“Wherever fighting’s the game,
Or a spice of danger in grown man’s work,”
Said Kelly, “you’ll find my name.”
“And do we fall short,” said Burke, getting mad,
“When it’s touch and go for life?”
Said Shea: “It’s thirty odd years, bedad,
Since I charged, to drum and fife,
Up Marye’s Heights, and my old canteen
Stopped a rebel ball on its way.
There were blossoms of blood on our sprigs of green—