And Count Merci retreats with the half of his men.
VI.
"In on them!" said Friedberg—and Dillon is broke,
Like forest-flowers crushed by the fall of the oak;
Through the naked battalions the cuirassiers go;—
But the man, not the dress, makes the soldier, I trow
Upon them with grapple, with bay'net, and ball,
Like wolves upon gaze-hounds, the Irishmen fall—
Black Friedberg is slain by O'Mahony's steel,
And back from the bullets the cuirassiers reel.