University of Virginia Library

Ay, I was once a soldier, as you've heard,
A cornet in the Irish Yeomanry.
To say what that meant fifty years ago
Would seem, thank God! to young fellows like you,
Like telling tales about some foreign land
In the dark ages. Yes, my memory
Has its black chamber, where, whene'er I look,
There flicker out, shining with ghastly fire,
Some ugly pictures painted on the wall—
Bad sights!

Now here's a sample: I was once
Riding at night along a country road,
Patrolling with my troop—one August night.
The moon was full, and surely bright and fair
As when she rose on Eden's innocence
The night before the Fall. What brought us there,
Out of our beds? Well, in the peasants' phrase,
“The Boys was out.” The Whiteboy scare, in fact,
Was in full cry, and Ireland in the grip,
Under the Whiteboy Acts, of martial law:
Nothing new, mind; the district was proclaimed,
And we patrolled it, to repress the crime
Of being out of doors between the hours
Of sunset and sunrise.

Well, there I sat,
Loose in my saddle, in a kind of dream,
Thinking, I fancy, of the County Ball,
A pretty face—I was a youngster then—
Had made for me a chapter of romance,
To be re-read by that romantic moon.
Oh! but 'twas wonderful, that moonlight, mixed
With woodbine scents, and gusts of meadowsweet.
An Irish boy's first love, a cornet's pride
In his new soldiership and uniform!
Why, 'twas sheer ecstasy—I feel it still,
As I remember how, athwart my mood,
The martial noise of our accoutrements,
Clanking and jingling to the chargers' tramp,
Chimed in a sort of music.

The road turned,
And a stream crossed it. On the further side
There was a man, a scared look in his face,
White in that great moonlight. And there he stood,
And never ran—the creature never ran,
But quavered out some question: 'tis my guess
He said: “Is that the sogers?” Then I saw,
Like a bad dream, the captain of our troop,
(Whom I'll here name “Lord Blank”) ride at him straight,
And cut him down. You, maybe, never saw
A man cut down? Nor I, till that bad hour.
Well, 'twas an ugly sight—a brutal sight.
The strangest thing was that the man seemed dazed,
Made no attempt to run, or dodge the sword,
Shrank rather from the wind of the horse, I thought,
His hands held out in a groping sort of way;
But never raised, I saw, to guard his head,
Till the blow sent him reeling, with a shriek:
“O Lord have mercy!” Then he plunged, face down,
Clutching and wallowing in a pool of blood.
He spoke no more—just moaned. 'Twas horrible,
And all the more for something half grotesque;
You'd never think a man's last agony
Could look so like a joker's antics, played
To raise a laugh. Yet no one laughed, I think.
We had pushed across the stream. I saw them lift
His head, with long grey hair dabbled with blood.
The sword had caught him under the right ear,
And through the gash his poor, scared, struggling heart
Simply pumped out his life. 'Twas over soon.
They laid him down, stone dead, with staring eyes;
And then I saw it all—the man was blind.
Then someone said: “Lord save us! Sure it's Tom—
It's ould blind Tom, the fiddler! Sure enough,
He lives just here in the boreen beyant.”
Another said: “He's due to play to-day
In Ballintogher Fair. He must ha' thought
'Twas mornin', an' come here to clane himself,
Here in the sthrame. Poor Tom! 'Twas just your luck,
Misfort'nate craythur that ye always wor!
Well, you'll chune up no more; God rest your sowl!”
We found his stick, indeed, beside the stream.
Then we rode on and left him lying there
Upon a grassy tussock by the road.
An ugly business that. I never knew
How My Lord felt about that sad mistake:
Such things will happen under martial law,
And ill-judged deeds, done through excess of zeal,
The King's Commission covers in such times.
We heard no more of it. But all that night
I felt myself next door to a murderer,
And rode with a sick chill about my heart.
No more pride in my uniform; No more
Delight under that ghastly, glaring moon
That showed me Tom's dead face.

Perhaps you'll think
This made me sick of soldiering? Well, not quite.
The young mistrust their instinct, sir, when first
Thrust forth new fledged into the great rough world.
I was shocked, surely; but was half ashamed
To be so shocked.

Then I saw other things
My conscience quite convinced me went beyond
The necessary horrors of this life. For me I felt
From that time forth the uniform I wore
Smother my soul in shame. I changed it soon
For this poor cassock, which, though not so smart,
I find more comfortable every way.