Here! take it to your cursèd King, and tell him, softly, too,
’Twould be acquainted with his skull if he were here, not you!”
The blacksmith sought his smithy and blew his bellows strong;
He shod the steed of Sarsfield, but o’er it sang no song;
“Ochone! my boys are dead!” he cried; “their loss I’ll long deplore,
But comfort’s in my heart, their graves are red with foreign gore.”
HYMN OF THE IMPERIAL GUARD
By Bartholomew Dowling
Up, comrades, up, the bugle peals the note of war’s alarms,
And the cry is ringing sternly round, that calls the land to arms;