A Small Collection Of '98 Songs
Bagenal
Harvey's Farewell - Betsy Gray -
Boolavogue
- The
Boys of Wexford - Na
Buachailli Bana (The Whiteboys) - The Croppy
Boy - Dunlavin
Green - Edward - Father
Murphy - General
Munroe - De
Groves of De Pool - Henry Joy - Kelly of
Killanne - The Liberty
Tree - The
Man from God-Knows-Where - The
Memory of the Dead (Who Fears to Speak of '98) - The Men of
the West - Michael
Dwyer - Mise 'Gus Tusa
'Gus 'Roball Na Muice - Molly Doyle, the
Heroine of Ross - Napper
Tandy - The
Rising of the Moon - Roddy
MacCorley - The Sean
Bhean Bhocht - The
Swinish Multitude - Tone's Grave
(Bodenstown Churchyard) - The Year
of the French
Beauchamp
Bagenal Harvey (1762-1798) was a Protestant landlord, appointed
Commander-in-Chief of the Wexford rebels. After the attack on New Ross (5 June)
he became President of a Provincial Council to manage the affairs of the county.
After the fall of Wexford, he attempted to hide out on the Saltee Islands but
was captured and executed.
Farewell to Bargy's lofty towers, my
father's own estate
And farewell to its lovely bowers, my own ancestral
seat
Farewell each friend and neighbour, that once I well knew there
My
tenants now will miss the hand that fostered them with care
Farewell to
Cornelius Grogan, and to Kelly ever true
John Coakley and good Father Roche,
receive my last adieu
And fare-thee-well bold Esmond Kyan, though proud
oppression's laws
Forbid us to lay down our lives, still we bless the holy
cause
Farewell my brave Unitedmen, who dearly with me fought
Though
tyrant might has conquered right, full dearly was it bought
And when the sun
of freedom shall again upon you shine
Oh, then let Bagenal Harvey's name
array your battle line
Although perchance it may be my fate, in Wexford
town to die
Oh, bear my body to the tomb wherin my fathers lie
And have
the solemn service read, in Mayglass holy towers
And have twelve young maids
from Bargyside, to scatter my grave with flowers
So farewell to Bargy's
lofty towers, since from you I must part
A stranger now may call you his,
which with sorrow fills my heart
But when at last fate shall decree that
Ireland should be free
Then Bagenal Harvey's rightful heirs shall be returned
to thee
Anonymous
Elizabeth Gray joined the rebel
forces in County Down along with her brother, George, and her lover, William
Boal. After the defeat at Ballinahinch (12 June) all three were killed as they
retreated.
The star of evening slowly rose
Through shades of
twillight gleaming
It shone to witness Erin's woes
Her children's life's
blood streaming
'Twas then, sweet star, thy pensive ray
Fell on the cold
unconscious clay
That wraps the breast of Betsy Gray
In softened lustre
beaming
Anonymous
The proper Ordnance Survey
spelling for the village about eight miles north-east of Enniscorthy is
Boleyvogue. Balladeers will have none of that, and with its double 'o' it has
become one of the most popular 1798 songs.
At Boolavogue, as the
sun was setting
O'er the bright May meadows of Shelmalier,
A rebel hand
set the heather blazing
And brought the neighbours from far and near.
Then
Father Murphy, from old Kilcormack,
Spurred up the rocks with a warning
cry;
"Arm! Arm!" he cried, "for I've come to lead you,
For Ireland's
freedom we fight or die."
He led us on gainst the coming
soldiers,
And the cowardly Yeomen we put to flight;
Twas at the Harrow the
boys of Wexford
Showed Bookey's regiment how men could fight.
Look out for
hirelings, King George of England,
Search every kingdom where breathes a
slave,
For Father Murphy of the County Wexford
Sweeps o'er the land like a
mighty wave.
We took Camolin and Enniscorthy,
And Wexford storming
drove out our foes;
Twas at Sliabh Coillte our pikes were reeking
With the
crimson stream of the beaten Yeos.
At Tubberneering and Ballyellis
Full
many a Hessian lay in his gore;
Ah, Father Murphy, had aid come over
The
green flag floated from shore to shore!
At Vinegar Hill, o'er the
pleasant Slaney,
Our heroes vainly stood back to back,
And the Yeos at
Tullow took Father Murphy
And burned his body upon the rack.
God grant you
glory, brave Father Murphy
And open heaven to all your men;
The cause that
called you may call to-morrow
In another fight for the Green again.
P.J. McCall (1861-1919)
This lively march
captures the "beaten-but-not-broken" attitude after 1798 and names famous
actions: Oulart Hill (27 May), New Ross (5 June), Vinegar Hill (21 June).
In comes the captain's daughter,the captain of the Yeos,
Saying
"Brave United Irishman, we'll ne'er again be foes.
A thousand pounds I'll
give you and fly from home with thee,
And dress myself in man's attire and
fight for liberty."
Chorus
We are the boys of Wexford, who
fought with heart and hand
To burst in twain the galling chain and free our
native land.
"I want no gold, my maiden fair, to fly from home with
thee;
Your shining eyes will be my prize more dear than gold to me.
I want
no gold to nerve my arm to do a true man's part
To free my land I'd gladly
give the red drops from my heart."
And when we left our cabins, boys, we
left with right good will
To see our friends and neighbours that were at
Vinegar Hill!
A young man from our Irish ranks a cannon he let go;
He
slapt it into Lord Mountjoy a tyrant he laid low!
We bravely fought and
conquered at Ross and Wexford town;
Three Bullet Gate for years to come will
speak for our renown;
Through Walpole's horse and Walpole's foot on
Tubberneering's day,
Depending on the long, bright pike, and well it worked
its way.
