[6] “Metrical History of the Deposition of Richard II.”

The news of McMurrough’s victory and of the death of his heir brought Richard back again to Ireland.  He returned in hot wrath resolved this time to crush the delinquents.  At home everything seemed safe.  John of Gaunt was recently dead; Henry of Lancaster still in exile; the Percys had been driven over the border into Scotland.  All his enemies seemed to be crushed or extinguished.  With an army nearly as large as before, and with vast supplies of stores and arms, he landed at Waterford in 1399.

This time Art McMurrough quietly awaited his coming in a wood not far from the landing-place.  He had only 3,000 men about him, so prudently declined to be drawn from that safe retreat of the assailed.  The king and his army sat down on the outskirts of the wood.  It was July, but the weather was desperately wet.  The ground was in a swamp, the rain incessant; there was nothing but green oats for the horses.  The whole army suffered from damp and exposure.  Some labourers were hastily collected, and an attempt made to cut down the wood.  This, too, as might be expected, proved a failure, and Richard, in disgust and vexation, broke up his camp, and with great difficulty, dragging his unwieldy army after him, fell back upon Dublin.

The Leinster chief was not slow to avail himself of the situation.  He now took a high hand, and demanded to be put in possession of certain lands he claimed through his wife, as well as to retain his chieftaincy.  A treaty was set on foot, varied by the despatch of a flying column to scour his country.  In the middle of the negotiation startling news arrived.  Henry of Lancaster had landed at Ravenspur, and all England was in arms.  The king set off to return, but bad weather and misleading counsel kept him another sixteen days on Irish soil.  It was a fatal sixteen days.  When he reached Milford Haven it was to find the roads blocked, and to be met by the news that all was lost.  The army of Welshmen, gathered by Salisbury, had dispersed, finding that the king did not arrive.  His own army of 30,000 men caught the panic, and melted equally rapidly.  He tried to negotiate with his cousin, but too late.  At Chester he fell into the hands of the victor, and, within a few weeks after leaving Ireland, had passed to a prison, and from there to a grave.  He was the last English king to set foot upon its soil until nearly exactly three centuries later, when two rivals met to try conclusions upon the same blood-stained arena.

From this out matters grew from bad to worse.  Little or no attempt was made to enforce the law save within the ever-narrowing boundary of what about this time came to be known as the Pale.  Outside, Ireland grew to be more and more the Ireland of the natives.  Art McMurrough ruled over his own country triumphantly till his death, and levied tribute right and left with even-handed impartiality upon his neighbours.