Ballads of valor and victory being stories in song from the annals of America / by Clinton Scollard and Wallace Rice [electronic text]

The Armstrong at Fayal

(September 26, 1814)

Oh, the sun sets red, the moon shines white, And blue is Fayal's clear sky; The sun and moon and sky are bright, And the sea, and stars on high; But the name of REID and the fame of REID And the flag of his ship and crew Are brighter far than sea or star Or the heavens' red, white, and blue: So lilt your voices once again For the land we love so dear, For the fighting Captain and the men Of the Yankee Privateer!

The moonbeams, like fine silver, shine Upon the blue Azores, As twilight pours her purple wine Upon those storied shores; The General Armstrong's flag of stars In the harbor of Fayal Flies forth, remote from thought of wars, Until the sunset call.

No glistening guns in serried lines The slender schooner boasts, A pivot and eight hearty nines Shall meet her foeman's hosts;

Her sides are oak, her masts are tall, Her captain's one to trust, Her ninety men are freemen all, Her quarrel wholly just.

On far Fayal the moon is fair To-night as it was when Glad in the gay September air, REID laughed beside his men; On far Fayal the sun to-day Was lord of all the sky As when the General Armstrong lay, Our banner flung on high; But now there rests a holier light Than theirs on land and sea; The splendor of our sailors might, And glorious bravery.

A moment, and the flag will sink As sinks the sun to rest Beyond the billows' western brink Where towers the Eagle's nest, When round the azure harbor-head Where sparkling ocean brims, Her British ensign streaming red, The brig Carnation swims.

Ere with the sun her sails are set The Rota frigate glides And the great ship Plantagenet To stations at her sides:

They carry sixscore guns and ten; They serve the British crown, They muster o'er a thousand men — To win were small renown.

'T was by Fayal, where Portugal Still flaunts her Blue-and-White; What cares their FLOYD for Portugal Or what cares he for fight? He starts his signals down the line— Our flag is flying free—His weapons in the moonbeams shine, His boats drop on the sea. Straight to the Armstrong swift they come. Speak or I fire! shouts REID — Their rattling rowlocks louder hum To mark their heightened speed.

Fierce o'er their moonlit path there stream Bright glares of crimson flame; Our muskets but an instant gleam, Yet leave them wounded, lame. They try a feeble, brief reply Ere back their course is sped. Before our marksmanship they fly, Their living with their dead.

FLOYD swears upon his faith and all The Armstrong shall be his; He scorns rebuke from Portugal, But not such enemies;

So guns are charged with canister And picked men go to fight Brave hearts and doomed full many were In the Azores that night.

From nine until the nick of twelve Their boats are seen to throng Where rocky islets slant and shelve Safe from our bullets' song; Then out they dash, their small arms flash, While blare their carronades, Their boarding-pikes and axes clash, Their guns and cutlass blades. Our Long Tom speaks, our shrapnel shrieks; But ere we load again, On every side the battle reeks Of thrice a hundred men.

Our rail is low, and there the foe Cling as they shoot and hack. We stab them as they climb a-row, Slaying, nor turning back. They dash up now upon our bow, And there our hearties haste; Now at our stem their muskets burn, And now along our waist.

Our fo'c'sle weeps when WILLIAMS dies, When WORTH falls in his blood, But bleeding through the battle-cries Our gallant JOHNSON stood;

The British muskets snapt and spat Till REID came in his wrath, His brow so pale with purpose that It glistened down his path.

Forth from the quarterdeck he springs, He and his men with cheers; On British skulls his cutlass rings, His pistols in their ears; His men beside him hold him good Till spent the foeman's breath; Where at our sides a Briton stood, A Briton sank in death; Though weak our men with blood and sweat, Our sides a riddled wreck, Yet ne'er a British foot is set Upon the Armstrong's deck.

Three hundred men their Admiral sent Our schooner's ways to mend: A hundred British sailors went Down to a warrior's end. Two of our lads in death are red, But safe the flag above: God grant that never worse be sped The fray for all we love!

The General Armstrong lies beneath The waves in far Fayal, But still his countrymen shall wreathe REID'S name with laurels tall;

The sun and moon are fair to see Above the blue Azores, But fairer far REID'S victory Beside their storied shores.

Oh, the sun sets red, the moon shines white, And blue is Fayal's clear sky; The sun and moon and sky are bright, And the sea, and stars on high; But the name of REID and the fame of REID And the flag of his ship and crew Are brighter far than sea or star Or the heavens' red, white, and blue: So lift your voices once again For the land we love so dear, For the fighting Captain and the men Of the Yankee Privateer!