From the road by Hackett’s Farm.
‘An’ I’d rather be strolling along the quay,
An’ watching the river flow,
Than growing tea with the cute Chinee,
Or mining in Mexico.
An’ I wouldn’t much care for Sierra Leone,
If I hadn’t seen Killenaule,
An’ the man that ne’er saw Mullinahone
Shouldn’t say he had travelled at all.’
IV
From Connacht to Munster
So Boland and his two travellers have, in the best Chestertonian fashion, brought us round the world and back again, to land us in the heart of Munster, where we may stay for a while – even in the stimulating if somewhat hazardous company of Robert Dwyer Joyce’s Blacksmith of Limerick.
About that blacksmith I have always worried a bit, as I did about Bold Paudh O’Donoghue when the Yeos were in Dunshaughlin and the Hessians in Dunrea. Often as I have been in Dunshaughlin, and frequently in the august company of Brinsley MacNamara, I never saw one Yeo. But bold Paudh and his patriotic fellow in Limerick were overagile with the hammer. And to this day when I am close to them I walk with my head averted.
Here now is the Limerck hero:
THE BLACKSMITH OF LIMERICK
He grasped his ponderous hammer, he could not stand it more,
To hear the bombshells bursting, and the thundering battle’s roar;
He said – The breech they’re mounting, the Dutchman’s murdering crew –
I’ll try my hammer on their heads and see what that can do!
‘Now, swarthy Ned and Moran, make up that iron well;
’Tis Sarsfield’s horse that wants the shoes, so mind not shot nor shell’;
‘Ah sure,’ cried both, ‘the horse can wait – for Sarsfield’s on the wall,
And where you go we’ll follow, with you to stand or fall!’
The blacksmith raised his hammer, and rushed into the street,
His ‘prentice boys behind him, the ruthless foe to meet –
High on the breach of Limerick, with dauntless hearts they stood,
Where the bombshells burst, and shot fell thick, and redly ran the blood.
‘Now, look you, brown-haired Moran, and mark you, swarthy Ned,
This day we’ll prove the thickness of many a Dutchman’s head!
Hurrah! upon their bloody path they’re mounting gallantly;
And now, the first that tops the breach, leave him to this and me!’
The first that gained the rampart, he was a captain brave!
A captain of the grenadiers, with blood-stained dirk and glaive;
He pointed and he parried, but it was all in vain,
For fast through skull and helmet the hammer found his brain!
The next that topped the rampart, he was a colonel bold,
Bright through the murk of battle his helmet flashed with gold –
‘Gold is no match for iron,’ the doughty blacksmith said,
As with that ponderous hammer he cracked his foeman’s head!
‘Hurrah for gallant Limerick!’ black Ned and Moran cried,
As on the Dutchman’s leaden heads their hammers well they plied;
A bombshell burst between them – one fell without a groan,
One leaped into the lurid air, and down the breach was thrown!
‘Brave smith! brave smith!’ cried Sarsfield, ‘beware the treacherous mine –
Brave smith! brave smith! fall backward, or surely death is thine!’
The smith sprang up the rampart and leaped the blood-stained wall,
As high into the shuddering air went foemen, breach, and all!
Up like a red volcano they thundered wild and high,
Spear, gun, and shattered standard, and foemen through the sky;
And dark and bloody was the shower that round the blacksmith fell –
He thought upon his ‘prentice boys, they were avenged well!
On foemen and defenders a silence gathered down,
’Twas broken by a triumph-shout that shook the ancient town;
As out its heroes sallied, and bravely charged and slew,
And taught King William and his men what Irish hearts can do!
Down rushed the swarthy blacksmith unto the river side,
He hammered on the foe’s pontoon, to sink it in the tide;
The timber it was tough and strong, it took no crack or strain –
‘Mavrone, ’twon’t break,’ the blacksmith roared, ‘I’ll try their heads again!’
The blacksmith sought his smithy, and blew his bellows strong,
He shod the steed of Sarsfield, but o’er it sang no song:
‘Ochón! my boys are dead,’ he cried; ‘their loss I’ll long deplore,
But comfort’s in my heart, their graves are red with foreign gore!’
[Robert Dwyer Joyce]
Ouch! And God preserve us. And the moral is: Keep your head down, and keep it in a helmet when you’re passing through Limerick.
But now that Patrick Sarsfield has been mentioned, I may have somewhat more to say about him. Or let Denis A. McCarthy say it in his poem about the famous ride to Ballyneety. I have an odd and comical memory about that poem.
A few miles outside my home town there lived William Norris, a small but industrious and prosperous farmer, and his two rosy-cheeked sisters. Willy was a good Orangeman. There was a long-standing friendship that had nothing to do with politics, just friendship and neighbourliness between my parents and the Norris family. So that, off and on, I would be marched out by two of my sisters to visit the lovely Norrises.
