Drake's drum is beating along the coasts of Devon:
“Mariners, O Mariners, who warred so well with Spain,
Lo, the foe is here once more! Leave the ports of Heaven,
Haste across the jasper sea, and drive them home again.”
All the streets of Paradise echo to its rattle —
Golden roads a-tremble to the chime of tramping feet;
Hawkins, Drake and Frobisher are marching forth to battle:
“Peter, open wide the gates. We're out to join the fleet.”
Pinnace, caravel, caracque — many a galleon drifting —
Shadowy sails of old renown upon the shadowy sea;
Ghostly voices through the mists; “Lo, the white cliffs lifting;
Heaven's streets for those who will, but Devon's shores for me.”
Drake's drum is beating along the coasts of Devon,
Calling, as in days of old it called to vanquish Spain;
Drake and Blake and Raleigh, they have left the ports of Heaven,
Homing back across the stars to England's cliffs again.