And Oulart's name shall be their shame, whose steel we ne'er
did fear,
For every man could do his part like Forth and Shelmalier!
And
if, for want of leaders, we lost at Vinegar Hill,
We're ready for another
fight, and love our country still!
Robert Dwyer Joyce (1830-1883)
Denis Browne was High Sheriff of County Mayo in 1798 and dealt savagely
with those who had participated in the Rising. It was estimated that Denis
Browne had 200 men hanged, 200 transported and 100 more pressed into service in
the British Army overseas or salt mines on the Continent.
A
Dhonncha Brúin s deas do chraithfinn lámh leat
Agus ní le grá duit ach le
fonn do ghabháil
Cheanglóinn suas thú le rópa cnáibe
Agus chuirfinn mo
"Spír" i do bholg mór.
Mar is iomaí buachaill maith chuir tú thar
sáile
Thiocfas anall fís is cúnamh leo
Faoi chultaibh dearga agus hataí
lása
S beidh an droma Francach a' seinm leo!
If I got your hand, it
is I would take it
But not to shake it, O Denis Browne,
But to hang you
high with a hempen cable
And your feet unable to find the ground.
For it's
many's the boy who was strong and able
You sent in chains with your tyrant
frown;
But they'll come again, with the French flag waving
And the French
drums raving to strike you down!
Antaine Ó Reachtabhra (1784-1835)
One of the best known songs
of 1798. It tells of one young "Croppy" who was captured and tried by
court-martial.
It was early early in the spring,
The birds did
whistle and sweetly sing,
Changing their notes from tree to tree,
And the
song they sang was old Ireland free.
It was early early last Tuesday
night,
The yeoman cavalry gave me a fright;
The yeoman cavalry was my
downfall,
And taken was I by Lord Cornwall.
It was to the guard-house
I then was led,
And in a parlour I was tried;
My sentence passed and my
courage low
To New Geneva I was forced to go.
As I was passing my
father's door,
My brother William stood at the door;
My aged father stood
at the door,
And my tender mother her hair she tore.
As I was walking
up Wexford Street
My own first cousin I chanced to meet;
My own first
cousin did me betray,
And for one bare guinea swore my life away.
My
sister Mary heard the express,
She ran upstairs in her morning dress
Five
hundred guineas she would lay down,
To see me liberated in Wexford Town.
As I was walking up Wexford Hill,
Who could blame me to cry my
fill?
I looked behind and I looked before,
But my tender mother I shall
ne'er see more.
As I was mounted on the platform high,
My aged father
was standing by;
My aged father did me deny,
And the name he gave me was
the Croppy Boy.
It was in Geneva this young man died,
And in Geneva
his body lies;
All you good Christians that do pass by
Breathe a prayer,
shed a tear for the Croppy Boy.
Anonymous
In Dunlavin, County
Wicklow, Captain Moreley Saunders marched 36 prisoners, among them 28 yeoman
suspected of having sympathies towards the United Irishmen, from the jail to the
village green. They were executed on the spot.
In the year one
thousand seven hundred and ninety eight
A sorrowful tale the truth unto you
I'll relate
Of thirty-six heroes to the world were left to be seen
By a
false information were shot on Dunlavin Green
Bad luck to you Saunders,
for you did their lives betray
You said a parade would be held on that very
day
Our drums they did rattle - our fifes they did sweetly play
Surrounded
we were and privately marched away
Quite easy they led us as prisoners
through the town
To be slaughtered on the plain, we were then forced to kneel
down
Such grief and such sorrow were never before there seen
When the
blood ran in streams down the dykes of Dunlavin Green
There is young
Matty Farrell has plenty of cause to complain
Also the two Duffys who were
also shot down on the plain
And young Andy Ryan, his mother distracted will
run
For her own brave boy, her beloved eldest son
Bad luck to you,
Saunders, may bad luck never you shun!
That the widow's curse may melt you
like the snow in the sun
The cries of the orphans whose murmurs you cannot
screen
For the murder of their dear fathers on Dunlavin Green
Some of
our boys to the hills they are going away
Some of them are shot and some of
them going to sea
Micky Dwyer in the mountains to Saunders he owes a
spleen
For his loyal brothers who were shot on Dunlavin Green
Anonymous
Lord Edward Fitzgerald (1763-1798) led an
aventerous life as a British soldier and as an explorer in Canada. Greatly
influenced by the French Revolution he became an United Irishman and was
appointed Commander-in-Chief. Betrayed and arrested in May 1798, he died of
wounds received during his capture.
What plaintive sounds strike on
my ear!
They're Erin's deep-ton'd piteous groans
Her Harp, attun'd to
sorrow drear
In broken numbers joins her moans
In doleful groups around
her stand
Her manly sons (her greatest pride)
In mourning deep, for by the
hand
Of ruthless villains Edward died
Anonymous
During the night of May
26-27, the North Cork Militia burned the church at Boolavogue. The arson attack
drove Father John Murphy (1753-1798) becoming one of the leaders of the
rebellion in Wexford. After the defeat at Vinegar Hill (21 June), he escaped but
was eventually captured, executed and burned in a barrel of pitch.
