‘Tis strange on such a peaceful day
With white clouds flying o’er,
That foreign boats are in the bay
As prisoners of war.
The Harbour, where they quietly lay;
Smiles brightly as of yore.

Where never angry shot was fired
To alter peaceful plans;
Where British lumpers worked till tired
With Yacob and with Hans,
And ‘shouted’ when their work was done
For other ‘sailormans’.

And while we think of other lands
And what is doing there,
And while we think of what red hands
May wreak in our despair –
How can the Harbour be so blue,
And the sky above so fair?