SONG OF SARSFIELD'S TROOPER.
[_]
Air: “Ye Natives of this Nation.”
I
The night fell dark on Limerick and all the land was still,
As for the foe in ambush we lay beside the hill;
Long impatiently we waited to rush upon our prey,
With noble Sarsfield at our head before the break of day.
From Dublin came the foeman, with deadly warlike store—
Huge guns with tons of powder and thund'ring balls galore
But little was he dreaming that there to work his bale,
We'd come with our commander bold from dark Slieve Felim's Vale.
II
At the lonely hour of midnight each man leaped on his steed,
Down moor and vale to Cullen we dashed with lightning speed;
Then eagerly we galloped to Ballyneety's wall,
Where lay our foe's encampment with guns and stores and all.
“Give the word!”—“The word is Sarsfield, and Sarsfield is the man:
And here I am!” our general cried, as down on them we ran;
Then God He cleared the firmament, the moon and stars gave light,
And for the battle of the Boyne we had revenge that night.
III
When the convoy all were scattered we took their mighty store,
Pontoons and carts and powder casks and cannons by the score;
And hastily with eager hands we piled them up on high,
Laid down the fuse—applied the match—and blew them to the sky!
How pleasant laughed our general as fast we rode away;
And many a health we drank to him in Limerick next day:
Here's another health to Sarsfield, who in that midnight hour,
Destroyed the foe's artillery by Ballyneety's tower.
