Ghostly ships in a ghostly sea,–
Here's to Drake in the Spanish main!–
Hark to the turbines, running free,
Oil-cups full and the orders plain.
Plunging into the misty night,
Surging into the rolling brine,
Never a word, and never a light,–
This for England, that love of mine!

Look! a gleam on the starboard bow,
Here's to the Fighting Temeraire!–
Quartermaster, be ready now,
Two points over, and keep her there.
Ghostly ships–let the foemen grieve.
Yon's the Admiral, tight and trim,
And one more–with an empty sleeve–
Standing a little aft of him!

Slender, young, in a coat of blue,–
Here's to the Agamemnon's pride!–
Out of the mists that long he knew,
Out of the Victory, where he died,
Here, to the battle-front he came.
See, he smiles in his gallant way!
Ghostly ships in a ghostly game,
Roaring guns on a ghostly day!

There in his white silk smalls he stands,–
Here's to Nelson, with three times three!–

Coming out of the misty lands
Far, far over the misty sea.
Now the Foe is a crippled wreck,
Limping out of the deadly fight.
Smiling yond, on the quarterdeck
Stands the Spirit, all silver-bright.