The summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's hundred isles--
The summer's sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles--
Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird;
And in a calm and
sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard;
The hookers lie upon the beach; the
children cease their play;
The gossips leave the little inn; the households
kneel to pray--
And full of love, and peace, and rest--its daily labour
Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore.
A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight
No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth, or sea, or air.
The massive capes, and ruined towers, seem conscious of the calm;
fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm.
So still the night,
these two long barques, round Dunashad that glide,
Must trust their
oars--methinks not few--against the ebbing tide--
Oh! some sweet mission of
true love must urge them to the shore--
They bring some lover to his bride,
who sighs in Baltimore!
All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street,
And these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet--
gasp! a dreamy noise! "the roof is in a flame!"
From out their beds, and to
their doors, rush maid, and sire, and dame--
And meet, upon the threshold
stone, the gleaming sabre's fall,
And o'er each black and bearded face the
white or crimson shawl--
The yell of "Allah" breaks above the prayer, and
shriek, and roar--
Oh, blessed God! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore!
Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing
Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was
Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand-babes clutching
Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with the child;
But see, yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed with splashing heel,
o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steel--
sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store,
hearth well avengéd in the sack of Baltimore!
Mid-summer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds began to sing--
They see not now the milking maids--deserted is the spring!
day--this gallant rides from distant Bandon's town--
These hookers crossed
from stormy Skull, that skiff from Affadown;
They only found the smoking
walls, with neighbours' blood besprent,
And on the strewed and trampled
beach awhile they wildly went--
Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape
Cléire, and saw five leagues before
The pirate galleys vanishing
that ravaged Baltimore.
Oh! some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the
This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's
Oh! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous Dardanelles;
some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells.
The maid that Bandon
gallant sought is chosen for the Dey--
She's safe--she's dead--she stabbed
him in the midst of his Serai;
And, when to die a death of fire, that noble
maid they bore,
She only smiled--O'Driscoll's child--she thought of
'Tis two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody
And all around its trampled hearths a larger concourse stand,
Where, high upon a gallows tree, a yelling wretch is seen--
'Tis Hackett of
Dungarvan--he, who steered the Algerine!
He fell amid a sullen shout, with
scarce a passing prayer,
For he had slain the kith and kin of many a
Some muttered of MacMurchadh, who brought the Norman
Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore.