WITH THE StTorY TELLERS

No prisoners take! ’tis better kill,
Who laws defy and sovereign’s will.
Nor quit this gloomy vale until
Your swords have drunk their blood.”
Onward proceeds the British line,
Through the entangling wood,
Unable clearly to define
Where clan O’Byrne stood;
But soon was heard an ominous shout
Some distance up the glade;
Volleys of musket shots rung out,
From ambuscades well laid.
The skirmishers from Feach’s command
Pour in a deadly fire,
And cowardly Cosby’s murderers
The first were to retire;
But forward pressed the Englishmen,
To battle with their foes,
And in that narow strip of glen,
Beset with brush and briar and fen,
The sword and battle-axe met then
And deadly were their blows.

Lord Grey’s courtiers their laughter ceased,
The volleys heavier grew;
Attacks with sword and pike and gun
The combatants renew.
His horse to charge the rebel flank,
He now seeks to employ;
But on a rugged mountain side
Can cavalry deploy?
He orders up all the reserves,
His footmen to support;
’Tis plain Lord Wilton does not now
Think fighting is all sport.
But on the left Sir Francis
Cosby, of hellish fame,

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