" head.

But the fleet may rest from a bootless quest
And the king tell his guineas o'er;
He is running free on the open sea
And home to the western shore.

. . . . .

Though he struck for the right and in open fight
And he kept his honor clear,
They affront his fame with their lying blame
And the taunt of "the Buccaneer"!

So we'll drink, "Paul Jones!" and the world may hark
While the clashing beakers peal!
For he took his prize in a sinking bark
By the sweep of the moonlit steel!





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