Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Ireland: Vol. V. 1876–79.
The Blacksmith of Limerick
By Robert Dwyer Joyce (18301883)H
To hear the bombshells bursting, and thundering battle’s roar;
He said, “The breach they ’re mounting, the Dutchman’s murdering crew,—
I ’ll try my hammer on their heads, and see what that can do!
’T is Sarsfield’s horse that wants the shoes, so mind not shot or 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!”
His ’prentice boys behind him, the ruthless foe to meet;
High on the breach of Limerick, with dauntless hearts they stood,
Where bombshells burst, and shot fell thick, and redly ran the blood.
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!”
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!
Bright, through the dust 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.
As on the Dutchmen’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! 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!
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 avengéd well.
’T was 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 could do!
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! ’t won’t break,” the blacksmith roared; “I ’ll try their heads again!”
For in through blood and bone it crashed, through helmet and through jack;—
He ’s ta’en a Holland captain, beside the red pontoon,
And “Wait you here,” he boldly cries; “I ’ll send you back full soon!
And yours ’t will crack if you don’t stand and list to what I say:
Here! take it to your curséd king, and tell him softly too,
’T would be acquainted with his skull if he were here, not you!”
He shod the steed of Sarsfield, but o’er it sang no song.
“Ochone! 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!”