Poems, on sacred and other subjects and songs, humorous and sentimental: By the late William Watt. Third edition of the songs only--with additional songs |
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BARNY O'BRYNE. |
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 | Poems, on sacred and other subjects |  |
BARNY O'BRYNE.
Grave poets have sung of the glory of battle
In such glowing strains that our fancies they move,
So I long'd for the field where the loud cannon rattle,
Where war was pourtray'd as on object of love:
But, whether bards deal most in truth or in fiction,
Let each form his judgment—I'll tell you what's mine;
Then, pray ye, despise not the rude homely diction
Of hapless, but truth-telling Barny O'Bryne.
In such glowing strains that our fancies they move,
So I long'd for the field where the loud cannon rattle,
Where war was pourtray'd as on object of love:
But, whether bards deal most in truth or in fiction,
Let each form his judgment—I'll tell you what's mine;
Then, pray ye, despise not the rude homely diction
Of hapless, but truth-telling Barny O'Bryne.
Quite tired cutting turf, with my ould uncle Barny,
I set off one morn from the plains of Kildare,
When Sergeant Kidnap, with his quizzical blarney,
Soon tipp'd me the shilling at Donnybrook fair:
My friends for me search'd, but I soon off was march'd;
I was drill'd and accoutred to rank in the line;
And none less fear'd dangers, in the Connaught Rangers,
Than rallying light-hearted Barny O'Bryne.
I set off one morn from the plains of Kildare,
When Sergeant Kidnap, with his quizzical blarney,
Soon tipp'd me the shilling at Donnybrook fair:
My friends for me search'd, but I soon off was march'd;
I was drill'd and accoutred to rank in the line;
And none less fear'd dangers, in the Connaught Rangers,
Than rallying light-hearted Barny O'Bryne.
290
But quickly my valour was put to the trial,
For Bonny from Elba had made his escape;
Straight over to Brussels we'd orders to fly all—
I thought myself then in a terrible scrape.
At our embarkation, to leave my sweet nation,
The crowds on the beach were all shouting Huzza!
But, in midst of their cheering, I sigh'd out sweet Erin—
Sweet Erin mavourneen, Och, slan laught go brah!
For Bonny from Elba had made his escape;
Straight over to Brussels we'd orders to fly all—
I thought myself then in a terrible scrape.
At our embarkation, to leave my sweet nation,
The crowds on the beach were all shouting Huzza!
But, in midst of their cheering, I sigh'd out sweet Erin—
Sweet Erin mavourneen, Och, slan laught go brah!
The ship rowl'd and tumbled, and I growl'd and grumbled,
Was sea-sick, at death's door, the whole passage through,
And got no recreation for such botheration,
But faced the French lines out beyond Waterloo.
On the eighteenth of June, in the morning right soon,
Bugles, trumpets, and drums sounded—Form into line!
The French were advancing, their cavalry prancing—
Then fear seized the heart of poor Barny O'Bryne.
Was sea-sick, at death's door, the whole passage through,
And got no recreation for such botheration,
But faced the French lines out beyond Waterloo.
On the eighteenth of June, in the morning right soon,
Bugles, trumpets, and drums sounded—Form into line!
The French were advancing, their cavalry prancing—
Then fear seized the heart of poor Barny O'Bryne.
The cannon were pealing, the musketry reeling,
The clangour of steel rang both near and afar;
There was groaning and cheering, and cursing and swearing,
And crying and dying, for the glory of war.
I was hurried along, in the midst of the throng,
Through blood, fire, and smoke, oftentimes out of line,
Till I met my sad lot by a canister shot,
That lopp'd off both the limbs of poor Barny O'Bryne.
The clangour of steel rang both near and afar;
There was groaning and cheering, and cursing and swearing,
And crying and dying, for the glory of war.
I was hurried along, in the midst of the throng,
Through blood, fire, and smoke, oftentimes out of line,
Till I met my sad lot by a canister shot,
That lopp'd off both the limbs of poor Barny O'Bryne.
No more can I tell ye what after befell me,
Until from the doctors I rallied again,
On my new wooden legs, like two bass-fiddle pegs,
To totter through life in great sorrow and pain:
Although I must mention, I've got a good pension,
To keep me for aye, ne'er of want to repine;
Then let each Hibernian by me take good warning,
Nor tread the hard footsteps of Barney O'Bryne.
Until from the doctors I rallied again,
On my new wooden legs, like two bass-fiddle pegs,
To totter through life in great sorrow and pain:
Although I must mention, I've got a good pension,
To keep me for aye, ne'er of want to repine;
Then let each Hibernian by me take good warning,
Nor tread the hard footsteps of Barney O'Bryne.
| Poems, on sacred and other subjects | |