What of the bow?

         The bow was made in England:

      Of true wood, of yew-wood,

         The wood of English bows;

            So men who are free

            Love the old yew-tree

      And the land where the yew-tree grows.

      What of the cord?

         The cord was made in England:

      A rough cord, a tough cord,

         A cord that bowmen love;

            And so we will sing

            Of the hempen string

      And the land where the cord was wove.

      What of the shaft?

         The shaft was cut in England:

      A long shaft, a strong shaft,

         Barbed and trim and true;

            So we’ll drink all together

            To the grey goose-feather

      And the land where the grey goose flew.

      What of the mark?

         Ah, seek it not in England,

      A bold mark, our old mark

         Is waiting over-sea.

            When the strings harp in chorus,

            And the lion flag is o’er us,

      It is there that our mark will be.

      What of the men?

         The men were bred in England:

      The bowmen – the yeomen,

         The lads of dale and fell.

            Here’s to you – and to you!

            To the hearts that are true

      And the land where the true hearts dwell.

      The Grenadiers of Austria are proper men and tall;

      The Grenadiers of Austria have scaled the city wall;

         They have marched from far away

         Ere the dawning of the day,

      And the morning saw them masters of Cremona.

      There’s not a man to whisper, there’s not a horse to neigh;

      Of the footmen of Lorraine and the riders of Duprés,

         They have crept up every street,

         In the market-place they meet,

      They are holding every vantage in Cremona.

      The Marshal Villeroy he has started from his bed;

      The Marshal Villeroy has no wig upon his head;

         ‘I have lost my men!’ quoth he,

         ‘And my men they have lost me,

      And I sorely fear we both have lost Cremona.’

      Prince Eugène of Austria is in the market-place;

      Prince Eugène of Austria has smiles upon his face;

         Says he, ‘Our work is done,

         For the Citadel is won,

      And the black and yellow flag flies o’er Cremona.’

      Major Dan O’Mahony is in the barrack square,

      And just six hundred Irish lads are waiting for him there;

         Says he, ‘Come in your shirt,

         And you won’t take any hurt,

      For the morning air is pleasant in Cremona.’

      Major Dan O’Mahony is at the barrack gate,

      And just six hundred Irish lads will neither stay nor wait;

         There’s Dillon and there’s Burke,

         And there’ll be some bloody work

      Ere the Kaiserlics shall boast they hold Cremona.

      Major Dan O’Mahony has reached the river fort,

      And just six hundred Irish lads are joining in the sport;

         ‘Come, take a hand!’ says he,

         ‘And if you will stand by me,

      Then it’s glory to the man who takes Cremona!’

      Prince Eugène of Austria has frowns upon his face,

      And loud he calls his Galloper of Irish blood and race:

         ‘MacDonnell, ride, I pray,

         To your countrymen, and say

      That only they are left in all Cremona!’

      MacDonnell he has reined his mare beside the river dyke,

      And he has tied the parley flag upon a sergeant’s pike;

         Six companies were there

         From Limerick and Clare,

      The last of all the guardians of Cremona.

      ‘Now, Major Dan O’Mahony, give up the river gate,

      Or, Major Dan O’Mahony, you’ll find it is too late;

         For when I gallop back

         ’Tis the signal for attack,

      And no quarter for the Irish in Cremona!’

      And Major Dan he laughed: ‘Faith, if what you say be true,

      And if they will not come until they hear again from you,

         Then there will be no attack,

         For you’re never going back,

      And we’ll keep you snug and safely in Cremona.’

      All the weary day the German stormers came,

      All the weary day they were faced by fire and flame,

         They have filled the ditch with dead,

         And the river’s running red;

      But they cannot win the gateway of Cremona.

      All the weary day, again, again, again,

      The horsemen of Duprés and the footmen of Lorraine,

         Taafe and Herberstein,

         And the riders of the Rhine;

      It’s a mighty price they’re paying for Cremona.

      Time and time they came with the deep-mouthed German roar,

      Time and time they broke like the wave upon the shore;

         For better men were there

         From Limerick and Clare,

      And who will take the gateway of Cremona?

      Prince Eugène has watched, and he gnaws his