'T WAS the very verge of May
When the bold Olympia led
Into Boca Grande gray
Dewey's squadron, dark and dread —
Creeping past Corregidor,
Guardian of Manila's shore.

Do they sleep who wait the fray?
Is the moon so dazzling bright
That our cruisers' battle-gray
Melts into the misty light?
Ah! the rockets flash and soar!
Wakes at last Corregidor!

All too late their screaming shell
Tears the silence with its track.
This is but the gate of Hell;
We 've no leisure to turn back.
Answer, Boston — then once more
Slumber on, Corregidor!

And as, like a slowing tide,
Onward still the vessels creep,
Dewey, watching, falcon-eyed,
Orders: " Let the gunners sleep;
For we meet a foe at four
Fiercer than Corregidor. "

Well they slept, for well they knew
What the morrow taught us all —
He was wise (as well as true)
Thus upon the foe to fall.
Long shall Spain the day deplore
Dewey ran Corregidor.