A Fact. Vide of 27th December, Page 627. ’Twas a dull November day Off Bayonne, where we lay, And the wind had died away About noon. A French barque came drifting near, And when the crew could hear, We hailed them with a cheer, Answered soon. Whilst we were still agaze, To our horror and amaze, Up burst an awful blaze Through her deck, Swift followed by a roar That re-echoed from the shore, And the ship from aft to fore Was a wreck ! Through the smoke the red flame gleamed, And the wretched women screamed As the liquid fire streamed O’er the sea ; But our brave old captain spoke : “ Now, my lads and hearts of oak, We must go and save these folk ; Who’s with me ?” Then the sailors, at the sight Of that dreadful flaming light, Shrunk back—as well they might— In dismay ; But the blood within me boiled To see that these recoiled, And our country’s honour soiled, On that day.

Portrait of a man in profile with his head tilted slightly to the left. He has dark hair and a beard. 1/2 page.

I’d no call to be a sailor : I was carpenter and nailer, And they called me the ship’s tailor Oft in joke ; But I jumped into the boat When the captain was afloat, And our oars the water smote Stroke for stroke. How the fearful fire flashed As through it all we dashed, And the flame and water splashed From the bow ; But we rescued not a few Of that wild despairing crew, Although many more we knew Sank below. To our ship we back returned, With our hands and faces burned, But I felt that I had earned My good name ; And the deed was much applauded— Far and widely ’twas recorded, And with medals well rewarded, And much fame. But in helping thus to save These poor folks from fire and wave ’Twas my livelihood I gave And my pow’r,— For my hands were burnt too sore For rough labour evermore On ship-board or a-shore From that hour. I but ask to win my bread By light work of hand and head, To ward off disgrace and dread From my life ; And to keep a roof above The two dear ones that I love, My trembling little dove, And my wife. They can’t live on fame and praise : Will no man a finger raise To ward off the evil days, And to save These poor things from want and wail, From grim hunger, gaunt and pale, From the workhouse—or the gaol— Or the grave ? Wm. A. Gibbs .