Just two hundred Irish lads are shouting on the wall;
Four hundred more are lying who can hear no slogan call;
   But what’s the odds of that,
   For it’s all the same to Pat
If he pays his debt in Dublin or Cremona.

Says General de Vaudray, ’You’ve done a soldier’s work! 
And every tongue in France shall talk of Dillon and of Burke! 
   Ask what you will this day,
   And be it what it may,
It is granted to the heroes of Cremona.’

‘Why, then,’ says Dan O’Mahony, ’one favour we entreat,
We were called a little early, and our toilet’s not complete. 
   We’ve no quarrel with the shirt,
   But the breeches wouldn’t hurt,
For the evening air is chilly in Cremona.’

THE STORMING PARTY

Said Paul Leroy to Barrow,
’Though the breach is steep and narrow,
   If we only gain the summit
      Then it’s odds we hold the fort. 
I have ten and you have twenty,
And the thirty should be plenty,
With Henderson and Henty
   And McDermott in support.’

Said Barrow to Leroy,
’It’s a solid job, my boy,
   For they’ve flanked it, and they’ve banked it,
      And they’ve bored it with a mine. 
But it’s only fifty paces
Ere we look them in the faces;
And the men are in their places,
   With their toes upon the line.’

Said Paul Leroy to Barrow,
’See that first ray, like an arrow,
   How it tinges all the fringes
      Of the sullen drifting skies. 
They told me to begin it
At five-thirty to the minute,
And at thirty-one I’m in it,
   Or my sub will get his rise.

’So we’ll wait the signal rocket,
Till . . .  Barrow, show that locket,
That turquoise-studded locket,
Which you slipped from out your pocket
      And are pressing with a kiss! 
   Turquoise-studded, spiral-twisted,
It is hers!  And I had missed it
From her chain; and you have kissed it: 
      Barrow, villain, what is this?’

’Leroy, I had a warning,
That my time has come this morning,
So I speak with frankness, scorning
   To deny the thing that’s true. 
Yes, it’s Amy’s, is the trinket,
Little turquoise-studded trinket,
Not her gift—­oh, never think it! 
   For her thoughts were all for you.

’As we danced I gently drew it
From her chain—­she never knew it
   But I love her—­yes, I love her: 
      I am candid, I confess. 
But I never told her, never,
For I knew ’twas vain endeavour,
And she loved you—­loved you ever,
   Would to God she loved you less!’

’Barrow, Barrow, you shall pay me! 
Me, your comrade, to betray me! 
   Well I know that little Amy
      Is as true as wife can be. 
She to give this love-badged locket! 
She had rather . . .  Ha, the rocket! 
Hi, McDougall!  Sound the bugle! 
   Yorkshires, Yorkshires, follow me!’