Hail! Massachusetts' cod-fish Mars!
Immortal Picayune!
Deeds as illustrious as yours,
I'm sure, deserve a tune.
And I have seized my one-string lyre
To chant those deeds in rhyme,
That boys may stare, and men admire,
Throughout all future time.

Not where the cannons' deaf'ning roar
Like an earthquake shake the ground;
Not where life's sanguine currents pour
Through many a gaping wound-
The laurels grew which you have won.
The blood, and fire, and smut,
You glad resigned to Neptune's son-
The famous Faragut.

Snug in your quarters, mighty man!
The bloody work all done,
You sent abroad the dread firman
That all your laurels won.
You've proved by deed, what sapient men
Have oft declared by word;
You've proved, O Picayune, your pen
Is mightier than your sword.

Far nobler game than men in arms
Attracts your vengeful ire;
Defencesless woman's sneer alarms
And set your soul on fire.
Let Jove his sceptre yield to you,
When the mighty deed is sung;
You've done what he could never do-
You've hampered woman's tongue!

Go home, O Picayune the great!
Go home and play the whale;
Through all the virtuous Codfish State,
Rehearse the wondrous tale.
And they whose sires in olden time
Burnt women at the stake,
To recompense the deed sublime,
Of you a god will make!