Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can; A BALLAD OF SARSFIELD [1690] SARSFIELD went out the Dutch to rout, And at four he crossed the Shannon. Tirconnel slept. In dream his thoughts And the chieftains of Thomond in Limerick's towers He rode ten miles and he crossed the ford, "Charge!" Sarsfield cried; and the green hill-side As they charged replied in thunder; They rode o'er the plain and they rode o'er the slain And the rebel rout lay under. The spark flashed out-like a sailor's shout The hosts of the sky made to earth reply, Sarsfield went out the Dutch to rout, A century after, Sarsfield's laughter Was echoed from Dungannon. Aubrey Thomas De Vere [1814-1902] HERVÉ RIEL [MAY 31, 1692] On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, Came crowding ship on ship to Saint Malo on the Rance, With the English fleet in view. II 'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville; Close on him fled, great and small, Twenty-two good ships in all; And they signalled to the place "Help the winners of a race! Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick-or, quicker still, Here's the English can and will!" III Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board; "Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they: "Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, Shall the Formidable here, with her twelve-and-eighty guns, Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at full beside? Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring? Rather say, While rock stands or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay!" IV Then was called a council straight. Brief and bitter the debate: "Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, For a prize to Plymouth Sound? Better run the ships aground!" (Ended Damfreville his speech). "Not a minute more to wait! Let the Captains all and each Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! France must undergo her fate. V "Give the word!" But no such word Was ever spoke or heard; For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these -A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate-first, second, third? No such man of mark, and meet With his betters to compete! But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet, A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese. VI And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel: "Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 'Twixt the offing here and Grève where the river disembogues? Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for? Morn and eve, night and day, Have I piloted your bay, Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues! Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way! Only let me lead the line, Have the biggest ship to steer, Get this Formidable clear, Make the others follow mine, And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, Right to Solidor past Grève, And there lay them safe and sound; And if one ship misbehave, -Keel so much as grate the ground, Why, I've nothing but my life, here's my head!" cries Hervé Riel. Not a minute more to wait. VII "Steer us in, then, small and great! Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief. Captains, give the sailor place! He is Admiral, in brief. Still the north-wind, by God's grace! See the noble fellow's face As the big ship, with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the passage, as its inch of way were the wide seas profound! See, safe through shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock, Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, Not a spar that comes to grief! The peril, see, is past. All are harbored to the last, And just as Hervé Riel hollas "Anchor!"-sure as fate, Up the English come,―too late! VIII So, the storm subsides to calm: They see the green trees wave On the heights o'erlooking Grève. Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. "Just our rapture to enhance, Let the English rake the bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance As they cannonade away! 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!" How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance! Out burst all with one accord, "This is Paradise for Heil! Let France, let France's King Thank the man that did the thing!" What a shout, and all one word, "Hervé Riel!" As he stepped in front once more, IX Then said Damfreville, "My friend, Though I find the speaking hard. France remains your debtor still. Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Dam freville." X Then a beam of fun outbroke On the bearded mouth that spoke, |