Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were.
V.
O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands
"Fix bay'nets!—charge!" Like mountain storm, rush on these fiery bands!
Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys grow,
Yet, must'ring all the strength they have, they make a gallant show.
They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that battle-wind—
Their bayonets the breakers' foam; like rocks, the men behind!
One volley crashes from their line, when, through the surging smoke,
With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish broke.