And one July, coming up to the Twelfth, I was asked to stand up and recite. And did, being one of those awful little schoolboys who can remember and recite everything, mathematics excepted. I recited every line of what now follows, and Willy’s sash hanging up there to air for the great Walk and the great Day.
Unaware I was of the political significance of my performance. Nor had I any wish to offend. And Willy Norris was highly delighted, and afterwards persuaded my elder brother to get him the complete words written down. Which my brother, naturally, did.
Did Willy read them out in the Lodge?
Oh, God be with those happy days!
Anyway: here are the words:
The night we rode with Sarsfield out from Limerick to meet
The wagon-train that William hoped would help in our defeat,
How clearly I remember it, though now my hair is white
That clustered’ black and curly ’neath my trooper’s cap that night.
For I was one of Sarsfield’s men, in years though still a lad,
And to be one of Sarsfield’s men what boy would not be glad?
For Sarsfield chose, of all his troops, the best and bravest ones
To ride and raid the convoy’s camp that brought the English guns.
’Twas silently we left the town and silently we rode,
While o’er our heads the silent stars in silver beauty glowed.
And silently and stealthily, well led by one who knew,
We crossed the shining Shannon at the ford of Killaloe.
The galloping O’Hogan, Ireland’s fiery-hearted son,
’Twas he, by many a byway, led us confidently on,
Till when the night was nearly spent we saw the distant glow
The English convoy’s campfire in the quiet vale below.
Still silently and stealthily, at Sarsfield’s stern command
We close and closer drew the lines of our devoted band.
‘We must not fail, my comrades.’ That was Sarsfield’s voice that spoke.
‘For Limerick and Ireland’s fate depend upon this stroke.
The password of the Williamites is Sarsfield. Strange but true.
And with that word upon our lips, we’ll pass the sentries through.
Then when you hear my voice upraised, charge boldly, one and all.
No cannon from this convoy e’er must b
ark at Limerick’s wall.’
The sleepy sentry, on his rounds, perhaps was musing o’er
His happy days of childhood on the pleasant English shore.
Perhaps was thinking of his home and wishing he were there,
When springtime makes the English land so wonderfully fair.
At last our horses’ hoof-beats and our jingling arms he heard.
‘Halt! Who goes there?’ the sentry cried: ‘Advance and give the word.’
‘The word is Sarsfield,’ cried our Chief. ‘And stop us he who can.
For Sarsfield is the word tonight. And Sarsfield is the man.’
One bursting cheer, one headlong charge, and sabres bright and keen
Are hacking at the foemen’s heads where’er a head is seen.
The colonel leaves his wig behind, bestrides a horse and flies
To tell of Sarsfield’s daring and the convoy camp’s surprise.
We make a pile of captured guns and powder-bags and stores,
Then skyward in one flaming blast the great explosion roars.
And then we sang, as back we rode with Sarsfield in the van:
‘Ho! Sarsfield is the word tonight and Sarsfield is the man.’
The night we rode with Sarsfield, I shall always hold it dear,
Though he is dead on Landen Plain, this many and many a year.
Though he is dead and I am old, my hair all silver white
That clustered black and curly ’neath my trooper’s cap that night.
For I was one of Sarsfield’s men, while yet a boy in years
I rode as one of Sarsfield’s men and men were my compeers.
They’re dead, the most of them, afar, yet they were Ireland’s sons
Who saved the walls of Limerick from the might of English guns.
But here and now is another Limerick hero. He was first introduced to me a long long time ago in the columns of Ireland’s Own. His story, as told here, may take up overmuch space in this assembly: and, perhaps, he should not even be admitted. But I have a sort of old affection for him and I can’t keep him out. He keeps beating on the door. He may break it in. He is, I’d say, a blood relation of Tam O’Shanter.
So, come in Drunken Thady and the Bishop’s Lady:
DRUNKEN THADY
(a legend of Limerick)
Before the famed year Ninety-eight,
In blood stamp’d Ireland’s wayward fate;
When laws of death and transportation
Were served, like banquets, thro’ the nation –
But let it pass – the tale I dwell on
Has nought to do with red Rebellion;
Altho’ it was a glorious ruction,
And nearly wrought our foes’ destruction.
There lived and died in Limerick City,
A dame of fame – Oh! what a pity
That dames of fame should live and die,
And never learn for what, or why!
Some say her maiden name was Brady,
And others say she was a Grady;
The d___ I choke their contradictions!
For truth is murder’d by their fictions.
’Tis true she lived – ’tis true she died,
’Tis true she was a Bishop’s bride,
But for herself, ’tis little matter
To whom she had been wife or daughter.
Whether of Bradys or O’Gradys!
She lived, like most ungodly ladies,
Spending his Reverend Lordship’s treasure;
Chasing the world’s evil pleasure;
In love with suppers, cards, and balls,
And luxurious sin of festive halls,
Where flaming hearts, and flaming wine,
Invite the passions all to dine.
