  A cheer and salute for the Admiral, and here’s to the Captain bold, And never forget the Commodore’s debt, when the deeds of might are told! They stand to the deck through the battle’s wreck, when the great shells roar and screech— And never they fear; when the foe is near, to practice what they preach: But, off with your hat, and three times three, for the war-ship’s true-blue sons, The men who batter the foe—my Boys—the men behind the guns. Oh, light and merry of heart are they, when they swing into port, once more, When, with more than enough of the “green-backed stuff,” they start for their leave-o’-shore; And you’d think, perhaps, that these blue-bloused chaps who loll along the street, Are a tender bit, with salt on it, for some fierce chap to eat— Some warrior bold, with straps of gold, who dazzles and fairly stuns The modest worth of the sailor boys,—the lads who serve the guns. But, say not a word, till the shot is heard, that tells of the peace-blood’s ebb, Till the long, low roar grows more and more, from the ships of the “Yank” and “Reb.” Till over the deep the tempests sweep, of fire and bursting shell, And the very air is a mad Despair, in the throes of a living Hell: Then, down, deep down, in the mighty ship, unseen by the mid-day suns, You’ll find the chaps who are giving the raps—the men behind the guns. |
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