DAVID GWYNN — HERO OR ‘BOASTING LIAR’?

I  ‘A GALLEY lie’ ye call my tale; but he
      Whose talk is with the deep kens mighty tales.
   The man, I say, who helped to keep you free
      Stands here, a truthful son of truthful Wales.
   Slandered by England as a loose-lipped liar,
      Banished from Ireland, branded rogue and thief,
   Here stands that Gwynn, whose life of torments dire
   Heaven sealed for England, sealed in blood and fire
      Stands asking here Truths one reward, belief!

II  I see—I see ev’n now—those ships of Spain
      Gathered in Lisbon Bay to make the spring,
   I feel the curséd oars, I toil again,
      And trumpets blare, and priests and choir-boys sing;
   And morning strikes with many a golden shaft,
      Through ruddy mist, four galleys rowing out,
   Four galleys built to pierce the English craft,
   Each swivel-gunned for raking fore and aft,
      Snouted like sword-fish, but with iron snout.

III  And one we call The Princess, one The Royal,
Diana one; and last that fell Basana
   Where I am toiling, Gwynn, the true, the loyal
      Thinking of mighty Drake and Gloriana.
   By Finisterre God sends a hurricane;
      Down comes the captain, and quoth he to me—
   His Hell-lit eyes blistered with spray and rain—
   ‘Freedom and gold are thine, and thanks of Spain,
      If thou canst take the galley through this sea.’

                                                                                                     ‘Ay!

      ❧Professor Laughtons introduction to ‘State Papers relating to the defeat of the Spanish
   Armada’ lends a revived interest to David Gwynns ‘galley yarn,’ which the Professor repu-
   diates. It is treated by Motley as an important episode in the great naval struggle between
   England and Spain.

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IV  Ay ! ay !’ quoth I. The fools unlock me straight,
      And soon ’tis I give orders to the Don,
   Laughing within to hear the laugh of Fate:
      Soldiers must go below, quoth I, ‘each one!’
   Death whispers thus: ‘While soldiers sit below
      ‘Twixt slaves, whose hate turns nails and teeth to knives,
   Seize thou the muskets; turn them on the foe;
   But watch with me, before thou strike the blow,
      Till thou canst free the stoutest from their gyves.’

V The four queen-galleys pass Cape Finisterre:
      The Armada, dreaming but of ocean storms,
   Thinks not of British slaves with shoulders bare
      Chained, bloody-whealed, and pale on galley forms.
   Each, as he rows, hath this my whispered plan
      Deep-scriptured in his brain in words of fire:
   ‘Rise every man, and tear to death his man,
   Yea, tear as only galley captives can,
      When “Gods Revenge” sings loud to Oceans lyre.’

VI  Past Ferrol Bay I see each galley stoop,
      Shuddering before the Biscay demons breath—
   Down goes a prow—down goes a gaudy poop:
      ‘The Dons Diana bears the Don to death,
   Quoth I, ‘and, see the Princess plunge and wallow
      Down purple troughs o’er snowy crests of foam:
   See! see! the Royal, how she tries to follow
   By many a glimmering crest and shimmering hollow,
      Where gull and petrel scarcely dare to roam.’

VII  And now Death signs to me mid Oceans din;
      The captain sees the skeleton and pales;
   And when the slaves cry ‘Ho for Drake and Gwynn!’
      ‘Teach them,’ quoth I, ‘the way we swim in Wales!’
   Sweet strokes are they we deal for old loves sake
      When slaves are turned to lords, and lords to slaves.
   When captives hold the whip, let drivers quake!
   Make every Don, athirst for blood of Drake,
      Toast England’s Queen in wine of foaming waves.’

                                                                                                     Far

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VIII  Far off, the Royal’s captain sees the strife,
      Her slaves see too—see Freedom coming on.
   ‘Ye scourge in vain,’ quoth I, ‘scourging for life
      Slaves who shall row no more to save the Don.’
   ‘Captives,’ I cry, ‘your hour is coming swift:
      Through David Gwynn God frees you from your pain;
   Show Heaven and me your lives are worth the gift!’
   Full soon the captured Royal rides adrift:
      ‘Ask Gwynn,’ quoth I,’for four queen-galleys, Spain—

IX  Spain, who shalt tell, with ashen lips of dread,
      The Welshmans tale—shalt tell in future days
   How Gwynn, the galley slave, once fought and bled
      For England, when she moved through perilous ways!’
   And, now, ye Plymouth seamen, heroes sprung
      From loins of men whose spirits haunt the sea,
   Doth England, she who loves the loudest tongue,
   Remember sons of hers whose deeds are sung
      By yon green billows sworn to hold her free?

X To think the great new thought or do the deed
      That gilds with richer light the mother-land,
   Or lend her strength of arm in hour of need,
      When eyes of Doom gleam fierce on every hand,
   Is bliss to him whose bliss is working well—
      Is goal and guerdon, too, though boasters loud
      Make brazen music for the leaden crowd,
   Dazzled and deafened by the babblers spell.

                                                                                                THEODORE WATTS.