Come all you warriors and renowned nobles
Give ear unto my
warlike theme
While I relate how brave Father Murphy
He lately roused
from his sleepy dream
Sure Julius Caesar nor Alexander
Nor brave King
Arthur ever equalled him
For armies formidable he did conquer
Though
with two pikemen he did begin
Camolin cavalry he did unhorse them
Their first lieutenant he cut him down
With shattered ranks and with
broken columns
They soon returned to Camolin town
At the hill of Oulart
he displayed his valour
Where a hundred Corkmen lay on the plain
At
Enniscorthy his sword he wielded
And I hope to see him once more again
When Enniscorthy became subject unto him
Twas then to Wexford we
marched our men
And on the Three Rock took up our quarters
Waiting for
daylight the town to win
The loyal townsmen gave their assistance
We
will die or conquer they all did say
The yeomen cavalry made no resistance,
For on the pavement their corpses lay
With drums a-beating the town
did echo
And acclamations came from door to door
On the Windmill Hill we
pitched our tents then
We drank like heroes but paid no score
On Carraig
Rua for some time we waited
And next to Gorey we did repair
At
Tubberneering we thought no harm
The bloody army was waiting there
The issue of it was a close engagement
While on the soldiers we
played warlike pranks
Through the sheepwalks, hedgerows and shady thickets
There were mangled bodies and broken ranks
The shuddering cavalry, I
can't forget them
We raised the brushes on their helmets straight
They
turned about and made straight for Dublin
As though they ran for a ten pound
plate
Now, some crossed Donnybrook and more through Blackrock
And
some up Shankhill without wound or flaw
And if Barry Lawless be not a liar
There was more went groaning up Luggela
To the Windmill Hill of
Enniscorthy,
The British Fencibles they fled like deers
But our ranks
were tattered and sorely scattered
By the loss o Kyan and his Shelamaliers
The streets of England were left quite naked
Of all their army both
foot and horse
The Highlands Scotland were left unguarded
Likewise the
Hessians the seas did cross
But if the Frenchmen had reinforced us
And
landed transports at Baginbun
Father John Murphy, he would be their seconder
And sixteen thousand with him would come
Success attend you sweet
County Wexford
Threw off the yoke and to battle run
Let them not think
we gave up our arms
For every man still has a pike and gun.
Anonymous
Henry Munro (1758-1798)
was a Scottish Protestant linen draper from Lisburn and leader of County Down
rebels. After the defeat at Ballinahinch (13 June), he was hanged in front of
his own home. Tradition tells, Munro gave the signal to pull the ladder from
under him by dropping his own handkerchief.
My name is George
Campbell at the age of eighteen
I joined the United Men to strive for the
green,
And many a battle I did undergo
With that hero commander, brave
General Munro.
Have you heard of the Battle of Ballinahinch
Where the
people oppressed rose up in defence?
When Munro left the mountains his men
took the field,
And they fought for twelve hours and never did yield.
Munro being tired and in want of a sleep,
Gave a woman ten guineas
his secret to keep.
But when she got the money the devil tempted her
so
That she sent for the soldiers and surrendered Munro.
The army
they came and surrounded the place,
And they took him to Lisburn and lodged
him in jail.
And his father and mother in passing that way
Heard the very
last words that their dear son did say!
"Oh, I die for my country as I
fought for her cause,
And I don't fear your soldiers nor yet heed your
laws.
And let every true man who hates Ireland's foe
Fight bravely for
freedom like Henry Munro."
And twas early one morning when the sun was
still low,
They murdered our hero brave General Munro,
And high o'er the
Courthouse stuck his head on a spear,
For to make the United men tremble and
fear.
Then up came Munro's sister, she was all dressed in green,
With
a sword by her side that was well-sharped and keen.
Giving three hearty
cheers, away she did go
Saying, "I'll have revenge for my brother Munro."
All ye good men who listen, just think of the fate
Of the brave men
who died in the year Ninety Eight.
For poor old Ireland would be free long
ago
If her sons were all rebels like Henry Munro.
Anonymous
This song
celebrates the Cork Militia. Over hundred militia men were killed at Oulart Hill
(27 May) by the insurgents and there's a story that the Corkmen were crying for
mercy in Irish, which ironically the rebels couldn't understand.
Now de war, dearest Nancy, is ended
And de peace is come over
from France
So our gallant Cork City Militia
Back again to head-quarters
advance
No longer a beating dose rebels
We'll now be a beating de
bull
And taste dose genteel recreations
Dat are found in de groves of de
Pool
Right fol didder rol didder rol, didder rol, right fol didder rol
dae
Wid our band out before us in order
We played coming into de
town
We up'd wid de ould 'Boyne Water'
Not forgetting, too, 'Croppies lie
down'
Bekase you might read in the newses
'Twas we made dose rebels so
cool
Who all thought, like Turks or like Jewses,
To murther de boys of de
Pool
Richard Alfred Milliken (1767-1815)
Henry Joy McCracken (1767-1798) was
a Presbyterian cotton factory manager in Belfast and founder-member of the
United Irishmen. He led the rising in County Antrim. Arrested after the defeat
at Antrim Town (7 June), he was court-martialled and hanged - "for his treason
to both Britain and his social class".
An Ulster man I am proud to
be,
From the Antrim glens I come.
Although I labour by the sea,
I have
followed flag and drum.
I have heard the martial tramp of men;
I've seen
them fight and die.
Ah! lads I well remember when
I followed Henry Joy.
I pulled my boat in from the sea,
I hid my sails away.
I hung my
nets upon a tree
And scanned the moonlit bay.
The boys were out, the
redcoats too,
I bade my wife good-bye,
And then beneath the greenwood
glade
I followed Henry Joy.
Alas, for Ireland's cause we
fought
For home and sire we bled.
Though our arms were few, our hearts
beat true
And five to one lay dead.
And many a lassie missed her
lad
And mother mourned her boy,
For youth was strong in the dashing
throng
That followed Henry Joy.
In Belfast town they built a
tree
And the redcoats mustered there.
I watched him come as the roll of
the drum
Sounded on the barrack square.
He kissed his sister, went
aloft
Then waved a last good-bye,
And as he died, I turned and
cried
They have murdered Henry Joy.