She died – her actions were recorded –
Whether in Heaven or Hell rewarded
We know not, but her time was given
Without a thought of Hell or Heaven.
Her days and nights were spent in mirth –
She made her genial Heaven of earth;
And never dreamt, at balls and dinners,
There is a Hell to punish sinners.
How quick Time throws his rapid measure
Along the date of wordly pleasure?
A beam of light, ’mid cloudy shadows,
Flitting along the autumn meadows;
A wave that glistens on the shore,
Retires, and is beheld no more;
A blast that stirs the yellow leaves
Of fading woods, in autumn eves;
A star’s reflection on the tide,
Which gathering shadows soon shall hide. –
Such and so transient, the condition
Of earthly joys and man’s ambition.
Death steals behind the smile of joy,
With weapon ready to destroy;
And, tho’ a hundred years were past,
He’s sure to have his prey at last.
And, when the fated hour is ready,
He cares not for a lord or lady;
But lifts his gun, and snaps the trigger
And shoots alike the king and beggar.
And thus the heroine of our tale,
He shot, as fowlers shoot a quail;
And, ’mid the flash of pomp and splendour,
He made her soul the world surrender.
She join’d her father’s awful forms
’Mid rolling clouds and swelling storms;
And, lest the Muse would be a liar,
I’m led to think she went no higher.
But now I have some secret notion,
She did not like her new promotion;
For if she did she would remain,
And scorn to come to earth again.
But earth, the home of her affection,
Could not depart her recollection!
So she return’d to flash and shine,
But never more to dance or dine!
The story of her resurrection
Flew out in many a queer direction!
Each night, she roam’d, with airy feet,
From Thomond Bridge to Castle-street;
And those that stay’d out past eleven,
Would want a special guard from Heaven,
To shield them, with a holy wand,
From the mad terrors of her hand!
She knock’d two drunken soldiers dead,
Two more, with batter’d foreheads, fled;
She broke the sentry-box in staves,
And dash’d the fragments in the waves!
She slash’d the gunners, left and right,
And put the garrison to flight!
The devil, with all his faults and failings,
Was far more quiet in his dealings
(Notwithstanding all that he lost)
Than this unruly, rampant she-ghost!
No pugilist in Limerick Town,
Could knock a man so quickly down,
Or deal an active blow so ready
To floor one, as the Bishop’s Lady!
And thus the ghost appear’d and vanished,
Until her Ladyship was banish’d
By Father Power whom things of evil
Dread as mortals dread the devil!
Off to the Red Sea shore he drove her,
From which no tide nor time can move her,
From numbering sands upon the coast
That skirts the grave of Pharaoh’s host!
A lady of her high-born station
Must have acquired great education
For such a clerkship – numbering sands,
With no account-book, save her hands!
But, ere the Priest removed the Lady,
There lived a ‘Boy’, call’d ‘Drunken Thady’!
In Thomond-gate, of social joys,
The birth-place of the ‘Devil’s Boys’!
Thade knew his country’s history well,
And for her sake would go to hell!
F
or hours he’d sit and madly reason
Upon the honours of high treason!
What Bills the House had lately got in,
What Croppies nimbly danced on nothing!
And how the wily game of State
Was dealt and play’d in Ninety-eight!
How Wexford fought – how Ross was lost!
And all to Erin’s bloody cost!
But had the powers of Munster ’risen,
Erin had England by the weasan’!
He told long tales about those play-boys,
Call’d Terry Alts and Peep-o’-day Boys
Who roused, at night, the sleeping country,
And terrified the trembling gentry!
Now who dare say that Irish history
To Thady’s breeding was a mystery?
Altho’ the Parish Priest proclaim’d him,
And first of living devils named him!
In heart he was an Irish Lumper,
But all his glory was a bumper!
He believed in God, right firm and well,
But served no Heaven and feared no Hell!
A sermon on Hell’s pains may start him,
It may convince but not convert him!
He knew his failing and his fault
Lay in the tempting drop of malt;
And every day his vice went further,
And, as he drank, his heart grew harder.
Ah, Thady! oft the Parish Priest
Call’d you a wicked, drunken beast!
And said you were the devil’s handle
Of brazen, bare-faced, public scandal!
An imp – without the least contrition –
At whiskey, discord and sedition!
That drinking was your sole enjoyment,
And breaking doors your whole employment!
That you – at every drunken caper –
Made windows change their glass for paper!
That sure as closed each Sunday night in,
You set near half the parish fighting!
That, with your constant, droughty quaffing,
You broke Moll Dea and Biddy Lavin!
And drove the two poor widows begging,
For not a drop you left their keg in!
If Satan stood, with his artillery,
As I Rode by Granard Moat Page 19