The Minute-Gun

R. S. Sharpe (1759–1835)

WHEN in the storm on Albion’s coast,

The night-watch guards his weary post,

From thoughts of danger free,

He marks some vessel’s dusky form,

And hears, amid the howling storm,

The minute-gun at sea.

Swift on the shore a hardy few

The life-boat man with a gallant crew

And dare the dangerous wave;

Through the wild surf they cleave their way,

Lost in the foam, nor know dismay,

For they go the crew to save.

But O, what rapture fills each breast

Of the hopeless crew of the ship distressed!

Then, landed safe, what joy to tell

Of all the dangers that befell!

Then is heard no more,

By the watch on shore,

The minute-gun at sea.