GHASTLY white with affright,
Down stairs they thundered,
Peelers and grenadiers—
Nearly a hundred.
Out of doors shrieking loud
Rushed the scared hundred,
They had no wish to be
Blown up or sundered.
Crash! went a bomb o’erhead,
“Oh, Lord!” each bearskin said,
Wildly in flight they sped—
Disgruntled hundred.
Bang! went that bombshell near,
Were they o’ercome with fear?
You bet your boots they were—
All of the hundred;
Theirs not to question why
Roof soared aloft to sky—
Theirs but to cut and fly
Sensible hundred.
Women to right of them,
Women to left of them,
Children in front of them
Fainted or wondered;
But they were trained too well—
They knew what meant that shell,
So with a gruesome yell,
Head over heels, pell-mell,
Scattered the hundred.
Did they flash sabres bare
Out on the trembling air?
No, they just left them there,
There to be plundered;
And through the struggling mass,
Matron and babe and lass,
Plunged and strove hard to pass,
Choking and gasping—
Ah, horrified hundred.
Glass smashed to right of them,
Beams flew to left of them,
Walls gaped in front of them,
Shattered and sundered;
All round the citadel,
Stormed by that awful shell,
Plaster and brickbats fell
Down on their heads in storms.
Oh, it was worse than hell;
Out over prostrate forms
Charged all the hundred.
When shall the record fade
Of the quick time they made?
All the world wondered.
Greyhound or Arab steed
Could not excel the speed
Of that swift hundred.
AN ADDRESS TO SLAVES.[J]
Helots of Ireland! Bow down to the stranger;
Bondsmen and serfs! bend the sycophant knee;
Forget the brave hearts who have faced every danger,
Death, dungeon, and exile that ye might be free!
Be Emmet forgotten, Tone’s story unspoken;
Let the green shamrocks wither above their lone graves,
Or should the last sleep of such heroes be broken
Let it be by the shouts that proclaim ye are slaves.
Aye, shout! Though oppression stalks over the old land;
Though thousands are leaving your desolate isle.
Aye, shout! Till your cheers tell the world ye have sold land,
Faith, honor, and truth, for a Prince’s false smile.
The iron has entered your souls, and forever
May it brand you as craven and false to your race;
May the years that roll by bring oblivion never
To cloak your dishonor or shroud your disgrace.