The Battle of Beal-an-atha-buidhe

By O'Neill close beleaguered, the spirits might droop
Of the Saxon three hundred shut up in their coop,
Till Bagenal drew forth his Toledo, and swore,
On the sword of a soldier, to succour Port Mor.

His veteran troops, in the foreign wars tried —
Their features how bronzed, and how haughty their stride-
Stept steadily on ; it was thrilling to see
That thunder-cloud brooding o'er Beal-an-atha-buidhe.

The flash of their armour, inlaid with fine gold —
Gleaming matchlocks, and cannon that mutteringly rolled-
With the tramp and the clank of those stern cuirassiers
Dyed in blood of the Flemish and French cavaliers.

And are the mere Irish, with pikes and with darts,
With but glibb-covered heads, and but rib-guarded hearts-
Half-naked, half-fed, with few muskets, no guns —
The battle to dare against England's proud sons ?

Poor bonnochts, and wild gallow -glasses and kern —
Let them war with rude brambles, sharp furze, and dry fern;
Wirrastrue for their wives — for their babes ochanie,
If they wait for the Saxon at Beal-an-atha-buidhe.

Yet O'Neill standeth firm — few and brief his commands :
" Ye have hearts in your bosoms, and pikes in your hands ;
Try how far you can push them, my children, at once ;
Fag an bealach ! and down with horse, foot, and great guns.

"They have gold and gay arms — they have biscuit and bread ;
Now, sons of my soul, we'll be found and be fed;"
And he clutched his claymore, and, " Look yonder ! " laughed he,
" What a grand commissariat for B'eal-an-atha-buidhe ! "

Near the chief a grim tyke, an O'Shanaghan stood ;
His nostrils, dilated, seemed snuffing for blood ;
Rough and ready to spring, like the wiry wolf-hound
Of Irene — who, tossing his pike with a bound,

Cried, " My hand to the Sassanach ! ne'er may I hurl
Another to earth if I call him a churl !
He finds me in clothing, in booty, and bread —
My chief, won't O'Shanaghan give him a bed ? "

" Land of Owen abu !" and the Irish rushed on —
The foe fired but one volley — their gunners are gone ;
Before the bare bosoms the steel-coats have fled,
Or, despite casque and corselet, lie dying and dead.

And brave Harry Bagenal, he fell while he fought,
With many gay gallants — they slept as men ought,
Their faces to heaven ; there were others, alack !
By pikes overtaken, and taken aback.

And my Irish got clothing, coin, colours, great store,
Arms, forage, and provender — plunder go leor !
They munched the white manchets — they champed the brown chine —
Fuilleluadh ! for that day how the natives did dine !

The chieftain looked on, when O'Shanaghan rose,
And cried, " Hearken, O'Neill ! I've a health to propose—
'To our Sassanach hosts !' " and all quaffed in huge glee,
With Cead milefdilte go Beal-an-atha-bui'dhe !