A narrow bridge connects the town, and whilst their comrades slept,
By thirty-seven of the Gael, as watchful guard was kept—
And many a heart is winging back, away, across the main
To that dear land they loved so well, nut ne'er may see again,
They dream of homes by Shannon's side, where they so often played
Bright careless happy boys, before they donned the white cockade
Of Heart laved scenes that smiling lie, by Leinster's vales and rills,
By Ulster's glens and Connaught's plains, and Munster's lakes and hills;
They dream of friendship and of love,—they dream of bliss and woe,
But dream not by traitor led, the Austrian's now creep,
With baited breath and stealthy step, upon them while they sleep.
The sentry too, is musing, before the northern gate
With measured step and piercing eye, and hero heart elate
She paces thro' the rain and gloom, but on the muttering blast,
Hears not the foe whose serried ranks are gathering thick and fast.
A curse upon the traitor-wretch who to the wily foe
For sordid gold the town betrayed, A sewer that ran below,
The walls, its bed had long been dried, and save to him alone,
It hidden lay, unused, unsuspected and unknown,
Thro' this he led the Austrian's, and now thick thro' the night,
Their column's sudden break upon the startled sentry's sight.
His warning cry rings up into the very vault of heaven,
As rush the legions of Eugene, around the Thirty-Seven;
And 'ere his cry had died away, their Irish bullets tore,
A yawning gap right thro' their ranks—their steel was red with gore
As with one cry—as when in wrath the lion from his lair
Enraged springs—they slash upon the foreman's closing square;
Again and still again they charge withe cheers upon their ranks,
But columns, massing denser still, are closing on their flanks.
Then inch by inch, before the foe, outnumbered back they fell,
Yet high above them, muskets' peal uprose their maddened yell
As fast they fired, reloaded, and then fired and cheered again,
Marking the bloody way they went, with heaps of foemen slain.
Their numbers now are thinning fast, but still they bravely fight,
As wolf-dog 'gainst the howling wolves defends the flock at night.
Their Cry grows weaker as they fall, and all are bleeding fast,
When to their ears a shrilling shout comes ringing on the blast;
And in their shirts rush thro' the night—a tempest on the sea.
Their comrades of the "Old Brigade," led by O'Mahoney
When in the night the fierce typhoon, sweeps white upon a fleet
That turns and flies before its scream, afraid its wrath to meet:
So in their shirts these grenadiers rushed screaming thro' the blast
Upon the panic stricken foe that fled before them fast.
Back, back they drove, before their wrath, a shattered struggling wreck
And vainly strove with hurried fire that hurricane to check;
But fast the foe came pouring in, Eugene in the Town Hall
Commands and Thirty Thousand men, are rushing to his call.
But numbers freed not the brigade, as like avenging fates
In that fierce tempest Irish rush, they drive them to the gates,
There, cheering high above the fight, outnumbered ten to one,
They hand to hand still held their own, still gallantly fought on—
They fought, like tigers for their young, as oft they fought before,
But higher into Glory's skies did "Wild Geese" never soar.
God's blessing upon their name, their race, and on their land!
Where'e'er they strike have heaven guide and strengthen still each hand.
Still hand to hand they fiercely fought, and steel and bullet sped,
Bright deeds for valor, doing till their shirts with blood were red.
But fast they’re falling—faster—as the bullets shower like rain:
Now thro' the gates the Austrian's are surging back again;
Before their massing Columns they retired, but did not yield,
But turned at bay and charged them back until their columns reeled,
Back step by step, across the bridge, with care already ruined,
With serried ranks they face the foe, and drive them to their camps,
Bright deeds of chivalry were done that night by the "Brigade";
But with the Austrian's fought one whose name will never fade,
McDonnell! he was Irish too! We hail his name with joy,
Who charged that night thro' thickest fight, and captured Villeroy.
He scorned the bribe to set him free—yet brighter grow his fame,
A soldier still to honour true and to his Irish name—
The morning broke and in the air, the (illegible text) still waved.
Proud over old Cremona's walls—by Irish valour saved;
But dear they bought that victory—three sons of Innisfail,
And while Je Denneur swells in France for victory, a wail
Went up to heaven from their own land—a death wail from her brave;
Who fell beneath a foreign flag, so far beyond the wave,
And with the wail of agony, a fervent prayer arose,
To Heaven for one such victory at home o'er Ireland's foes.
The Flying Dutchman.
Long, long ago, from Amsterdam, a vessel sailed away,
As fair a ship as ever rode amidst the dashing spray;
Fond loving hearts were on the shore, and scarfs were in the air,
As to her o'er the Zuyder Zee they waft adieu and prayer.
Her gaudy pennant streamed aloft, and as she skimmed the seas
Each taper mast was bending like a rod before the breeze.
Within her there were gallant hearts, tho' filled with sadness no,
For still the lingering parting kiss was fresh on lip and brow.
Her captain was a stalwart man—a lion heart had he:
From childhood's days he sailed upon the rolling Zuyder Zee.
He nothing feared upon the earth, nor scarcely heaven feared
He would have dared and done whatever mortal man had done
