THE mess-tent is full, and the glasses are set, <br />And the gallant Count Thomond is president yet; <br />The vet’ran arose, like an uplifted lance, <br />Crying—“Comrades, a health to the monarch of France!” <br />With bumpers and cheers they have done as he bade <br />For King Louis is loved by the Irish Brigade. <br /> <br />“A health to King James,” and they bent as they quaffed, <br />“Here’s to George the Elector,” and fiercely they laughed, <br />“Good luck to the girls we wooed long ago, <br />Where Shannon, and Barrow, and Blackwater flow;” <br />“God prosper Old Ireland,”—you’d think them afraid, <br />So pale grew the chiefs of the Irish Brigade. <br /> <br />“But surely, that light cannot be from our lamp <br />And that noise—are they all getting drunk in the camp?” <br />“Hurrah! boys, the morning of battle is come, <br />And the generale’s beating on many a drum.” <br />So they rush from the revel to join the parade: <br />For the van is the right of the Irish Brigade. <br /> <br />They fought as they revelled, fast, fiery and true, <br />And, though victors, they left on the field not a few; <br />And they, who survived, fought and drank as of yore, <br />But the land of their heart’s hope they never saw more; <br />For in far foreign fields, from Dunkirk to Belgrade, <br />Lie the soldiers and chiefs of the Irish Brigade.<br /><br />Thomas Osborne Davis<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-battle-eve-of-the-irish-brigade/
