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140 HYLAND'S MAMMOTH
CLARE'S DRAGOONS.
When, on Ramlllles' bloody field, The baffled French were forced to yield, The victor Saxon backward reeled
Before the charge of Clare's Dragoons, The flags we conquered in that fray Look lone In Ypres' choir, they say; We'll win them company to-day, Or bravely die like Clare's Dragoons. Vive la, for Ireland's wrongs; Vive la, for Ireland's right, Vive la. In battle's throng, For a Spanish steel and sabre bright. The brave old lord died near the fight; But for each drop he lost that night, A Saxon cavalier shall bite '
The dust before Lord Clare's Dragoons. For never, when our spears were set, And never, when our sabres met, Could we the Saxon soldier get To stand the shock of Clare's Dragoons, Vive la, the new brigade, Vive la, the old one, too; Vive la, the Rose shall fade And the Shamrock shine forever new. Another Clare is here to lead— The worthy son of such a Tsreed; ■ The French expect some famous deed
When Clare leads on his bold Dragoons. Our colonel comes from Brlen's race; His wounds are In his breast and face; The bearna baogboll Is-still in his place, The foremost of his bold Dragoons.
Vive la, etc., as 2d verse. There's not a man in squadron here,
Was ever known to flinch or fear; Though first in charge and last in rear
Have ever been Lord Clare's Dragoons. But' see, we'll soon have work to do. To shame our boasts, or prove them true, For hither comes the English crew To sweep away Lord Clare's Dragoons.
Vive la, etc., as 1st verse. O comrades, think how Ireland pines, Her exiled lords, her rifled shrines, Her dearest hopes, her ordered lines,
And bursting charge of Clare's Dragoons. Then fling your green flag to the sky. Be Limerick your battle-cry. And charge till blood flows fetlock high.
Vive la, etc., as 2d verse. |
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BOWLD SOJER BOY.
Oh, there's not a trade that's going, worth showing or knowing.
Like that from glory growing, for a Bowld Sojer Boy; Where right or left we go, sure you know, friend or foe
Will have the hand or toe from the Bowld Sojer Boy. There's not a town we march thro', but ladles, looking arch thro'
The window panes, will search thro' the ranks to find their joy, While up the street, each girl you meet, with look so sly, will cry, "My eye!
"Oh. Isn't he a darling, the Bowld Sojer Boy!"
But when we get the rout, how they pout and they shout, While to the right about goes the Bowld Sojer Boy;
'Tis then the ladies fair, in despair, tear their hair, But the devil a one I care, says the Bowld Sojer Boy. |
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