Can’t baulk their powers,
   Off go the weapons by sea and shore,
       To where the Cork men
       And smart New York men
   Are daily piling their precious store.

       John Bull, in wonder,
       With voice like thunder,
   Declares such plunder he roust dislike,
       They next may rowl in
       And sack Haulbowline,
   Or on a sudden run off with Spike. 
      His peace is vanished,
       His joys are banished,
   And gay or happy no more he’ll be,
       Until those Cork men
       And wild New York men
   Are sunk together beneath the sea.

       Oh, bold New York men
       And daring Cork men,
   We own your pleasures should all grow dim,
       On thus discerning
       And plainly learning
   That your amusement gives pain to him. 
       Yet, from the nation,
       This salutation
   Leaps forth, and echoes with thunderous sound—­
       “Here’s to all Cork men,
       Likewise New York men,
   Who stand for Ireland, the world around!”

But Captain Mackay, skilful and “lucky” as he was, was trapped at last.

On the evening of the 7th of February, 1868, he walked into the grocery and spirit shop of Mr. Cronin in Market-street—­not to drink whiskey or anything of that sort, for he was a man of strictly temperate habits, and he well knew that of all men those who are engaged in the dangerous game of conspiracy and revolution can least afford to partake of drinks that may unloose their tongues and let their wits run wild.  He called for a glass of lemonade, and recognising some persons who were in the shop at the time, he commenced a conversation with them.

Only a few minutes from the time of his entrance had elapsed when a party of police, wearing a disguise over their uniforms, rushed into the shop, and commanded the door to be shut.

The men inside attempted to separate and escape, but they were instantly grappled by the police.  One of the force seized Captain Mackay by the collar, and a vigorous struggle between them at once commenced.  The policeman was much the larger man of the two, but the Fenian Captain was wiry and muscular, and proved quite a match for him.  They fell, and rose, and fell, and rose again, the policeman undermost sometimes, and at other times the Fenian Captain.  They struggled for nearly twenty minutes.

“Dead or alive, I’ll take you,” said the policeman, as he drew his revolver from his pocket.

“I have but one life, to lose, and if it goes, so be it,” replied Mackay drawing a weapon of the same kind.

In another instant there was a clash as of striking steel, and a discharge of one of the weapons.

“Good God!  I’m shot!” exclaimed Constable Casey from, the end of the room, and he fell upon the floor.

Captain Mackay’s revolver had gone off in the struggle, and the ball had struck the constable in the leg, inflicting on him a serious wound.