| Convict Ship Newspaper, The Wild Goose, Re-discovered page 3 ["Cremona" is ocontinued from previous page] A narrow bridge connects the town, and whilst their comrades slept, By thirty-seven of the Gael a watchful guard was kept, And many a heart is winging back away across the main To that dear land they loved so well but ne’er may see again; They dream of homes by Shannon’s side, where they so often played, Bright, happy, careless boys before they donned the white cockade, Of heart loved scenes that smiling lie by Leinster vales and rills, By Ulster glens and Connaught’s plains and Munster’s lakes and hills; They dream of friendship and of love, they dream of bliss and woe, Of Glory’s fields where the Brigade was charging on the foe; But dream not, that by traitor led, the Austrians now creep With bated breath and stealthy step upon them while they sleep. The sentry, too, is musing as before the northern gate With measured step and piercing eye, and hero-heart elate He paces thro’ the rain and gloom, but on the muttering blast Hears not the foe whose serried ranks are gathering thicker fast. A curse upon the traitor wretch who to the wily foe For sordid gold the town betrayed! A sewer that ran below The walls—its bed had long been dried—and save to him alone It hidden lay, unused, unsuspected and unknown; Thro’ this he led the Austrians, and now thick thro’ the night Their columns sudden break upon the startled sentry’s sight. His warning cry rings up into the very vault of heaven As rush the legions of Eugene around the Thirty-seven, And ere his cry had died away their Irish bullets tore A yawning gap right thro’ their ranks—their steel was red with gore, As with one cry—as when in wrath the lion from his lair Enraged springs—they dash upon the foreman’s closing square; Again and still again they charge with cheers upon their ranks, But columns massing denser still are closing on their flanks, Then inch by inch before the foe outnumbered back they fell, Yet high above their musket’s peal uprose their maddened yell, As fast they fired, reloaded, and then fired and charged again, Marking the bloody way they went with heaps of foemen slain. Their numbers now are thinning fast, but still they bravely fight, As wolfdogs ‘gainst the howling wolves defend the flocks at night. Their cry grows weaker as they fall and all are bleeding fast, When to their ears a thrilling shout comes ringing on the blast; And in their shirts rush thro’ the night—a tempest on the sea— Their comrades of the “Old Brigade” led by O’Mahony. When in the night the fierce typhoon sweeps white upon the fleet That turns and flies before its scream afraid its wrath to meet, So, in their shirts, those grenadiers rushed screaming thro’ the blast Upon the panic-stricken foe that fled before them fast. Back, back, they drove, before their wrath, a shattered, struggling wreck, And vainly strove with hurried fire that hurricane to check. But the fast the foe came pouring in; Eugene in the Town Hall Commands, and thirty thousand men are rushing to his call. But numbers heed not the Brigade, as like avenging fates In that fierce Irish tempest rush they drove them to the gates; There, cheering high above the fight, outnumbered ten to one, They hand to hand still held their own, still gallantly fought on— They fought like tigers for their young as oft they fought before, But higher into Glory’s skies did “Wild Geese” never soar. God’s blessing fall upon their name, their race and on their land! Where’er they strike may Heaven guide and strengthen still each hand, Still hand to hand they fiercely fought, and steel and bullet sped Bright deeds of valor doing till their shirts with blood were red. But fast they’re falling—faster as the bullets shower like rain Now thro’ the gates the Austrians are surging back again; Before their massing columns they retired but did not yield, But turned at bay and charged them back until their column reeled, Back, step by step, across the bridge, with one already mined, With serried ranks they face the foe and blow it up behind. But now the French rush to their aid—they hear their rapid tramp, Again they cheer and charge the foe and drive them to their camp. Bright deeds of chivalry were done that night by the “Brigade,” But with the Austrians fought one whose name will never fade— McDonnell! He was Irish too! We hail his name with joy, Who charged that night thro’ thickest fight and captured Villeroy. He scorned the bribe to set him free , yet brighter grows his fame, A soldier still to honor true and to his Irish name. The morning broke and in the air the Oriflamme still waved Proud over old Cremona’s walls—by Irish valor saved; But dear they bought that victory, those sons of Inisfail, And while Te Deum swells in France for victory—a wail Went up to heaven from their own land, a death wail for her brave Who fell beneath a foreign flag, so far beyond the wave. And with the wail of agony, a fervent prayer arose To Heaven for one such victory at home o’er Ireland’s foes. BINN ÉIDER © 2002 Walter McGrath continued |
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