From the Land of Dreams :: :: University of Virginia Library

Och wirrasthrue for Ireland, and ten times wirrasthrue
For the gallant deeds, and the black disgrace of the tale I'm tellin' you!
'Twill kindle fire inside your heart, then freeze it to a stone,
To hear the truth of that bad day, and the way we lost Athlone.

II

O where was then bold Colonel Grace, and Sarsfield, where was he,
When Ginkel came from Ballymore with his big artillery?
'Twas fifty battering guns he brought, and mortars half a score,
And our half-dozen six-pounders there to meet him, and no more.

III

They took from us the English town, yet fighting, breast to breast,
We held the drawbridge, one to ten; for we were sorely prest.
But we cheered and charged, and they gave us ground, and when their Colonel fell
A good half furlong from the bridge we drove them back pell-mell.

IV

We held them till to the Irish town our rearguard could retreat
Across the bridge o'er Shannon's arm, shrunk by the Summer's heat.
The fuse we lit, then back we sprang; behind, the drawbridge rose,
And the two arches of the bridge blew up among our foes.

V

We laughed at Ginkel's shot and shell; for St. Ruth came up next day,
And it raised the cockles of our hearts to see his grand array;
But black the hour when Sarsfield chafed under his high command,
For, in his pride and jealousy, he left him no free hand.

VI

Small help we got from that French Chief, when there he just sat down
To guard the fords, and pitched his camp a mile outside the town.
Our guns dismounted, shot and shell thinned our undaunted ranks
And with our firelocks, four hard days, we kept the Shannon's banks.

VII

We made a breastwork on the bridge; but they burnt it on us soon
With their damned grenades. It blazed like thatch in the hot sun of June—
And beams they laid from arch to arch, nailed planks on every beam.
They thought to rush our last defence, and cross the Shannon stream.

VIII

But one we had, thank God!—a bold Dragoon, Custume by name,
Sergeant in Maxwell's troop; and now to that hectorin' Scot he came;
“Give me ten more to go with me, and by my soul,” says he,
“We'll try the job, and, live or die, we'll spoil their carpentry!”

IX

“Hoots!” Maxwell sneers, “wha volunteers?” Out stepped some two score men.
“Fall in then, boys, reserves an' all!” says Custume an' picked his ten.
They gave their souls to God, each man his breastplate buckled on,
In the hope he'd maybe keep his life till a plank or two was gone.

X

I'll see till death, as I see him now, Custume, as brave and cool,
He schemed for every man his place; for 'twas he was no French fool.
Then on the bridge before our eyes a glorious deed was wrought,
In vain with our best blood that day Athlone was dearly bought.

XI

Five plankers ripped the planks away, a sawyer at each beam;
We heard the steady teeth at work, saw axe and crowbar gleam;
But from the startled English lines arose a sudden yell,
From flank to flank the muskets flashed, and sent their hail of hell.

XII

We answered with our small-arms; but 'twas little we could do,
Minute by minute on the bridge they dropped by one and two;
But as each man fell a man as good ran out to take his place,
And the work went on—my God! 'twas hard they strove to win that race!

XIII

At last the planks were gone, one beam was loosened in its bed;
But man by man fell round it in that murtherin' rain of lead.
Custume came there, blood on his face, a crowbar in his hand—
O blessed Saints, keep the life in him to launch it from our land!

XIV

The heel gives—God be praised, it's down! We saw him stagger then:
“Work hearty, Boys, an' we'll keep Athlone!” he shouted to his men.
But his heart blood gushed with those brave words. The Shannon's waters bright
Were his last bed, and in their arms they took him from our sight.

XV

They worked the lustier for that shout, and the beams fell one by one,
But the place was just one slaughter-yard before the last was gone.
They shot the wounded where they crawled, to leave their comrades room,
Or struggling in the water grasped at the flaggers full in bloom.

XVI

Each man was killed twice over, and of two and twenty men
But two poor boys, as pale as ghosts came back to us again.
We scarce could rise a cheer for them; for 'twas like an awful dream;
But the last scantling, with our dead, went down the Shannon stream.

XVII

But what's the use of dauntless men, to make a gallant stand,
When all they've won is thrown away by fools in high command?
My curse be on St. Ruth, cold friend in our last extremity:
“'Tis hanging I'd deserve,” he bragged, “if they took the town on me.”

XVIII

But they crossed the Shannon's dwindled stream, that left us in their power,
And the town we held for ten long days, was lost in one slack half-hour,
St. Ruth died well on Aughrim field; but ten deaths could ne'er atone
For the shame and the blame of that bad day, and the way he lost Athlone.