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It was Sir Frederick Hamilton's men
Were hungry for the fray,
And it was a son of the bog and fen
Would guide them on their way.


By the good book an oath he took,
This glib and open guide,
And so it was over bent and brook
They needs must up and ride.


They rode them fast, they rode them far,
By day's last fitful flame,
Until, by the light of the evening star,
To a heathery slope they came.


Then spake the guide, with a glint of pride,
With a catch of his breath spake he,
"Ye may fall, if over the crest ye ride,
On the Irish enemy!


"When I drop my cloak by yon stunted oak,
Do ye ply the lash and spurs,
And there'll be no one see another sun
Of the popish worshippers!"


He has gone to the crest by the dwarfèd tree,
He has crept on foot and hand,
And now with a wave his cloak drops he
As a sign to the waiting band.


Oh, it's ride, Sir Frederick Hamilton's men,
Ye men of ire and brawn,
And it's smile, ye son of the bog and fen,
To see them urge swift on!


Did they purge with the sword the Irish camp?
Nay, for the story saith
Through the evening dusk, through the evening damp,
They rode to a tryst with death.


It was over a cliff that was black and sheer
To the vale of fair Glencar
That they plunged with frenzied shrieks of fear
'Neath the eye of the mountain star.


Oh, it was Sir Frederick Hamilton's men
Set forth to smite and slay,
And it was a son of the bog and fen
That guided them on their way!