Anonymous
John Kelly was
seriously wounded at New Ross recovering in Wexford Town when it was recaptured
by the British. A neighbour whose life he had saved some days before, gave
evidence against him. He was hanged on Wexford Bridge. The farmers of east
Shelmalier were accustomed to shoot wild fowl on the North sloblands. Their
"long barrelled guns" proved to be very effective weapons during the Rising.
What's the news? What's the news? O my bold Shelmalier,
With
your long-barrelled gun of the sea?
Say what wind from the south blows his
messenger here
With a hymn of the dawn for the free?
"Goodly news, goodly
news, do I bring, Youth of Forth;
Goodly news shall you hear, Bargy
man!
For the boys march at morn from the South to the North,
Led by Kelly,
the Boy from Killanne!"
"Tell me who is that giant with gold curling
hair
He who rides at the head of your band?
Seven feet is his height,
with some inches to spare,
And he looks like a king in command!"
"Ah, my
lads, that's the pride of the bold Shelmaliers,
Mong our greatest of heroes,
a Man! --
Fling your beavers aloft and give three ringing cheers
For John
Kelly, the Boy from Killanne!"
Enniscorthy's in flames, and old Wexford
is won,
And the Barrow tomorrow we cross,
On a hill o'er the town we have
planted a gun
That will batter the gateways of Ross!
All the Forth men and
Bargy men march o'er the heath,
With brave Harvey to lead on the van;
But
the foremost of all in the grim Gap of Death
Will be Kelly, the Boy from
Killanne!"
But the gold sun of Freedom grew darkened at Ross,
And it
set by the Slaney's red waves;
And poor Wexford, stript naked, hung high on a
cross,
And her heart pierced by traitors and slaves!
Glory O! Glory O! to
her brave sons who died
For the cause of the long-down-trodden man!
Glory
O! to Mount Leinster's own darling and pride
Dauntless Kelly, the Boy from
Killanne!"
P.J. McCall (1861-1919)
Taking example from the
French Revolution, a custom among United Irishmen planting a "Liberty Tree"
began.
It was the year of '93
The French did plant an olive
tree
The symbol of great liberty
And the people danced around it
O was
not I telling you
The French declared courageously
That Equality, Freedom
and Fraternity
Would be the cry of every nation
In '94 a new
campaign
The tools of darkness did maintain
Gall's brave sons did form a
league
And their foes they were dumb-founded
They gave to Flanders
liberty
And all its people they set free
The Dutch and Austrians home did
flee
And the Dukes they were confounded
Behold may all of
Human-kind
Emancipated with the French combine
May laurels green all on
them shine
And their sons and daughters long wear them
May every tyrant
shake with dread
And tremble for their guilty head
May the Fleur-de-Lis in
dust be laid
And they no longer wear them
For Church and State in
close embrace
Is the burden of the Human Race
And people tell you to your
face
That long you will repent it.
For Kings in power and preaching
drones
Are the cause of all your heavy groans
Down from your pulpits, down
from your thrones
You will tumble unlamented.
Anonymous
Thomas Paine from Thetford (Norfolk)
replied to Edmund Burke's denouncement of the French Revolution in "The Rights
of Man" 1791/2. The Rights of Man had run through seven irish editions and was
becoming known as the "Koran of Belfast". The British government indicted Paine
for treason in May 1792 and issued a proclamation against "seditious writings".
Paine learned that the department of Calais had elected him their representive
in the National Convention and he considered it more important to take his seat
in Paris. But his bluntless and love of liberty made him unpopular with the
Jacobins. He was thrown into prison and escaped the guillotine by an accident.
In a chariot of light from the regions of day
The Goddess of
Liberty came;
Ten thousand celestials directed the way
And thither
conducted the Dame.
This fair budding branch, from the garden above,
Where
millions with millions agree,
She bro't in her hand, as a pledge of her
love
The plant she call'd Liberty Tree.
This celestial exotic struck
deep in the ground
Like a native it flourish'd and bore.
The fame of its
fruit drew the nations around
To seek out its peaceable shore.
Unmindful
of names or distinction they came
For freemen like brothers agree,
With
one spirit endow'd, they one friendship pursued
And their temple was Liberty
Tree.
Beneath this fair branch, like the patriarchs of old
Their
bread, in contentment, they eat.
Unwearied with trouble, of silver and
gold,
Or the cares of the grand and the great.
With timber and tar they
old England supplied
Supported her power on the sea;
Her battles they
fought, without having a groat
For the honour of Liberty Tree.
But
hear, O ye swains ('tis a tale most profane)
How all the tyrannical
powers,
King, Commons and Lords are uniting amain
To cut down this
guardian of ours.
From the east to the west, blow the trumpet to
arms
Thro' the land let the sound of it flee;
Let the far and the near,
all unite with a cheer
In defense of our Liberty Tree.
Thomas Paine (1737-1809)
Thomas Russell (1767-1803) organised County Down for the United
Irishmen in 1795. One night he entered the Buck's Head Inn in Killyleagh, where
a number of local men were gathered. One of them, long years after, tells of
that night, and tells where and under what circumstances he saw Russell again.
Russell was imprisoned on the eve of the Rising. On his release in 1802 he
immediately planned rebellion yet again. He was hanged on 21 October, 1803.
Into our townlan', on a night of snow,
Rode a man from
God-knows-where;
None of us bade him stay or go,
Nor deemed him friend,
nor damned him foe.
But we stabled his big roan mare:
For in our townlan'
we're a decent folk,
And if he didn't speak, why none of us spoke,
And we
sat till the fire burned low.
We're a civil sort in our wee place,
So
we made the circle wide
Round Andy Lemon's cheerful blaze,
And wished the
man his lenth o'days;
And a good end to his ride,
He smiled in under his
slouchy hat
Says he: "There's a bit of a joke in that,
For we ride
different ways."
