Happy Hull's Victory Day!

Sure, you won't find it printed on your calendar; not many people will stop you on the street and wish you "pleasant dancing"; and I can't imagine that anyone will get a day off work in honor of the occasion. Still, it is Hull's Victory Day nonetheless - so have a happy one!

It has now been 202 years since the day on which the battle between the USS Constitution and the HMS Guerriere was fought; 202 years since Captain Isaac Hull and his crew proved their skill in battle; 202 years since the naval victory that gave heart to the Americans in the War of 1812. But you can read all about that here; no need for me to go over all the same details again, especially since this blog has so little material anyway. Something new must be posted in honor of the day... I have a few selections in the draft folder to choose from, but none of them are anything like completed at present. How about... oh, I know! Today you can have a poem, tomorrow a dance analysis, Thursday a music feature, and Friday another related post yet to be determined - a full week of Hull's Victory-themed posting! (All of you who know me are nodding your heads sarcastically at this point... no, really, I mean it this time!)

I first came across this poem a few years ago while reading The Patriot's Handbook, a compilation of patriotic songs, historic speeches, and notable documents from throughout America's history. At the time, I didn't think much about the poem - I just read it briefly and moved on. Once I actually learned about sea battle that inspired this poem, though, it quickly became a favorite of mine!

First Fruits in 1812 

By Wallace Rice

What is that a-billowing there

Like a thunderhead in air?

Why should such a sight be whitening the seas;

That’s a Yankee man-o’-war,

And three things she’s seeking for:

For a prize, and for a battle, and a breeze.

 

When the war blew o’er the sea

Out went Hull and out went we

In the Constitution, looking for the foe;

But five British ships came down—

And we got to Boston-town

By a mighty narrow margin, you must know!

 

Captain Hull can’t fight their fleet,

But he fairly aches to meet

Quite the prettiest British ship of all there were;

So he stands again to sea

In the hope that on his lee

He’ll catch Dacres and his pretty Guerriere.

 

‘Tis an August afternoon

Not a day too late or soon,

When we raise a ship whose lettered mainsail reads:

All who meet me have a care,

I am England’s Guerriere;

So Hull gaily clears for action as he speeds.

 

Cheery bells had chanted five

On the happiest day alive

When we Yankees dance to quarters at his call;

While the British bang away

With their broadsides’ screech and bray;

But the Constitution never fires a ball.

 

We send up three times to ask

If we sha’n’t begin our task?

Captain Hull sends back each time the answer No;

Till to half a pistol shot

The two frigates he had brought,

Then he whispers, Lay along! And we let go.

 

Twice our broadside lights and lifts,

And the Briton, crippled, drifts

With her mizzen dangling hopeless at her poop;

Laughs a Yankee, She’s a brig!

Says our Captain, “That’s too big;

Try another, so we’ll have her for a sloop!”

 

We huzzah, and fire again,

Lay aboard of her like men,

And, like men, they beat us off, and try in turn;

But we drive bold Dacres back

With our muskets’ snap and crack

All the while our crashing broadsides boom and burn.

 

‘Tis but half an hour, bare,

When that pretty Guerriere

Not a stick calls hers aloft or hers alow,

Save the mizzen’s shattered mast,

Where her “meteor flag” is nailed fast

Till, a fallen star, we quench its ruddy glow.

 

Dacres, injured, o’er our side

Slowly bears his sword of pride,

Holds it out, as Hull stands there in his renown;

No, no! Says th’ American,

Never, from so brave a man:

But I see you’re wounded, let me help you down.

 

All that night we work in vain

Keeping her upon the main,

But we’ve hulled her far too often, and at last

In a blaze of fire there

Dies the pretty Guerriere;

While away we cheerly sail upon the blast.

Oh, the breeze that blows so free!

Oh, the prize beneath the sea!

Oh, the battle! Was there ever better won?

Still the happy Yankee cheers

Are a-ringing in our ears

From old Boston, glorying in what we’ve done.

 

What is that a-billowing there

Like a thunderhead in air?

Why should such a sight be whitening the seas?

That’s Old Ir’nsides, trim and taut,

And she’s found the things she sought:

Found a prize, a bully battle, and a breeze!