Original poem
by Letitia Elizabeth Landon

Poem as printed in
The Pirates' Own Book

Printable version

MP3 Sample

Pirates' Own Song

Words by Letitia Elizabeth Landon, 1838,
Music by Horatio D. Hewitt. Boston: Geo. P. Reed, © 1846.
From The Pirates' Own Book © 1924
Adapted by Charlie Ipcar © 1993
Tune: after traditional Blue Mountain Lake

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Hoist our flag to the mast, 'tis dark as the grave,
Or the death which we bear as we sweep o'er the waves;
Have the decks cleared for action, the gun crews prepared,
The boarding-axe sharpened, the cutlasses bared.

Chorus
And it's down, down, sink them all down!

Have the great guns run out then bring unto me,
For the last of me duties the gun powder key;
I'll never lower this black flag we bear;
If the sea be denied us, we'll fly through the air! (Chorus)

To share lies the plunder from our last prey,
'Tis mine to divide; 'tis yours to obey;
I claim not a portion; I ask but for mine –
A toast to our prize – one cup of red wine! (Chorus)

Now some fights for fortune; some fights for fame:
The first I despise; the last's but a name;
I fight for vengeance! I love to see flow,
At the stroke of me saber the blood of me foe! (Chorus)

I strike for the memory of long-vanished years:
Of a fair maiden lost, of a family in tears;
I strike in a flash, like lightning from above,
And chase o'er the waves to the battle I love! (Chorus)

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The Pirate's Song.

Letitia Elizabeth Landon, from The Poetical Works of Miss Landon.
Philadelphia: E. L. Carey and A. Hart, © 1838, pp. 324-324.
Dedicated to Miss Eliza Gaither of Washington, DC

To the mast nail our flag, it is dark as the grave,
Or the death which it bears while it sweeps o'er the wave.
Let our deck clear for action, our guns be prepared;
Be the boarding-axe sharpen'd, the cimetar* bared;
Set the canisters ready, and then bring to me,
For the last of my duties, the powder-room key.
It shall never be lower'd, the black flag we bear;
If the sea be denied us, we sweep through the air.

Unshared have we left our last victory's prey;
It is mine to divide it, and yours to obey:
There are shawls that might suit a sultana's white neck,
And pearls that are fair as the arms they will deck;
There are flasks which, unseal them, the air will disclose
Diametta's fair summers, the home of the rose.
I claim not a portion: I ask but as mine,
'Tis to drink to our victory—one cup of red wine.

Some fight, 'tis for riches; some fight, 'tis for fame:
The first I despise, and the last is a name.
I fight, 'tis for vengeance. I love to see flow,
At the stroke of my sabre, the life of my foe.
I strike for the memory of long vanish'd years;
I only shed blood, where another sheds tears.
I come, as the lightning comes red from above,
O'er the race that I loathe, to the battle I love.

[*sic.]


Thanks to Jim Dixon of Mudcat for tracking down the original version.

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The Pirate's Song

Words by Letitia Elizabeth Landon, music by Horatio D. Hewitt.
Boston: Geo. P. Reed, 17 Tremont Row, 1846.
From The Pirates' Own Book © 1924, p. 465
Dedicated to Miss Eliza Gaither of Washington, DC

To the mast nail our flag, it is dark as the grave,
Or the death which it bears while it sweeps o'er the waves;
Let our deck clear for action, our guns be prepar'd;
Be the boarding-axe sharpen'd, the scimetar bar'd.
See the canisters ready, and then bring to me,
For the last of my duties, the powder-room key.
It shall never be lower'd, the black flag we bear;
If the seas be denied us, we'll sweep thro' the air.

Unshared have we left our last victory's prey;
It is mine to divide it; and yours to obey;
There are shawls that might suit a Sultana's white neck,
And pearls that are fair as the arms they will deck;
There are flasks which, unseal them, the air will disclose
Diametta's fair summer, the home of the rose.
I claim not a portion; I ask but as mine –
'Tis to drink to our victory – one cup of red wine.

Some fight, 'tis for riches – some fight, 'tis for fame:
The first, I despise the last is a name.
I fight tis for vengeance, I love to see flow,
At the stroke of my sabre, the life of my foe.
I strike for the memory of long-vanish'd years:
I only shed blood, when another shed tears.
I come, as the lightning comes, red from above,
O'er the race that I loathe, to the battle I love.

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