Thomas Davis, Selections from his Prose and Poetry Part 37

II.

Yet through Ustiano, and out on the plain, Horse, foot, and dragoons, are defiling amain.

"That flash!" said Prince Eugene: "Count Merci, push on"-- Like a rock from a precipice Merci is gone.

Proud mutters the Prince: "That is Ca.s.sioli's sign: Ere the dawn of the morning Cremona'll be mine; For Merci will open the gate of the Po, But scant is the mercy Prince Vaudemont will shew!"

III.

Through gate, street, and square, with his keen cavaliers-- A flood through a gulley--Count Merci careers-- They ride without getting or giving a blow, Nor halt till they gaze on the gate of the Po.

"Surrender the gate!"--but a volley replied, For a handful of Irish are posted inside.

By my faith, Charles Vaudemont will come rather late, If he stay till Count Merci shall open that gate!

IV.

But in through St. Margaret's the Austrians pour, And billet and barrack are ruddy with gore; Unarmed and naked, the soldiers are slain-- There's an enemy's gauntlet on Villeroy's rein-- "A thousand pistoles and a regiment of horse-- Release me, MacDonnell!"--they hold on their course.

Count Merci has seized upon cannon and wall, Prince Eugene's headquarters are in the Town-hall!

V.

Here and there, through the city, some readier band, For honour and safety, undauntedly stand.

At the head of the regiments of Dillon and Burke Is Major O'Mahony, fierce as a Turk.

His sabre is flashing--the major is dress'd, But muskets and shirts are the clothes of the rest!

Yet they rush to the ramparts, the clocks have tolled ten, And Count Merci retreats with the half of his men.

VI.

"In on them!" said Friedberg--and Dillon is broke, Like forest-flowers crushed by the fall of the oak; Through the naked battalions the cuira.s.siers go;-- But the man, not the dress, makes the soldier, I trow Upon them with grapple, with bay'net, and ball, Like wolves upon gaze-hounds, the Irishmen fall-- Black Friedberg is slain by O'Mahony's steel, And back from the bullets the cuira.s.siers reel.

VII.

Oh! hear you their shout in your quarters, Eugene?

In vain on Prince Vaudemont for succour you lean!

The bridge has been broken, and, mark! how, pell-mell Come riderless horses, and volley and yell!

He's a veteran soldier--he clenches his hands, He springs on his horse, disengages his bands-- He rallies, he urges, till, hopeless of aid, He is chased through the gates by the IRISH BRIGADE.

VIII.

News, news, in Vienna!--King Leopold's sad.

News, news, in St. James's!--King William is mad.

News, news, in Versailles!--"Let the Irish Brigade Be loyally honoured, and royally paid."

News, news, in old Ireland!--high rises her pride, And high sounds her wail for her children who died, And deep is her prayer: "G.o.d send I may see MacDonnell and Mahony fighting for me!"

THE FLOWER OF FINAE.

I.

Bright red is the sun on the waves of Lough Sheelin, A cool, gentle breeze from the mountain is stealing, While fair round its islets the small ripples play, But fairer than all is the Flower of Finae.

II.

Her hair is like night, and her eyes like grey morning, She trips on the heather as if its touch scorning, Yet her heart and her lips are as mild as May day, Sweet Eily MacMahon, the Flower of Finae.

III.

But who down the hill-side than red deer runs fleeter?

And who on the lake-side is hastening to greet her?

Who but Fergus O'Farrell, the fiery and gay, The darling and pride of the Flower of Finae?

IV.

One kiss and one clasp, and one wild look of gladness; Ah! why do they change on a sudden to sadness?-- He has told his hard fortune, no more he can stay, He must leave his poor Eily to pine at Finae.

V.

For Fergus O'Farrell was true to his sire-land, And the dark hand of tyranny drove him from Ireland; He joins the Brigade, in the wars far away, But he vows he'll come back to the Flower of Finae.

VI.

He fought at Cremona--she hears of his story; He fought at Ca.s.sano--she's proud of his glory.

Yet sadly she sings _Siubhail a ruin_[80] all the day, "Oh! come, come, my darling, come home to Finae."

VII.

Eight long years have pa.s.sed, till she's nigh broken-hearted, Her _reel_, and her _rock_, and her flax she has parted; She sails with the "Wild Geese" to Flanders away, And leaves her sad parents alone in Finae.

VIII.

Lord Clare on the field of Ramillies is charging-- Before him, the Sacsanach squadrons enlarging-- Behind him the Cravats their sections display-- Beside him rides Fergus and shouts for Finae.

IX.

On the slopes of La Judoigne the Frenchmen are flying Lord Clare and his squadrons the foe still defying, Outnumbered, and wounded, retreat in array; And bleeding rides Fergus and thinks of Finae.