The whiles we smoked we watched him
From his seat
fornenst the glow,
I nudged Joe Moore, "You wouldn't dare
To ask him who
he's for meetin' there,
And how far he has got to go?"
But Joe wouldn't
dare, nor Wully Scott,
And he took no drink neither cold nor hot
This man
from God-knows-where.
It was closin' time, an' late forbye,
When us
ones braved the air
I never saw worse (may I live or die)
Than the sleet
that night, an' I says, says I,
"You'll find he's for stoppin' there."
But
at screek o' day, through the gable pane
I watched him spur in the peltin'
rain,
And I juked from his rovin' eye.
Two winters more, then the
Trouble Year,
When the best that a man could feel
Was the pike he kept in
hidlin's near,
Till the blood o' hate an' the blood o' fear
Would be
redder nor rust on the steel.
Us ones quet from mindin' the farms
Let
them take what we gave wi' the weight o' our arms,
From Saintfield to
Kilkeel.
In the time o' the Hurry, we had no lead
We all of us
fought with the rest
An' if e'er a one shook like a tremblin' reed
None
of us gave neither hint nor heed,
Nor even even'd we'd guessed.
We men of
the North had a word to say,
An' we said it then, in our own dour way,
An'
we spoke as we thought was best.
All Ulster over, the weemen
cried
For the stan'in' crops on the lan'
Many's the sweetheart an' many's
the bride
Would liefer ha' gone till where he died.
An ha' murned
her lone by her man,
But us one weathered the thick of it,
And we used to
dandher along, and sit
In Andy's side by side.
What with discoorse
goin' to and fro,
The night would be wearin' thin,
Yet never so late when
we rose to go
But someone would say: "Do ye min' thon snow,
An' the man
what came wanderin' in?
And we be to fall to the talk again,
If by chance
he was one o' them
The man who went like the win'.
Well,
twas gettin' on past the heat o' the year
When I rode to Newtown fair;
I
sold as I could (the dealers were near
Only three pounds eight for the
Innish steer,
An' nothin' at all for the mare!)
But I met McKee in the
throng o' the street
Says he, "The grass has grown under our feet
Since
they hanged young Warwick here."
And he told me that Boney had promised
help
To a man in Dublin town
Says he, "If ye've laid the pike on the
shelf,
Ye'd better go home hot-fut by yerself,
An' once more take it
down."
So by Comer road I trotted the gray
And never cut corn until
Killyleagh
Stood plain on the risin' groun'.
For a wheen o' days we
sat waitin' the word
To rise and go at it like men,
But no French ships
sailed into Cloughey Bay,
And we heard the black news on a harvest
day
That the cause was lost again;
And Joey and me, and Wully Boy
Scott,
We agreed to ourselves we'd as lief as not
Ha' been found in the
thick o' the slain.
By Downpatrick Gaol I was bound to fare
On a day
I'll remember, feth;
For when I came to the prison square
The people were
waitin' in hundreds there,
An' you wouldn't hear stir nor breath!
For the
sodgers were standin', grim an' tall,
Round a scaffold built there fomenst
the wall,
An' a man stepped out for death!
I was brave an' near to
the edge o' the throng,
Yet I knowed the face again,
An' I knowed the set,
an' I knowed the walk
An' the sound of his strange up-country talk,
For he
spoke out right an' plain.
Then he bowed his head to the swingin'
rope,
While I said, "Please God" to his dying' hope
And "Amen" to his
dying prayer.
That the Wrong would cease and the Right prevail.
For the
man that they hanged at Downpatrick Gaol
Was the man from God-knows-where!
Florence M. Wilson
1798 left ten thousands dead. This poem was first published
anonymously in the 1840s. Despite the poem's sentiments, John Kells Ingram was
never overtly nationalistic; indeed he became a strong unionist in later years.
Who fears to speak of 'Ninety-eight'?
Who blushes at the
name?
When cowards mock the patriot's fate
Who hangs his head for
shame?
He's all a knave or half a slave
Who slights his country
thus,
But a true man, like you, man,
Will fill your glass with
us.
We drink the memory of the brave,
The faithful and the
few,
Some lie far off beyond the wave,
Some sleep in Ireland too;
All,
all are gone, but still lives on
The fame of those who died,
All true men,
like you, men,
Remember them with pride.
Some on the shores of
distant lands
Their weary hearts have laid,
And by the stranger's heedless
hands
Their lonely graves were made;
But though their clay be far
away,
Beyond the Atlantic foam,
In true men, like you, men,
Their
spirit's still at home.
The dust of some is Irish earth,
Among their
own they rest;
And that same land that gave them birth
Has caught them to
her breast;
And we will pray that from their clay
Full many a race may
start
Of true men, like you, men,
To play as brave a part.
They
rose in dark and evil days
To free their native land
And kindled then a
living blaze
That nothing shall withstand;
Alas, that might should conquer
right,
They fell and passed away
But true men, like you, men,
Are
plenty here today.
Then here's their memory, let it be
To us a
guiding light
To cheer our fight for liberty
And teach us to
unite!
Though good and ill be Ireland's still,
Though sad as their your
fate,
Yet true men, be you, men,
Like those of 'Ninety-eight.
John Kells Ingram (1823-1907)
This popular
march tune extols the United Irishmen who joined the long-awaited French under
General Humbert.
While you honour in song and in story the names of
the patriot men,
Whose valour has covered with glory full many a mountain and
glen,
Forget not the boys of the heather, who marshalled their bravest and
best,
When Éire was broken in Wexford, and looked for revenge to the West.
