Now comes the news of battle—
The long-awaited roll
Of our great Western rampant—
A wall of thews, and soul—
And Ulster’s sons are writing
Their names upon a scroll.
That rain-swept mist-land gathers
Before their eyes, as forth
They sweep—the watched-for Ulsters,
For honour of the North;
For Freedom’s best and dearest,
For Britain’s word and worth.
That wave of Northern valour
Is like the advancing tide,
And nought can cool or curb it,
And nought can change its stride;
In “Derry,” “Enniskillen,”
And Omagh they reside!
’Tis Lurgan and Dungannon,
Armagh and proud Belfast,
St. Johnston, Londonderry,
And Donegal’s grey vast
That flit before their vision
As trench by trench is passed.
The roar of bursting cannon
Breaks voices faintly heard—
The voices of their youth-time,
Familiar jest and word;
But, hark! the call is “Onward!”
And visions grow more blurred.
Hurrah! the drive so eager,
So long-continued, deep,
The firmly-driven bayonet,
The stumble and the leap
Grow less intense; the foeman
Has wavered in the sweep!
And in the lone, grey cottage
A trembling hand essays
To hold the fateful message
Which speaks a proud son’s praise:
“He nobly did his duty,
And fell—there is a haze.....”
Read in another homestead—
A loftier home, now chill;—
The page tells of a soldier
Who led his men, until
There came the hue of sunset—
He lives in honour still.
“Dead,” do you call these heroes?
Dead?—who have given birth
To all that makes life living—
To all that is of worth;
No, never, never write it—
This “death” is Freedom’s girth!