Our backs adroitly turning,
That he might not see us laugh outright
By the lights so brightly burning.
No useless advice we on him press'd,
Nor in argument we wound him;
But we left him to lie, and take his rest,
With his Irish clique around him.
Few and short were the speeches made,
And we spoke not a word in sorrow;
But we thought, as we look'd, though we leave him for dead,