Where the quivering lightning flings <br />His arrows from out the clouds, <br />And the howling tempest sings <br />And whistles among the shrouds, <br />'Tis pleasant, 'tis pleasant to ride <br />Along the foaming brine— <br />Wilt be the Rover's bride? <br />Wilt follow him, lady mine? <br />Hurrah! <br />For the bonny, bonny brine. <br /> <br />Amidst the storm and rack, <br />You shall see our galley pass, <br />As a serpent, lithe and black, <br />Glides through the waving grass. <br />As the vulture swift and dark, <br />Down on the ring-dove flies, <br />You shall see the Rovers bark <br />Swoop down upon his prize. <br />Hurrah! <br />For the bonny, bonny prize. <br /> <br />Over her sides we dash, <br />We gallop across her deck— <br />Ha! there's a ghastly gash <br />On the merchant-captain's neck— <br />Well shot, well shot, old Ned! <br />Well struck, well struck, black James! <br />Our arms are red, and our foes are dead, <br />And we leave a ship in flames! <br />Hurrah! <br />For the bonny, bonny flames!<br /><br />William Makepeace Thackeray<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-red-flag/
