Patrick Sarsfield, Lord Lucan (circa 1691)

After the Siege of Limerick in 1691, Patrick Sarsfield with the flower
of the Irish aristocracy passed over to the Continent, where as
Catholics they could still achieve positions that matched their birth
and rank. A few---like the O’Dwyer of the following poem---lingered,
but as little better than outlaws.The O’Connells and O’Learys of a
later poem were in fact outlaws. It is astoishing this on really
belongs to the same period. For the first time we hear the voice of
the plain people of Ireland, left without leaders or masters.


Farewell Patrick Sarsfield, wherever you may roam,
You crossed the seas to France and left empty camps at home,
To plead our cause before many a foreign throne
Though you left ourselves and poor Ireland overthrown.

Good luck Patrick Sarsfield you were sent to us by God,
And holy forever is the earth that you trod;
May the sun and the white moon light your way,
You trounced King Billy and won the day.

With you Patrick Sarsfield goes the prayer of everyone,
My own prayer too, and the prayer of Mary’s Son,
You rode through Birr, the Narrow Ford you passed,
You beat them at Cullen and took Limerick at last.

I’ll climb the mountain a lonely man,
I’ll go east again if I can,
‘Twas there I saw the Irish readyfor the fight,
The lousy crowd that wouldn’t unite.

Who’s that I see now yonder on Howth Head?
“One of Jamie’s soldiers sir, now the king has fled,
Last year with gun and knapsack I marched with joyous tread,
But this year sir I’m begging my bread.”

And God when I think how Diarmuid went under,
His standard broken and his limbs pulled asunder,
And God Himself couldn’t fight a way through
When they chopped off his head and held it in our view.

The corn tumbled soon as the scythes went through,
The twelve Kilkenny men were the first that they slew,
My two brothers died and I held my breath,
But the death that broke me was Diarmuid’s death.

At the Boyne bridge we took our first beating,
From the bridge at Slane we were soon retreating,
And then we were beaten at Aughrim too—
Ah, fragrant Ireland, that was goodbye to you.

The fumes were choking as the house went alight,
And Black Billy’s heroes were warming to the fight,
And every shell that came, wherever it lit,
Colonel Mitchell asked was Lord Lucan hit.

So goodbye Limerick and your homes so fair,
And all the good friends that quartered with us there,
And the cards we played by the watchfires’ glare
And the priests that called us all night to prayer.

But on you Londonderry may misfortune come
Like the smoke that lit with every bursting gun
For all the fine soldiers you gathered together
By your walls without shelter from wind or weather.

Many and many a good lad, all proud and gay,
Seven weeks ago they were passing this way,
With guns and swords and pikes on show,
And now in Aughrim they’re lying low.

Aughrim has manure that’s neither lime nor sand
But sturdy young soldiers to nourish the land,
The men we left behind on the battlefield that day
Torn like horsemeat by the dogs where they lay.

And over the seas are Ireland’s best,
The Dukes and the Burkes, Prince Charlie and the rest,
And Captain Talbot their ranks adorning,
And Patrick Sarsfield, Ireland’s darling.


Source: O'Connor, Frank (tr); Kings, Lords, & Commons: An Anthology
from the Irish; 1962; London; Macmillan & Co; p.95