_La Surveillante_ was like a sieve; the victors had no rest;
They had to dodge the east wind to reach the port of Brest.
And where the waves leapt lower and the riddled ship went slower,
In triumph, yet in funeral guise, came fisher-boats to tow her.
They dealt with us as brethren, they mourned for Farmer dead;
And as the wounded captives passed each Breton bowed the head.
Then spoke the French Lieutenant, "Twas fire that won, not we.
You never struck your flag to us; you'll go to England free."
Twas the sixth day of October, seventeen hundred seventy-nine,
A year when nations ventured against us to combine,
_Quebec_ was burned and Farmer slain, by us remembered not;
But thanks be to the French book wherein they're not forgot.
Now you, if you've to fight the French, my youngster, bear in mind
Those seamen of King Louis so chivalrous and kind;
Think of the Breton gentlemen who took our lads to Brest,
And treat some rescued Breton as a comrade and a guest.
THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR.
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