Chorus
I give you the gallant old West, boys,
Where
rallied our bravest and best
When Ireland lay broken and bleeding;
Hurrah
for the men of the West!
The hilltops with glory were glowing. twas the
eve of a bright harvest day,
When the ships we'd been wearily waiting sailed
into Killala' broad bay;
And over the hills went the slogan, to waken in
every breast
The fire that has never been quenched, boys, among the true
hearts of the West.
Killala was ours ere the midnight, and high over
Ballina town
Our banners in triumph were waving before the next sun had gone
down.
We gathered to speed the good work, boys, the true men anear and
afar;
And history can tell how we routed the redcoats through old Castlebar.
And pledge we "The stout sons of France", boys, bold Humbert and all his
brave men,
Whose tramp, like the trumpet of battle, brought hope to the
drooping again.
Since Éire has caught to her bosom on many a mountain and
hill
The gallants who fell so they're here, boys, to cheer us to victory
still.
Though all the bright dreamings we cherished went down in
disaster and woe,
The spirit of old is still with us that never would bend to
the foe;
And Connacht is ready whenever the loud rolling tuck of the
drum
Rings out to awaken the echoes and tell us the morning has come.
So here's to the gallant old West, boys,
Which rallied her bravest
and best
When Ireland was broken and bleeding;
Hurrah, boys! Hurrah for
the West!
William Rooney (1873-1901)
Michael Dwyer (1771-1826)
from the Glen of Imail, County Wicklow, was known as "The Man They Couldn't
Capture". After the rising he led the authorities a merry dance as leader of a
mountain guerilla band. In 1804 he surrendered himself and was transported to a
penal colony in New South Wales, Australia. Twelve years later, Dwyer became
Chief Constable of Liverpool, Sydney.
Have you heard of Michael
Dwyer and his mountain men?
Runs your blood like molten fire when you hear
again
How he dashed like mountain torrent on his country's bitter
foes
Like a thundering, tearing torrent on the craven
Yeos?
Chorus
Here's the chorus, chant it loudly on the still
night air
As the war shout rises proudly o'er the trumpet's blair
Chant
it! Peal it! Till it echoes over ev'ry hill and glen
Here's to gallant
Michael Dwyer and his mountain men
When the stars of freedom vanished and
our flag went down
And the nation's hope was banished from each vale and
town
Borne intact thru' blood and fire Ireland's banner waved again
Held
aloft by Michael Dwyer and his mountain men
Still the nation's hopes are
burning as they burned of yore
And the young and strong are yearning for the
battle's roar
But the blessed star of liberty shall never blaze again
Till
we strike like Michael Dwyer and his mountain men
Peadar Kearney / Paddy Heaney
A contemporary song that
refers to the French at Killala and Castlebar. The "bacaigh Shiol Aindi"
(cripple of the race of Andrew) probably refers to the "Bucky Highlanders"
operating in Mayo during the rebellion. Climbing the "Reek" or Croagh Patrick is
a penitential exercise.
An raibh tú g Cill Ala,
Nó i gCaisleán
an Bharraigh,
Nó'n bhfaca tú n campa
Bhí age na Francaigh?
Mise gus
tusa gus ruball na muice
Gus bacaigh Shíol Aindí, bacaigh Shíol Aindí
Do bhí mé g Cill Ala
S i gCaisleán an Bharraigh
S do chonaic mé n
campa
Bhí age na Francaigh.
Mise gus tusa 7rl.
An raibh tú r a'
gCruach,
Nó n bhfaca tú n slua
Do bhí ar Chruach Phádraic
Bhí ar Cruach
Phádraic?
Mise gus tusa 7rl.
Do bhí mé r a' gCruach
S do chonaic
mé n slua
Do bhí ar Chruach Phádraic
Bhí ar Chruach Phádraic
Mise gus
tusa 7rl.
Anonymous
Were you in Killala or in Castlebar
Or
did you see the camp the French had there?
Me and you and the pig's tail and
Bucky Heelander, Bucky Heelander.
I was in Killala ...
Were you on the
Reek or did you see the throng
That was on Croagh Patrick, that was on Croagh
Patrick ...
I was on the Reek ...
On the eve
of the battle of New Ross, Molly Doyle of Castleboro persuaded her aged father
to return home. She promptly took his place in the insurgent ranks. During the
battle when the rebels ran out of powder and ball, Molly leaped among the dead
and wounded redcoats and cut free their ammunition pouches.
Up from
fitful sleep we wakened at the first kiss of the day;
There was silence by
our watchfires, for we knew the task that lay
To be wrought to joy or ruin
ere the stairs should look again
On the places of our childhood hill and
river, rath and glen.
We were thinking of the dear ones that we left to
face the foe,
And we prayed for all the brave ones that were lying cold and
low,
And we looked upon the meadows staring blank against the sun,
Then we
thought upon the future and the work that must be done.
Fear! we knew
not, for Vengeance burned fierce in every heart;
Doubt! why doubt, when we
but hungered each to do a true man's part?
"On to Ross!" our pulses quickened
as the word from man to man
Passed along, and brave John Kelly forward
stepped to lead the van.
Through the misty summer morn by the hedgerows
bright we sped,
While the lark with joyous music filled the spreading dome
o'erhead.
And the sun rode up the circle, and the earth began to
smile,
But our hearts knew nought of pleasure, they were cold as ice the
while.
Silent all, with stony gaze, and lips as tightly locked as death,
On we went by flowering thorns through the balmy summer's breath,
On,
till Ross was close upon us, then a shout resounding rose,
And like ocean's
waves in winter in we leaped upon our foes!
For a brief, brief spell
they quavered, then their muskets rang reply,
And our boys in hundreds
falling looked their last upon the sky.
