w
them back to their calling and away from the restraints of civilization.
The capture of a pirate meant death, and, as no practicable defence was
available, the prisoners usually entrenched themselves behind the plea
that they were kidnapped or shanghaied and were compelled to enter into
piracy for the preservation of their lives. But piracy, with its
harrowing gruesomeness, its boldness and daring, its romance and
adventure, its plunder and murder, its conflicts and reprisals, is a
spectre of the past, and now is chiefly confined to the rivers and
harbors of the Far East and Northern Africa. It has lost the glamor and
enchanting, romantic atmosphere which pervaded the career of Captain
Kidd and made him the worshipped hero of every school-boy, or which
inspired the pen of a Scott, of an Edgar Allan Poe or Frank R. Stockton,
or put the charm to the tales of W. Clark Russell, for pirates and
piracy are now dead, and live ingloriously only in the pages of
chronicling history.

PIRATES' SONG.

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 sharpened, the scimiter bared.
Set the canisters ready, and then bring to me,
For the last of my duties, the powder-room key.
It shall never be lowered, 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-vanished years;
I only shed blood where another shed tears.
I come as the lightning comes, red from above,
O'er the race that I loathe, to the battle I love.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Pirates and Piracy, by Oscar Herrmann

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