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��OFF HELIGOLAND
Ghostly ships in a ghostly sea,
(Here's to Drake in the Spanish main !) Hark to the turbines, running free.
Oil-cups full and the orders plain. Plunging into the misty night,
Surging into the rolling brine. Never a word, and never a light,
Look ! a gleam on the starboard bow,
(Here's to the Fighting Temeraire !) Quartermaster be ready now.
Two points over, and keep her there. Ghostly ships — let the foemen grieve.
Yen's the Admiral tight and trim, And one more — with an empty sleeve —
Standing a little aft of him !
Slender, young in a coat of blue, (Here's to the Agamemnon's pride !)
Out of the mists that long he knew. Out of the Victory, where he died.
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