And he clutch'd his claymore, and—"look yonder," laughed he,
"What a grand commissariat for Beal-an-atha-buidh."
VIII.
Near the chief, a grim tyke, an O'Shanaghan stood,
His nostril dilated seemed snuffing for blood;
Rough and ready to spring, like the wiry wolf-hound
Of Ternè, who, tossing his pike with a bound,
IX.
Cried, "My hand to the Sassenach! ne'er may I hurl
Another to earth if I call him a churl!
He finds me in clothing, in booty, in bread—
My Chief, won't O'Shanaghan give him a bed?"
X.
"Land of Owen, aboo!" and the Irish rush'd on—
The foe fir'd but one volley—their gunners are gone,
Before the bare bosoms the steel-coats have fled,
Or, despite casque or corslet, lie dying and dead.
XI.
And brave Harry Bagenal, he fell while he fought,
With many gay gallants—they slept as men ought:
Their faces to heaven—there were others, alack!
By pikes overtaken, and taken aback.
XII.
And my Irish got clothing, coin, colours, great store,
Arms, forage, and provender—plunder galor!
They munch'd the white manchets—they champ'd the brown chine,
Fillelue! for that day, how the natives did dine!
XIII.
O'Nial looked on, when O'Shanaghan rose,
And cried, hearken Tyrone! I've a health to propose—
"To our Sassenach hosts!" and all quaff'd in huge glee.
With Cead mile failte go, Beal-an-atha-buidh!
