THE BATTLE OF BEAL-AN-ATHA-BUIDH.
A.D. 1598.
I.
By O'Nial beleagur'd, the spirits might droop
Of the Saxon—three hundred shut up in their coop,
Till Bagenal drew forth his Toledo, and swore,
On the sword of a soldier, to succour Portmore.
II.
His veteran troops, in the foreign wars tried—
Their features how bronz'd, and how haughty their stride—
Stept steadily on; it was thrilling to see
That thunder-cloud brooding o'er Beal-an-atha-buidh.
III.
The flash of their armour, inlaid with fine gold—
Gleaming matchloks and cannons that mutteringly roll'd—
With the tramp and the clank of those stern cuirassiers,
Dyed in blood of the Flemish and French cavaliers.
IV.
And are the mere Irish, with pike and with darts—
With but glibb-cover'd heads, and but rib-guarded hearts—
Half-naked, half-fed, with few muskets, no guns—
The battle to dare against England's stout sons?
V.
Poor Bonnochts, and wild Gallowglasses, and Kerns—
Let them war with rude brambles, sharp furze, and dry ferns;
Wirrastrue for their wives—for their babes ochanie,
If they wait for the Saxon at Beal-an-atha-buidh.
VI.
Yet O'Nial stands firm—few and brief his commands—
"Ye have hearts in your bosoms, and pikes in your hands;
Try how far ye can push them, my children, at once;
Fag-a-bealaċ!—and down with horse, foot, and great guns.
VII.
They have gold and gay arms—they have biscuit and bread;
