OUTHWARD Ho—Here we go!—

O'er the wave onward,

Out from the Harbor of Cork

Sail'd the Six Hundred!

Sail'd like Crusaders thence,

Burning for Peter's pence,—

Burning for fight and fame—

Burning to show their zeal—

Into the gates of Rome,

Into the jaws of Hell,

(It's all the same)

March'd the Six Hundred!

"Barracks, and tables laid!

Food for the Pope's Brigade!"

But ev'ry Celt afraid,

Gazed on the grub dismay'd—

Twigg'd he had blunder'd;—

"Who can eat rancid grease?

Call this a room a-piecc?" *

"Silence unseemly din,

Prick them with bayonets in."—

Blessed Six Hundred!

Waves ev'ry battle-blade.—

"Forward! the Pope's Brigade!"—

Was there a man obeyed?

No—where they stood they stay'd,

Tho' Lamoriciere pray'd,

Threaten'd, and thunder'd,—

* A room for each man, and a table furnished from the fat of the land, were among the inducements reported to have been held out to the "Pope's own."

"Charge!" Down their sabres then

Clash'd, as they turn'd—and ran—

Sab'ring the empty air,

Each of one taking care,—

Here, there, and ev'rywhere

Scatter'd and sunder'd.

Sick of the powder smell,

Down on their knees they fell;

Howling for hearth and home—

Cursing the Pope of Rome—

Whilst afar shot and shell

Volley'd and thunder'd;

Captured, alive and well,

Ev'ry Hibernian swell,

Came back the tale to tell;

Back from the states of Rome—

Back from the gates of Hell—

Safe and sound ev'ry man—

Jack of Six Hundred!

When shall their story fade?

Oh the mistake they made!

Nobody wonder'd.

Pity the fools they made—

Pity the Pope's Brigade—

Nobbled Six Hundred!