  During the many wars in Ireland, small parties of men had often to traverse the country for long distances to bring messages from one general to another, and for other purposes. They marched by day and put up at night in the woods, choosing some sheltered corner and making a big fire of brambles to keep them warm and to cook their food. After supper they usually sat by the fire, amusing themselves with pleasant conversation or by telling stories: and when at last it was time to go to sleep, they wrapped themselves up in their great coats and lay down round the fire, leaving one of their number to stand guard. The following short poem—part of a much longer one—describes how a small party of four men passed the early part of the night during a march across country. There was to be a battle in a day or two, and these four friends met, and each told a story by the Watch-fire of Barnalee. And they arranged to meet again after the battle, if any survived. But this turned out to be a sad meeting: there were only two: the other two lay dead on the battlefield. I. There were four comrades stout and free, Within the Wood of Barnalee, Under the spreading oaken tree. II. The ragged clouds sailed past the moon; Loud rose the brawling torrent's The rising winds howled in the wood, Like hungry wolves at scent of blood. Yet there they sat, in converse free, Under the spreading oaken tree,— Garrod the Minstrel, with his lyre, Sir Hugh le Poer, that heart of fire, Dark Gilliemore, the mournful And Donal, from the banks of III. On their sun-browned faces and helmets bright Showing beneath the woodland glooms Their swords, and As there they sat, those comrades free, Within the Wood of Barnalee, Under the spreading oaken tree, And told their tales to you and me. Robert Dwyer Joyce, M.D. |
|
