Duke Schomberg then, in friendly care,
His King would often caution
To shun the spot where bullets hot
Retained their rapid motion;

But William said, "He don't deserve
The name of Faith's Defender,
Who would not venture life and limb
To make a foe surrender."

When we the Boyne began to cross,
The enemy they descended;
But few of our brave men were lost,
So stoutly we defended;

The horse was the first that marched o'er,
The foot soon followed after;

But brave Duke Schomberg was no more,
By venturing over the water.

When valiant Schomberg he was slain,
King William he accosted

His warlike men for to march on,
And he would be the foremost;
"Brave boys," he said, "be not dismayed
For the loss of one commander,
For God will be our King this day,
And I'll be General under."

Then stoutly we the Boyne did cross,
To give the enemies battle;
Our cannon, to our foes great cost,
Like thund'ring claps did rattle.

In majestic mein our prince rode o'er;

His men soon followed after,

With blows and shout put our foes to the rout
The day we crossed the water.

The Protestants of Drogheda

Have reason to be thankful,

That they were not to bondage brought,

They being but a handful.

First to the Tholsel they were brought,

And tied at Millmount after;*

But brave King William set them free,

By venturing over the water.

* To elucidate this line, it is necessary to refer to an assertion, which it is only fair to say was made by an anonymous writer, to the effect, that the Protestant prisoners in the hands of the garrison of Drogheda were tied together on the Mount, in Drogheda, that, in case of William bombarding the town, they must have been exposed to the fire.--Memoirs of Ireland, by the author of the Secret History of Europe, 1716; p. 221.

The cunning French near to Duleek
Had taken up their quarters,
And fenced themselves on every side,
Still waiting for new orders;
But in the dead time of the night
They set the fields on fire,
And long before the morning light
To Dublin they did retire.

Then said King William to his men,
After the French departed,

66

"I'm glad," said he, that none of ye
Seem to be faint-hearted;

So sheathe your swords and rest awhile,
In time we'll follow after."

Those words he uttered with a smile
The day he crossed the water.

Come, let us all with heart and voice
Applaud our lives' defender,
Who at the Boyne his valour showed,
And made his foe surrender.
To God above the praise we'll give
Both now and ever after;

And bless the glorious memory

Of King William that crossed the water.

THE BATTLE OF THE BOYNE.

COLONEL BLACKER.

It cannot be wondered at, that, from the great importance of the Battle of the Boyne, it should have been so celebrated in song by the party which triumphed. Having given the more modern song on the occasion, and the fragments of the ancient one, a third ballad on the subject may seem excessive; but it seems to me so well done as to have an undeniable claim to appear; and the soldier-minstrel, in a true soldier-spirit, has done justice to the gallantry of his countrymen on both sides of the fight, with a liberality as are as it is honourable in party chroniclers.

Ir was upon a summer's morn, unclouded rose the sun,
And lightly o'er the waving corn their way the breezes won ;
Sparkling beneath that orient beam, 'mid banks of verdure gay,
Its eastward course a silver stream held smilingly away.

A kingly host upon its side a monarch camp'd around,
Its southern upland far and wide their white pavilions crowned;
Not long that sky unclouded show'd, nor long beneath the ray
That gentle stream in silver flowed, to meet the new-born day.

Through yonder fairy-haunted glen, from out that dark ravine,
Is heard the tread of marching men, the gleam of arms is seen;
And plashing forth in bright array along yon verdant banks,
All eager for the coming fray, are rang'd the martial ranks.

Peals the loud gun-its thunders boom the echoing vales along,
While curtain'd in its sulph'rous gloom moves on the gallant throng;
And foot and horse in mingled mass, regardless all of life,
With furious ardour onward pass to join the deadly strife.

Nor strange that with such ardent flame each glowing heart beats high,
Their battle-word was William's name, and "Death or Liberty!"
Then, Oldbridge, then thy peaceful bowers with sounds unwonted rang,
And Tredagh, 'mid thy distant towers, was heard the mighty clang ;
The silver stream is crimson'd wide, and clogg'd with many a corse,
As floating down its gentle tide come mingled man and horse.
Now fiercer grows the battle's rage, the guarded stream is cross'd,
And furious, hand to hand engage each bold contending host;

He falls the veteran hero falls, † renowned along the Rhine-
And he, whose name, while Derry's walls endure, shall brightly shine.‡
Oh! would to heav'n that churchman bold, his arms with triumph blest,
The soldier spirit had controll'd that fir'd his pious breast.

And he, the chief of yonder brave and persecuted band,§
Who foremost rush'd amid the wave, and gain'd the hostile strand ;—
He bleeds, brave Caillemote-he bleeds-'tis clos'd, his bright career;
Yet still that band to glorious deeds his dying accents cheer.

And now that well-contested strand successive columns gain,
While backward James's yielding band are borne across the plain.
In vain the sword green Erin draws, and life away doth fling—||
Oh! worthy of a better cause and of a bolder king.

