THE RED FLAG.

Where the quivering lightning flings

His arrows from out the clouds,

And the howling tempest sings

And whistles among the shrouds,

‘ Tis pleasant,‘ tis pleasant to ride

Along the foaming brine —

Wilt be the Rover's bride?

Wilt follow him, lady mine?

Hurrah!

For the bonny, bonny brine.

Amidst the storm and rack,

You shall see our galley pass,

As a serpent, lithe and black,

Glides through the waving grass.

As the vulture swift and dark,

Down on the ring-dove flies,

You shall see the Rovers bark

Swoop down upon his prize.

Hurrah!

For the bonny, bonny prize.

Over her sides we dash,

We gallop across her deck —

Ha! there's a ghastly gash

On the merchant-captain's neck —

Well shot, well shot, old Ned!

Well struck, well struck, black James!

Our arms are red, and our foes are dead,

And we leave a ship in flames!

Hurrah!

For the bonny, bonny flames!