THE SONG OF THE BOW

What of the bow? 
   The bow was made in England: 
Of true wood, of yew-wood,
   The wood of English bows;
      So men who are free
      Love the old yew-tree
And the land where the yew-tree grows.

What of the cord? 
   The cord was made in England: 
A rough cord, a tough cord,
   A cord that bowmen love;
      And so we will sing
      Of the hempen string
And the land where the cord was wove.

What of the shaft? 
   The shaft was cut in England: 
A long shaft, a strong shaft,
   Barbed and trim and true;
      So we’ll drink all together
      To the grey goose-feather
And the land where the grey goose flew.

What of the mark? 
   Ah, seek it not in England,
A bold mark, our old mark
   Is waiting over-sea. 
      When the strings harp in chorus,
      And the lion flag is o’er us,
It is there that our mark will be.

What of the men? 
   The men were bred in England: 
The bowmen—­the yeomen,
   The lads of dale and fell. 
      Here’s to you—­and to you! 
      To the hearts that are true
And the land where the true hearts dwell.

CREMONA

[The French Army, including a part of the Irish Brigade, under Marshal Villeroy, held the fortified town of Cremona during the winter of 1702.  Prince Eugene, with the Imperial Army, surprised it one morning, and, owing to the treachery of a priest, occupied the whole city before the alarm was given.  Villeroy was captured, together with many of the French garrison.  The Irish, however, consisting of the regiments of Dillon and of Burke, held a fort commanding the river gate, and defended themselves all day, in spite of Prince Eugene’s efforts to win them over to his cause.  Eventually Eugene, being unable to take the post, was compelled to withdraw from the city.]

The Grenadiers of Austria are proper men and tall;
The Grenadiers of Austria have scaled the city wall;
   They have marched from far away
   Ere the dawning of the day,
And the morning saw them masters of Cremona.

There’s not a man to whisper, there’s not a horse to neigh;
Of the footmen of Lorraine and the riders of Dupres,
   They have crept up every street,
   In the market-place they meet,
They are holding every vantage in Cremona.

The Marshal Villeroy he has started from his bed;
The Marshal Villeroy has no wig upon his head;
   ‘I have lost my men!’ quoth he,
   ’And my men they have lost me,
And I sorely fear we both have lost Cremona.’

Prince Eugene of Austria is in the market-place;
Prince Eugene of Austria has smiles upon his face;
   Says he, ’Our work is done,
   For the Citadel is won,
And the black and yellow flag flies o’er Cremona.’