The Bishop of Ross

The tramp of the trooper is heard at Macroom ;
The soldiers of Cromwell are spared from Clonmel,
And Broghill — the merciless Broghill — is come
On a mission of murder which pleases him well.

The wailing of women, the wild tilulu,
Dread tidings from cabin to cabin convey ;
But loud though the plaints and the shrieks which ensue,
The war-cry is louder of men in array.

In the park of Macroom there is gleaming of steel,
And glancing of lightning in looks on that field,
And swelling of bosoms with patriot zeal,
And clenching of hands on the weapons they wield.

MacEgan, a prelate like Ambrose of old,
Forsakes not his flock when the spoiler is near ;
The post of the pastor's in front of the fold
When the wolfs on the plain and there's rapine to fear

The danger is come, and the fortune of war
Inclines to the side of oppression once more ;
The people are brave — but, they fall ; and the star
Of their destiny sets in the darkness of yore.

MacEgan survives in the Philistine hands
Of the lords of the Pale, and his death is decreed ;
But the sentence is stayed by Lord Broghill's commands,
And the prisoner is dragged to his presence with speed.

"To Carraig-an-Droichid this instant," he cried,
" Prevail on your people in garrison there
To yield, and at once in our mercy confide,
And your life I will pledge you my honour to spare."

" Your mercy ! your honour ! " the prelate replied,
" I well know the worth of: my duty I know.
Lead on to the castle, and there, by your side,
With the blessing of God, what is meet will I do."

The orders are given, the prisoner is led
To the castle, and round him are menacing hordes :
Undaunted, approaching the walls, at the head
Of the troopers of Cromwell, he utters these words :

"Beware of the cockatrice — trust not the wiles
Of the serpent, for perfidy skulks in its folds !
Beware of Lord Broghill the day that he smiles !
His mercy is murder ! — his word never holds.

" Remember, 'tis writ in our annals of blood,
Our countrymen never relied on the faith
Of truce, or of treaty, but treason ensued —
And the issue of every delusion was death."'

Thus nobly the patriot prelate sustained
The ancient renown of his chivalrous race,
And the last of old Eoghan's descendants obtained
For the name of Ui-Mani new lustre and grace.

He died on the scaffold, in front of those walls
Where the blackness of ruin is seen from afar ;
And the gloom of its desolate aspect recalls
The blackest of Broghill's achievements in war !