Just off the coast of an isle that lies

Where silver'd, feathery palm-trees rise

As if their branches would kiss the skies

So blue, so far away;

When woke each vale the Sabbath bell,

On seas that gently rose and fell,

Our nation's warships lay.

As dreamily, lazily basking, they

In quiet tropical sunshine lay,

In sight of a placid, sleeping bay,

Where anchored the Spaniard's ships,

"A big boat's coming from the bay!

The Spaniard's squadron comes this way!"

Came loud from a lookout's lips.

As one by one came the fleet of Spain

Across the bay, toward the main,

With hope in each bosom they once again

Launched forth on open sea.

"Each man to his gun!" the commodore cried,

And the warships plowed through the cloven tide,

"Full speed ahead! Open fire!"

The commodore's voice rose high'r and high'r,

'Midst smoke and flames to the enemy nigh'r,

The gallant fleet plunged on.

The cannons poured forth fire and thunder,

The great shells cleft the waves asunder,

As gun replied to gun.

Right through the hot hell-fire and shell,

Through mist and smoke and shot that fell

O'er ship and boiling sea, pell-mell,

Charged Freedom's heroes true.

For o'er the battle's smoke and fury

Waved high the synonym of glory,—

The old "Red, White and Blue."

Great crashing volleys, long and loud,

Swept from the decks the Spaniards proud,

Then wrapped their boats in a smoky shroud,

And left them beached and burning.

Their decks in human blood were laved,

O'er which the yellow banner waved

That eve the sunset's crimson ray

Touched gently, softly, tenderly

The waves that moaned where the lost fleet lay,—

The pride of Spain erstwhile,—

And crowned the man who climbed the height

To plant "Old Glory's" spangles bright

On sun-kissed Cuba's Isle.