Ballads of Irish chivalry :: :: University of Virginia Library

By the flow'ry banks of Brosna the burning sunset fell
In many a beam and golden gleam on hill and mead and dell;
And from thy shores, bright Ennell, to the far-off mountain crest,
Over plain and leafy wild wood there was peace and quiet rest.
Brave Tyrrell sat that summer eve amid the woody hills,
With Captain Owney at his side, by Brosna's shining rills—

Brave Tyrrell of the flying camps and Owney Oge the strong,
And round them lay their followers the forest glade along;
Four hundred men of proof they were, those warriors free and bold;
In many a group they sat around the green skirts of the wold.

II

The sun had set upon their camp, the stars were burning bright,
All save the Chief and Owney Oge were sleeping in their light;
And they sat downward where the stream was singing its deep song,
Planning fierce raid and foray bold that starry twilight long.
“By my good faith,” said Tyrrell, “for days we've wandered wide,
And on no foe, still, high or low, our good swords have we tried;
There's many a keep around us here, and many a traitor town,
And we should have a town or keep ere another sun goes down.”
Answered Owney:—“Or may fortune send young Barnewell's forces here:
A pleasant fight in the cool of night for me in the starlight clear!”

III

Sudden they ceased, and to their feet both warriors instant sprang,
And down the little streamlet's bed their challenge fiercely rang:

They'd heard a sound beside the stream, as if some forest bird,
Awak'ning from his nightly dreams amid the leaves, had stirred.
A password: then a stealthy step like a wolf from out his lair,
And their trusty spy of the falcon eye stood right before them there.
“Young Barnewell, with a thousand men, high boasting at their head,
Will find ye here in these green glades at morning light,” he said;
Then vanished silent as he came beneath the forest shade,
And the clank of sabres followed him on his pathway through the glade.

IV

For his comrades at their leader's call beside the streamlet's bank
Were filing from their ferny beds in many a serried rank;
And now along their ordered lines Fertullagh's accents came:—
“The foeman through our native fields speeds down with sword and flame:
We'll meet him as we ever did; and though we are but few,
We'll meet him in the eastward pass, and give him welcome due!”
They gained that pass when morning leapt above the eastern wave,
And half his men to Owney Oge the hardy chieftain gave:
“Now lie ye here in ambush close while we retreat below,
And when the last of the band have passed we'll spring upon the foe!”

V

There came no sound from those ambushed men as they crouched among the fern,
But the deep breath of the galloglass, or whispering of the kern;
The light breeze rustling through the boughs in the leafy woods all round;
The chirp and song of the busy birds: was heard no other sound.
And now along the misty plain shone out the morning ray
On Barnewell's bright and serried files all burning for the fray;
A thousand valiant men they were from Meath's broad fertile plain,
And when they saw Fertullagh's files they cried, in high disdain—
“Two hundred men to stem our charge! We'll scatter them like chaff!”
Then poured them through that perilous pass with mocking cheer and laugh.

VI

Now Tyrrell flies; but turns when he hears “The Tyrrells' March” ring out:
He answers with the trumpet note and the galloglasses' shout.
The startled wolf leaps from his lair: “Croak, croak,” cry the ravens hoarse;
“We'll soon have food for each hungry brood—the rider and the horse.”

And out like wolves from the forest gloom on a close-packed herd of deer,
Two hundred ran on the foeman's van, two hundred on the rear:
The kern go darting right and left, with their guns and gleaming pikes,—
Woe worth the day for the struggling foe where'er their weapon strikes:
The giant galloglass strides down with vengeance in his eye,
Wild yelling out his charging shout like a thunder-clap on high.

VII

Now in the narrow open pass the battle rolls along;
Now 'mid the bogs and woods each side the fighting warriors throng;
As hounds around a hunted wolf some forest rock beneath,
Whence comes no sound save the mortal rush and the gnash of many teeth,
Their charging shouts die gradual down—no sound rolls outwards save
The volley of the fatal gun, and the crash of axe and glaive.
O, life it is a precious gem, yet many there will throw
The gem away in that mortal fray for vengeance on their foe.
In deadly silence still they fight, till the pass is covered wide
With war-steeds strong, and soldiers slain, and many a gory tide.

VIII

Hurrah! that shout it rolleth out with cadence wild and stern;
'Tis the triumph roar of the galloglass, and the fierce yell of the kern.

The foeman flies before their steel—but not for far he flies—
In the narrow pass, in the bogs and scrubs on eitherside, he dies.
Where'er he speeds death follows him like a shadow in his tracks—
He meets the gleam of the fearful pike and the murderous battle-axe.
Young Barnewell was made prisoner fighting bravely in the van,
And his comrades all fell slain around him—save one single man:
That man they sped, and away he fled, unharmed by galloglass,
That he might tell how his comrades fell that morn at Tyrrell's Pass.

Galloglass, a heavy-armed foot-soldier. Kern, a light-armed foot-soldier. The galloglasses were large-limbed and fierce, and were noted for their fatal dexterity in the use of the battle-axe.