In vain thy bearing bold is shown upon that blood-stain'd ground;
Thy tow'ring hopes are overthrown, thy choicest fall around.
Nor, sham'd, abandon thou the fray, nor blush, though conquer'd there,
A power against thee fights to-day no mortal arm may dare.

Nay, look not to that distant height in hope of coming aid-
The dastard thence has ta'en his flight, and left thee all betray'd.¶
Hurrah! hurrah! the victor shout is heard on high Donore;
Down Platten's vale, in hurried rout, thy shatter'd masses pour.

*King William's Glen, near Townley Hall.

Walker, the gallant defender of Derry.

+ Duke Schomberg.

§ Caillemote, who commanded a regiment of French Protestants.

This is fair and handsome testimony to the gallantry of the Jacobite Irish that day. It might be more truly said that James's courage forsook him that day, for he was not constitutionally a coward.

*

But many a gallant spirit there retreats across the plain,
Who, change but kings, would gladly dare that battle-field again.
Enough enough! the victor cries; your fierce pursuit forbear,
Let grateful prayer to heaven arise, and vanquished freeman spare!
Hurrah! hurrah! for liberty, for her the sword we drew,
And dar'd the battle, while on high our Orange banners flew
Woe worth the hour-woe worth the state, when men shall cease to join
With grateful hearts to celebrate the glories of the Boyne!

;

*This alludes to the expression attributed to Sarsfield-"Only change kings, and we will fight the battle over again." A braver soldier than Sarsfield never drew sword. His regiment, after repeatedly repulsing the enemy, was obliged to leave the field as body-guard to the king. Sarsfield was very indignant at this, and as his regiment was the first to retire, he insisted afterwards, on the retrograde movement southward, that it should be the last, to cover the retreat. Sarsfield afterwards fell in battle in Flanders, and as his life. blood flowed from him, he exclaimed-" Would that it were shed for Ireland !"

THE WHITE COCKADE.

Translated from the Irish, by J. J. CALLANAN.

Ireland is not strong in Jacobite songs; she could not be expected to compete in this particular with Scotland, where the very heart of the Jacobite cause lay, and whose Jacobite relicks are some of the finest things in lyric poetry. But Ireland always fought for the "white cockade," and it may be that love for the white rose, which dated much further back than the cause of the Stuarts, had something to do with it. One of the Dukes of the house of York had been Lord Deputy in Ireland, and about the best Ireland ever had, and Ireland never forgot that to the white rose.

KING CHARLES he is King James's son,

And from a royal line is sprung;

Then
up

with shout, and out with blade,
And we'll raise once more the white cockade.
O! my dear, my fair-hair'd youth,

Thou yet hast hearts of fire and truth;
Then up with shout, and out with blade-
We'll raise once more the white cockade.

My young
men's hearts are dark with woe;
On my virgins' cheeks the grief-drops flow;
The sun scarce lights the sorrowing day,
Since our rightful prince went far away;
He's gone, the stranger holds his throne;
The royal bird far off is flown:

But up with shout, and out with blade-
We'll stand or fall with the white cockade.

No more the cuckoo hails the spring,

The woods no more with the stanch-hounds ring ;
The song from the glen, so sweet before,
Is hush'd since Charles has left our shore.
The prince is gone: but he soon will come,
With trumpet sound, and with beat of drum :
Then up with shout, and out with blade-
Huzza for the right and the white cockade.

To show, however, that Ireland was not deficient in wit on the subject of the white rose, the following anecdote may serve : The celebrated Lord Chesterfield, who governed Ireland "with rare ability and a most rare liberality"* in 1744, when told by an alarmist that the "Papists were dangerous," replied he had never seen but one dangerous Papist, and that was Miss, a particularly lovely woman. This lady, sharing in the admiration and gratitude of the Roman Catholics, wished to show the Earl how thoroughly she could overcome political prejudice, and on a public occasion at Dublin Castle wore a breast-knot of orange ribbon: the Earl, pleased at the incident, requested St. Leger (afterwards Lord Doneraile), celebrated for his wit, to say something handsome to her on the occasion. The request occasioned the following impromptu :

"Say, little Tory, why this jest

Of wearing orange on thy breast,

Since the same breast, uncover'd, shows

The whiteness of the rebel rose?"

Pict. Hist. Eng.

OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY.

Jacobite Song, 1715.

From the Irish. Translated by E. WALSH.

ONCE I bloom'd a maiden young;

A widow's woe now moves my tongue;
My true-love's barque ploughs ocean's spray,
Over the hills and far away.

Chorus-Oh! had I worlds, I'd yield them now,
To place me on his tall barque's prow,

Who was my choice through childhood's day,
Over the hills and far away!

Oh! may we yet our lov'd one meet,
With joy-bells' chime, and wild drums' beat;
While summoning war-trump sounds dismay,
Over the hills and far away!

Oh! had I worlds, &c.