Oh wild was their rush and exultant their shout,
When the signal to charge from the bugle rang out,—
The fire of their hearts seemed to temper each blade.
They thought of the land they had left o’er the sea,
And the brave who had perished, dear Erin, for thee,
Then one cheer for Old Ireland, a curse on her foes,
Like the peal of the thunder to heaven arose
From the lips and the souls of the Irish Brigade!
When France, torn and bleeding, her chivalry slain,
Lay gasping and faint upon Fontenoy’s plain,
Not vain the appeal that her proud monarch made;
The war-cry of Erin, a wild slogan, rang
O’er the clamor of battle, as swiftly they sprang
From their feet to the charge, and with avalanche might
Swept down on the victors, who scattered in flight,
Borne back by the steel of the Irish Brigade!
Then, hurrah! for the fame of our faithful and brave,
Unforgotten they rest, though across the deep wave,
In far distant lands, are their weary bones laid.
Long, long be remembered the lesson they taught,
They loved the green island, and died where they fought;
With face to the foeman unconquered they fell.
May we fight the battle of freedom as well
For the flag and the cause of the Irish Brigade!
SNOOKS.
JUSTICE in Ireland, as administered by those awful instruments of the law, the omniscient J. P.’s, is a profoundly solemn thing. The high priest of the Jewish sanctuary, the sacred Brahmin of the Buddhist temple, the Sheikh-ul-Islam of the Mohammedan faith, has only about one-tenth the idea of his own stupendous importance that a West British honorary magistrate possesses. They believe themselves to be not only pillars and ornaments of the glorious English Constitution, but its very corner-stones. Therefore, when one of these Olympic deities condescends to unbend to our more humble level, and actually makes a joke, we should be grateful to his Mightiness for letting us know that, great as he is, he is but human after all. Such an incident is worthy of imperishable record, and we eagerly copy the following from an Irish exchange:—
“In giving his decision at the Abbeyfeale quarter sessions relative to an alleged insult to a sub-constable, which insult consisted of the defendant’s whistling ‘Harvey Duff,’ the chairman said: ‘There is a difference between a policeman and an ordinary individual. When a policeman is hooted or whistled at, it is the office he holds is held up to contempt. It is not Sub-Constable Snooks [laughter] that is insulted, but it is the office that is held by Snooks.’ [Laughter.]”
Who but an Irish J. P. could have emitted from his brilliant intellect that bright sparkle about Snooks? The delicacy and yet the pungency of the wit, added to the simplicity and yet profundity of the reasoning, deserve immortalizing in glowing verse, and with feelings of deepest admiration I dedicate this rhythmic paraphrase of his wonderful ideas to that gorgeous Abbeyfeale chairman:—
IF you notice a policeman at the corner of a street
In an energetic struggle with a pair of erring feet,
A decided inclination to lie down upon his beat,
And confusion quite apparent in his looks,
An odor floating round him you’d no reason to expect,
You have not got the slightest cause to cavil or object;
The law is oft mysterious, and, stranger, recollect,
’Tis the law’s inebriated, and not Snooks.
A policeman is no ordinary mortal; so suppose
It unfortunately happens, as it might do, that there grows
A pimple at the end of 27’s Roman nose,
Which his dignity but very little brooks.
You must not, at your peril, venture carelessly to laugh,
And avoid like trichinosis any tendency to chaff,
Unless you wish to seek the rude acquaintance of his staff—
’Tis the law that has that pimple, and not Snooks!