THE BATTLE OF ARDNOCHER

[Original]

On the eve of St Laurence, at the cross of

Glenfad,

Both of chieftains and bonaghts what a muster

we had,

Thick as bees, round the heather, on the side

of Slieve Bloom,

To the try sting they gather by the light of the

moon.

For the Butler from Ormond with a hosting he

came,

And harried Moycashel with havoc and flame,

Not a hoof or a hayrick, nor corn blade to feed

on,

Had he left in the wide land, right up to

Dunbreedon.

Then gathered MacGeoghegan, the high prince

of Donore,

With O'Connor from Croghan, and O'Dempsys

galore;

And, my soul, how we shouted, as dash'd in

with their men,

Bold MacCoghlan from Clara, O'Mulloy from

the glen.

And not long did we loiter where the four

toghers * met,

But his saddle each tightened, and his spurs

closer set,

By the skylight that flashes all their red burn-

ings back,

And by black gore and ashes fast the rievers

we track.

'Till we came to Ardnocher, and its steep slope

we gain,

And stretch'd there, beneath us, saw their host

in the plain;

And high shouted our leader ('twas the brave

William Roe)—

"By the red hand of Nial,'tis the Sassenach

foe!

"Now, low level your spears, grasp each battle-

axe firm,

And for God and our Ladye strike ye downright

and stern;

* Roads.

For our homes and our altars charge ye stead-

fast and true,

And our watchword be vengeance, and Lamb

Dearg Aboo!" *

Oh, then down like a torrent with a farrah we

swept,

And full stout was the Saxon who his saddle-

tree kept;

For we dash'd thro' their horsemen till they

reel'd from the stroke,

And their spears, like dry twigs, with our axes

we broke.

With our plunder we found them, our fleet

garrons and kine,

And each chalice and cruet they had snatch'd

from God's shrine.

But a red debt we paid them, the Sassenach

raiders,

As we scatter'd their spearmen, slew chieftains

and leaders.

In the Pale there is weeping and watchings in

vain.

De Lacy and D'Alton, can ye reckon your slain?

Where's your chieftain, fierce Nangle? Has

De Netterville fled?

Ask the Molingar eagles, whom their carcasses

fed.

* The red hand for ever.

Ho! ye riders from Ormond, will ye brag in

your hall,

How your lord was struck down with his mail'd

knights and all?

Swim at midnight the Shannon, beard the wolf

in his den,

Ere you ride to Moycashel on a foray again!

——A. G. Geoghegan.