O MY daughter! lead me forth to the bastion on the north, | |
| Let me see the water running from the green hills of Tyrone, | |
| Where the woods of Mountjoy quiver above the changeful river, | |
| And the silver trout lie hidden in the pools that I have known. | |
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| There I wooed your mother, dear! in the days that are so near | 5 |
| To the old man who lies dying in this sore-beleaguered place; | |
| For time’s long years may sever, but love that liveth ever, | |
| Calls back the early rapture—lights again the angel face. | |
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| Ah, well! she lieth still on our wall-engirdled hill, | |
| Our own Cathedral holds her till God shall call His dead; | 10 |
| And the Psalter’s swell and wailing, and the cannon’s loud assailing, | |
| And the preacher’s voice and blessing, pass unheeded o’er her head. | |
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| ’Twas the Lord who gave the word when his people drew the sword | |
| For the freedom of the present, for the future that awaits. | |
| O child! thou must remember that bleak day in December | 15 |
| When the Prentice-Boys of Derry rose up and shut the gates. | |
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| There was tumult in the street, and a rush of many feet— | |
| There was discord in the Council, and Lundy turned to fly, | |
| For the man had no assurance of Ulstermen’s endurance, | |
| Nor the strength of him who trusteth in the arm of God Most High. | 20 |
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| These limbs that now are weak, were strong then, and thy cheek | |
| Held roses that were red as any rose in June— | |
| That now are wan, my daughter! as the light on the Foyle water | |
| When all the sea and all the land are white beneath the moon. | |
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| Then the foemen gathered fast—we could see them marching past— | 25 |
| The Irish from his barren hills, the Frenchman from his wars, | |
| With their banners bravely beaming, and to our eyes their seeming | |
| Was fearful as a locust band, and countless as the stars. | |
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| And they bound us with a cord from the harbour to the ford, | |
| And they raked us with their cannon, and sallying was hot; | 30 |
| But our trust was still unshaken, though Culmore fort was taken, | |
| And they wrote our men a letter, and and they sent it in a shot. | |
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| They were soft words that they spoke, how we need not fear their yoke, | |
| And they pleaded by our homesteads, and by our children small, | |
| And our women fair and tender; but we answered: “No surrender!” | 35 |
| And we called on God Almighty, and we went to man the wall. | |
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| There was wrath in the French camp; we could hear their Captain’s stamp, | |
| And Rosen, with his hand on his crossed hilt, swore | |
| That little town of Derry, not a league from Culmore ferry, | |
| Should lie a heap of ashes on the Foyle’s green shore. | 40 |
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| Like a falcon on her perch, our fair Cathedral Church | |
| Above the tide-vext river looks eastward from the bay— | |
| Dear namesake of St. Columb, and each morning, sweet and solemn, | |
| The bells, through all the tumult, have called us in to pray. | |
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| Our leader speaks the prayer—the captains are all there— | 45 |
| His deep voice never falters, though his look be sad and grave | |
| On the women’s pallid faces, and the soldiers in their places, | |
| And the stones above our brothers that lie buried in the nave. | |
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| They are closing round us still by the river; on the hill | |
| You can see the white pavilions round the standard of their chief; | 50 |
| But the Lord is up in heaven, though the chances are uneven, | |
| Though the boom is in the river whence we looked for our relief. | |
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| And the faint hope dies away at the close of each long day, | |
| As we see the eyes grow lustreless, the pulses beating low; | |
| As we see our children languish. Was ever martyr’s anguish, | 55 |
| At the stake or in the dungeon, like this anguish that we know? | |
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| With the foemen’s closing line, while the English make no sign, | |
| And the daily lessening ration, and the fall of staggering feet, | |
| And the wailing low and fearful, and the women, stern and tearful, | |
| Speaking bravely to their husbands and their lovers in the street. | 60 |
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| There was trouble in the air when we met this day for prayer, | |
| And the joyous July morning was heavy in our eyes; | |
| Our arms were by the altar as we sang aloud the Psalter, | |
| And listened in the pauses for the enemy’s surprise. | |
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| “Praise the Lord God in the height, for the glory of His might!” | 65 |
| It rang along the arches and it went out to the town: | |
| “In His strength He hath arisen, He hath loosed the souls in prison, | |
| The wronged one He hath righted, and raised the fallen-down.” | |
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| And the preacher’s voice was bold as he rose up then and told | |
| Of the triumph of the righteous, of the patience of the saints, | 70 |
| And the hope of God’s assistance, and the greatness of resistance, | |
| Of the trust that never wearies and the heart that never faints. | |
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| Where the river joins the brine, canst thou see the ships in line? | |
| And the plenty of our craving just beyond the cruel boom? | |
| Through the dark mist of the firing canst thou see the masts aspiring, | 75 |
| Dost thou think of one who loves thee on that ship amidst the gloom? | |
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| She was weary, she was wan, but she climbed the rampart on, | |
| And she looked along the water where the good ships lay afar: | |
| Oh! I see on either border their cannon ranged in order, | |
| And the boom across the river, and the waiting men-of-war. | 80 |
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| There’s death in every hand that holds a lighted brand, | |
| But the gallant little Mountjoy comes bravely to the front. | |
| Now, God of Battles, hear us! Let that good ship draw near us. | |
| Ah! the brands are at the touch-holes—will she bear the cannon’s brunt? | |
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| She makes a forward dash. Hark! hark! the thunder-crash! | 85 |
| O father, they have caught her—she is lying on the shore. | |
| Another crash like thunder—will it tear her ribs asunder? | |
| No, no! the shot has freed her—she is floating on once more. | |
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| She pushes her white sail through the bullets leaden hail— | |
| Now blessings on her captain and on her seamen bold!— | 90 |
| Crash! crash! the boom is broken; I can see my true love’s token— | |
| A lily in his bonnet, a lily all of gold. | |
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| She sails up to the town, like a queen in a white gown | |
| Red golden are her lilies, true gold are all her men. | |
| Now the Phoenix follows after—I can hear the women’s laughter, | 95 |
| And the shouting of the soldiers, till the echoes ring again. * * * * * | |
| She has glided from the wall, on her lover’s breast to fall, | |
| As the white bird of the ocean drops down into the wave; | |
| And the bells are madly ringing, and a hundred voices singing, | |
| And the old man on the bastion has joined the triumph stave. | 100 |
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| Sing ye praises through the land; the Lord with His right hand, | |
| With His mighty arm hath gotten Himself the victory now. | |
| He hath scattered their forces, both the riders and their horses. | |
| There is none that fighteth for us, O God! but only Thou. | |
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