Sarsfield

PART I.
The bard apostrophises Sarsfield.
FAREWELL, O Patrick Sarsfield! May luck be on your path!
Your camp is broken up — your work is marred for years —
But you go to kindle into flame the King of France's wrath,
Though you leave sick Erin in tears.
Ohone! Ullagone!

And invokes blessings on him.
May the white sun and moon... rain glory on your head,
All hero as you are, and holy Man of God!
To you the Saxons owe... a many an hour of dread
In the land you have often trod.
Ohone! Ullagone!

And yet more blessings.

The Son of Mary guard you, and bless you to the end!
'Tis altered is the time since your legions were astir,
When at Cullen you were hailed as the Conqueror and Friend,
And you crossed the river near Birr.
Ohone! Ullagone!

He announces his design of revisiting the North.
I'll journey to the North, over mount, moor, and wave.

'Twas there I first beheld, drawn up in file and line,
The brilliant Irish hosts — they were bravest of the Brave,
But, alas! they scorned to combine!
Ohone! Ullagone!

He recounts his reminiscences of the war.
I saw the royal Boyne, when its billows flashed with blood.

I fought at Grana Oge, where a thousand marcachd fell.
On the dark empurpled field of Aughrim, too, I stood,
On the plain by Shanbally's Well.
Ohone! Ullagone!

He gives his lenison to Limerick.
To the heroes of Limerick, the City of the Fights,
Be my best blessing borne on the wings of the air!
We had card-playing there o'er our camp-fires at night,
And the Word of Life, too, and prayer.

And bestows his malison on Londonderry.
But, for you, Londonderry, may Plague smite and slay
Your people! May Ruin... desolate you stone by stone!

Through you a many a gallant youth lies coffinless to-day,
"With the winds for mourners alone!
Ohone! Ullagone!

lie indulges in a burst of sorrow for a lost opportunity.
I clomb the high hill on a fair summer noon,
And saw the Saxon Muster, clad in armour blinding bright,
Oh, Rage withheld my hand, or gunsman and dragoon
Should have supped with Satan that night!
Ohone! Ullagone!

The bard mourns for the valiant Dead.
How many a noble soldier, how many a cavalier,
Careered along this road... seven fleeting weeks ago,
With silver-hiked sword, with matchlock and with spear,
Who now, movrone, lieth low!
Ohone! Ullagone!

And pays a tribute to the valour of one of the Living.
All hail to thee Ben Hedir — But ah, on thy brow
I see a limping soldier, who battled and who bled
Last year in the cause of the Stuart, though now
The worthy is begging his bread!
Ohone! Ullagone!

He deplores the loss of a friend.

And Jerome, oh, Jerome! he perished in the strife —
His head it was spiked on a halbert so high;
His colours they were trampled. He had no chance of life
If the Lord God himself stood ly.

And of others, dear friends also.

But most, oh, my woe! I lament and lament
For the ten valiant heroes who dwelt nigh the Nore,
And my three blessed brothers! They left me, and they went
To the wars — and returned no more!
Ohone! Ullagone!

He reverts to the calamities of the Irish.

On the Bridge of the Boyne was our first overthrow —
By Slaney the next, for we battled without rest:
The third was at Aughrim. Oh, Erin, thy woe
Is a sword in my bleeding breast!
Ohone! Ullagone!

He describes in vivid terms the conflagration of the house at Ballytemple.

O! the roof above our heads it was barbarously fired,
While the black Orange guns... blazed and bellowed around, —
And as volley followed volley, Colonel Mitchell enquired
Whether Lucan still stood his ground.
Ohone! Ullagone!

Finally, however, Tie takes a more hopeful view of the prospects of his country.

But O'Kelly still remains, to defy and to toil;
He has memories that Hell won't permit him to forget,
And a sword that will make the blue blood flow like oil
Upon many an Aughrim yet!
Ohone! Ullagone!

And concludes most cheeringly.

And I never shall believe that my Fatherland can fall
With the Burkes, and the Decies, and the son of Royal