Sir Francis began to move his arms about
and flap them as if they were wings, and then crowed like a cock. The
devils, when they heard the white bird crowing, looked up, and, thinking
the morning must be close at hand, immediately disappeared to the
regions below. We could not learn if or how often these performances
were repeated, but it seemed a very unlikely thing for Sir Francis Drake
to do, and the story sounded as if it belonged to a far remoter period
than that of the Spanish Armada.
[Illustration: DRAKE'S STATUE, TAVISTOCK.]
Drake was idolised in Plymouth and the surrounding country, where his
name was held in everlasting remembrance, and his warlike spirit
pervaded the British navy. At a much later period than that of our visit
even his drum was not forgotten. Whether it was one of those that were
preserved in the old abbey or not we did not know, but it is the subject
of a stirring poem by Sir Henry Newbolt.
DRAKE'S DRUM
Drake he's in his hammock, an' a thousand mile away,
(Capten, art tha' sleepin' there below?),
Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
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