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I read they aim to strike at Ireland still, As formerly, and as I wrote to you.
So far your thoughtful and sagacious words
Have hit the facts* But 'tis no Irish bay
The villains aim to drop their anchors in ;
My word for it: they make the Wessex shore,
And this vast squadron handled by ViU'neuve
Is meant to cloak the passage of their strength,
Massed in those transports—we being kept elsewhere
By feigning forces.—Good God, Coll ing wood,
I must be gone! Yet two more days remain
Ere I can get away.—I must be gone!
Wherever you may go to, my dear lord, You carry victory with you. Let them launch, Your name will blow them back, as sou'-west gales The gulls that beat against them from the shore,
Good Collingwood, I know you trust in me;
But ships are ships, and do not kindly come
Out of the slow docks of the Admiralty
Like wharfside pigeons when they are whistled for:—
And there's a damned disparity of force,
Which means tough work awhile for you and me!
The Spirit of the Years whispers to NELSON.
And I have warnings, warnings, Collingwood, That my effective hours are shortening here; Strange warnings now and then, as 'twere within me, Which, though I fear them not, I recognize! . . . However, by God's help, I'll live to meet These foreign boasters ; yea, 111 finish them ; And then—well, Gunner Death may finish me!