It was a British man of war,
With a French fleet racing after,
That struck in her haste on Peaked Hill Bar,
'Mid the billows' rebel laughter.

The hulk was their toy from spring to fall;
Then, setting their shoulders under,
They flung it far up the beach for all
Who were minded to pry and plunder.

Stript and mocked the Somerset lay
On the shore like a huddled giant,
Frowning out on the dancing spray,
Undauntable, grim, defiant.

But the shifting sands by their lord, the wind,
To cover the wreck were bidden,
Till the blackened timbers no eye could find,
Even from memory hidden.

The life of a century slipped away,
As all mortality passes,
While in hushful sleep the Somerset lay
Under the coarse beach-grasses.

Then furious tides drove over the flat
And their wrath on the white banks vented,
Till the old ship rose to be wondered at,
Photographed, chipped, tormented.

She lifted her sullen, indignant head
And watched the wild Atlantic,
Scorning the tourists who flocked and said
Her fate was " so romantic " ;

But never a mast flew the Union Jack,
And that hoary hull, encrusted
With pearly, whispering shells, dived back
Under the sand, disgusted.

Still is she sulking beneath a dune
That dimples when winds are skittish,
Shut away from the sun and moon,
Undauntable, stubborn, British.