Who gave up their lives, at the Queen's Command,
For the Pride of their Race and the Peace of the Land.
Now, first of the foemen of Boh Da Thone
Was Captain O'Neil of the Black Tyrone,
And his was a Company, seventy strong,
Who hustled that dissolute Chief along.
There were lads from Galway and Louth and Meath
Who went to their death with a joke in their teeth,
And worshipped with fluency, fervour, and zeal
The mud on the boot-heels of "Crook" O'Neil.
But ever a blight on their labours lay,
And ever their quarry would vanish away,
Till the sun-dried boys of the Black Tyrone
Took a brotherly interest in Boh Da Thone,
And, sooth, if pursuit in possession ends,
The Boh and his trackers were best of friends.
The word of a scout a march by night
A rush through the mist a scattering fight
A volley from cover a corpse in the clearing
A glimpse of a loin-cloth and heavy jade earring
The flare of a village the tally of slain
And . . . the Boh was abroad on the raid again!
They cursed their luck, as the Irish will,