But, the empty places filling, still
we rallied to the fray,
Till the misty summer morning wore into the dusty
day.
Then a figure rose above us, twas a girl's fragile frame,
And
among the fallen soldiers there she walked with eyes aflame,
And her voice
rang o'er the clamour like a trumpet o'er the sea:
"Who so dares to die for
Ireland, let him come and follow me."
Then against the line of soldiers
with a gleaming scythe on high,
Lo! she strode, and though their bullets
whistled round, they passed her by,
And a thousand bosoms throbbing, one wild
surging shout we gave,
And we swept them from our pathway like the sand
before the wave.
William Rooney (1873-1901)
Also the loyalist side had
their songs. James Napper Tandy (1740-1803), a Dublin ironmonger, joined the
United Irishman on its foundation. Captured and sentenced to death, he was
released at the request of Napoleon.
The ninth day of November in
the year of ninety-one
The Rebel Napper Tandy his villainy began
In
forming a conspiracy, this nation to embroil
In civil war and mutiny and to
pollute the soil
His wicked crew they did intend our Governors to kill
And any of the Protestants who dare oppose their will
To massacre our
ministers and pull our churches down
To extirpate the Orangemen and take
from George his crown
They burn'd houses and straw stacks the assembled
in the night
Broke upon doors and windows in order to affright
The
people to comply with them crying give out your gun
And unite with us
immediately or else you are undone
The Croppies most outrageously did
take an active part
Against the Church of England and thought to make her
smart
But proidence protected us from this blood-thirsty clan
And
prevented them to act a scene like that of Forty-one
We value not the
Yeomanry these rebels oft did say
Tis easy to disarm them and soon well gain
the day
And every man who is not up shall hang at his own door
And we ll
guillotine each Royalist let him be rich or poor
If on the way we
chanced to meet one of this wicked clan
He asks you Are you up to snuff or
whats that in your hand
And if you know not what to say he answers with a
frown
Since it is a thing you are not up I'll there fore knock you down
They carried on their fury ding there but no-one tells t....
When to
this vile conspiracy a happy check was given
For Government found out their
schemes and turned their plan astray
And made them swear allegiance may we
bless that happy day
Then to disperse this brotherhood Lord Blaney he
came down
To recompense the insolence of each insulting clown
Their
midnight vengeance did reward and filled them with dismay
And for their
perseverance soon he mad the caitiffs pay
But to conclude kind
Providence dispelled the wicked throng
So let us sing God Save the Queen and
may her reign be long
Success to each true Protestant who does maintain this
cause
Against those vile conspirators in honor of his laws
Anonymous
The young
Fenian poet John Keegan Casey died when he was only 23 as a result of the
rigours of imprisonment. The "Singing River" is the Inny which flows into the
Shannon from his native area between Mullingar and Ballymahon. By coincidence,
his birthday was 22 August, the same as General Humbert's and the date Humbert
landed at Killala.
Oh! then tell me, Seán O'Farrell,
Tell me
why you hurry so?
"Hush, mo buachaill, hush and listen,"
And his cheeks
were all aglow.
"I bear orders from the Captain,
Get you ready quick and
soon
For the pikes must be together
By the rising of the moon."
Oh! then tell me, Seán O'Farrell,
Where the gathering is to
be?
"In the old spot by the river
Right well known to you and me.
One
word more for signal token,
Whistle up the marching tune,
With your pike
upon your shoulder,
By the rising of the moon."
Out from many a
mud-wall cabin
Eyes were watching through the night,
Many a manly breast
was throbbing
For the blessed warning light.
Murmurs passed along the
valleys
Like the Banshees lonely croon,
And a thousand blades were
flashing
At the rising of the moon.
There beside the singing
river
That dark mass of men were seen;
Far above the shining
weapons
Hung their own beloved green.
"Death to every foe and
traitor!
Forward! strike the marching tune,
And hurrah, my boys, for
freedom!
Tis the rising of the moon."
Well they fought for poor old
Ireland,
And full bitter was their fate
Oh! what glorious pride and
sorrow
Fill the name of Ninety-eight!
Yet, thank God, e'en still are
beating
Hearts in manhood's burning noon,
Who would follow in their
footsteps
At the rising of the moon!
John Keegan Casey (1846-1870)
After the defeat of the
United Irishmen many were unable to return to their former lives and instead
became brigands. The most notorious gang in Antrim was led by a man named Thomas
Archer. Initially Archer's gang were popular outlaws, exacting revenge on
loyalists in the district but, as time passed, their actions became less
political and more criminal. During early 1800 the members of the gang were
systematically brought to justice and executed. Roddy McCorley was hanged at
Toome on 28 February.
Ho! see the fleetfoot hosts of men
Who
speed with faces wan,
From farmstead and from fisher's cot
Upon the banks
of the Bann.
They come with vengeance in their eyes.
Too late, too late
are they.
For Roddy MacCorley goes to die
On the Bridge of Toome today.
Oh Ireland, Mother Ireland,
You love them still the best;
The
fearless brave who fighting fall,
Upon your hapless breast;
But never a
one of all your dead
More bravely fell in fray,
Than he who marches to his
fate
On the Bridge of Toome today.
Up the narrow street he
stepped
Smiling and proud and young;
About the hemp-rope on his
neck
The golden ringlets clung.
There's never a tear in the blue, blue
eyes
Both glad and bright are they;
As Roddy MacCorley goes to die
On
the Bridge of Toome today.
Ah! when he last stepped up that
street
His shining pike in hand,
Behind him marched in grim array
A
stalwart earnest band!
For Antrim town! for Antrim town!
He led them to
the fray
And Roddy MacCorley goes to die
On the Bridge of Toome today.
The grey coat and its sash of green
Were brave and stainless
then;
A banner flashed beneath the sun
Over the marching men
The coat
hath many a rent this noon
The sash is torn away,
And Roddy MacCorley goes
to die
On the Bridge of Toome today.
Oh! how his pike flashed to the
sun!
Then found a foeman's heart!
Through furious fight, and heavy
odds
He bore a true man's part;
And many a red-coat bit the dust
Before
his keen pike-play
But Roddy MacCorley goes to die
On the Bridge of Toome
today.
Because he loved the Motherland,
Because he loved the
Green,
He goes to meet the martyr's fate
With proud and joyous
mien,
True to the last, true to the last,
He treads the upward way
Young Roddy MacCorley goes to die
On the Bridge of Toome today.
Ethna Carbery (1866-1902)
The "Sean Bhean
Bhocht", literally the "poor old woman", is Ireland unfree, hoping for a French
invasion.
O! The French are on the sea
Says the sean-bhean
bhocht;
The French are on the sea,
Says the sean-bhean bhocht;
O! the
French are in the bay,
They'll be here without delay,
And the Orange will
decay,
Says the sean-bhean bhocht.
And their camp it shall be
where?
Says the sean-bhean bhocht;
Their camp it shall be where?
Says
the sean-bhean bhocht;
On the Curragh of Kildare,
The boys they will be
there,
With their pikes in good repair,
Says the sean-bhean bhocht.
Then what will the yeomen do?
Says the sean-bhean bhocht;
What
will the yeomen do?
Says the sean-bhean bhocht;
What should the yeoman do
But throw off the red and blue,
And swear that they'll be true
To the
sean-bhean bhocht?
And what colour will they wear?
Says the
sean-bhean bhocht;
What colour will they wear?
Says the sean-bhean
bhocht;
What colour should be seen
Where our fathers' homes have
been,
But our own immortal Green?
Says the sean-bhean bhocht.
And
will Ireland then be free?
Says the sean-bhean bhocht;
Will Ireland then
be free?
Says the sean-bhean bhocht;
Yes! Ireland SHALL be free,
From
the centre to the sea;
Then hurrah! for Liberty!
Says the sean-bhean
bhocht.
Anonymous
McCracken's
rebel regiments advanced on Antrim Town (6 June) playing "The Swinish
Multitude". The song was written by Leonard McNally, member of the United
Irishmen from the early 1790s. However, he was also a paid agent of the
government.
Give me the man whose dauntless soul
Oppressions's
threats defires
And bids, though tyrant's thunders roll
The sun of freedom
rise
Who laughs at all the conjured storms
State sorcery waked
'round
At power in all its varying forms
A title's empty sound
Hail
ye friends united here
In virtue's sacred ties
May you like virtue's self
keep clear
Of pensioners and spies
May you by Bastilles ne'er
appalled
See nature's right renewed
Nor longer unavenged be called
The
swinish multitude
Leonard McNally (1752-1820)
Theobald Wolfe Tone (1763-1798) was a Protestant barrister. A champion
of Catholic emancipation, Tone was founder-member of the United Irishmen. His
vision of an independent Ireland, free of sectarianism, had a powerful influence
on contemporaries and later generations.
In Bodenstown churchyard
there is a green grave,
And wildly around it the winter winds rave;
Small
shelter I ween are the ruined walls there
When the storm sweeps down on the
plains of Kildare.
Once I lay on that sod it lies over Wolfe Tone
And
thought how he perished in prison alone,
His friends unavenged and his
country unfreed
"Oh, bitter," I said, "is the patriots meed.
"For in
him the heart of a woman combined
With heroic spirit and a governing mind
A martyr for Ireland, his grave has no stone
His name sheldom named, and
his virtues unknown."
I was woke from my dream by the voices and tread
Of
a band who came into the home of the dead;
They carried no corpse, and they
carried no stone,
And they stopped when they came to the grave of Wolfe Tone.
There were students and peasants, the wise and the brave,
And an old
man who knew him from cradle to grave,
And children who thought me
hard-hearted, for they
On that sanctified sod were forbidden to play.
But
the old man, who saw I was mourning there, said:
"We come, sir, to weep where
young Wolfe Tone is laid,
And we're going to raise him a monument, too
A
plain one, yet fit for the loyal and true."
My heart overflowed, and I
clasped his old hand,
And I blessed him, and blessed every one of his
band:
"Sweet, sweet tis to find that such faith can remain
In the cause
and the man so long vanquished and slain."
In Bodenstown churchyard there is
a green grave,
And freely around it let winter winds rave
Far better they
suit him the ruin and gloom
Till Ireland, a nation, can build him a tomb.
Thomas Davis (1814-1845)
On an angry
autumn morning, sailing down Killala bay
Came the Frenchmen and their
general, too late to save the day
And my Nora waved them welcome, while I
still nursed my wounds
Cruel marks from Tubberneering and all my dreams in
ruins
Chorus
Ah, you Frenchman, ah, you Frenchman! You've
come too late again
To save the flower of freedom that's crushed in every
glen
And your fancy General Humbert, well intended tho' he be
Will never
reap the harvest that was promised to the free
At Castlebar he chased
them, like foxes 'fore the hounds
Lord Roden's vaunted cavalry they raced
across the ground
Seven hundred fiery Frenchmen, Mayo rebels, two
cannon-gun
But I thought of Father Murphy lying dead with Wexford's
sons
Then early in September, I saw it all again
Cornwallis and his
thousands drove Humbert down the glen
While the beaten French were sent to
France, the rebels they were slain
With Tone and Teeling martyred, the
banshee cried again
Pete St. John
Compiled by Walkin'
T:-)M (10/98).
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