Come, banish Care and dull despair;
'Tis merry Christmas time;
Then close around, and hear resound
A story told in rhyme.
A Christmas story, of fame and glory,
That ne'er will fade, of "The Brigade:"
For us, to-night, 'twill sound as bright
As merry Christmas Chime.
And when 'tis told, we will unfold
An ocean legend true,
That dreadful spell, that erst befell,
"The Dutchman" and his Crew.
No Christmas tree grows on the sea,
No berries bright, of red or white,
And ill retrieves their loss, the 'leaves
Around the strew.
But ever still, through good or ill,
We welcome Christmas day.
No loved are near, nor cup to cheer,
And brighten up our way;
Yet banish care and dull despair,
For Christmas cheer we'll each draw near,
And let to-night, our hearts grow bright,
In friendship's ray.
All dark and sullen was the night, and red the sun went down
Behind the towers and battlements of old Cremona's town
Sullen the blust'ring march winds swept the waters of the Po,
French, ravellin and parallel of France's baffled foe—
Austria's legions and their chief, the gallant Prince Eugene,
Had tried for months, the town to take by storm, but tried in vain;
Upon the walls, the fleur-de-lis still waved in haughty joy
Above its brave defenders and their marshal Villeroy—
Waved over the sons of Sunny France, her braces and her best—
Waved o'er the men of the "Brigade"—the "Wild Geese" of the west—
Full oft the walls high over the fight had rung with Irish Cheers
As fiercely on the foe, dashed Burke's and Dillon's grenadiers;
For ever when in fiercest fight—her banner France unveiled,
Her Irish allies still were found the bravest to uphold
Her honour, and on any a field, in any bloody fray,
Those foster sons of France have turned, the fortunes of the day,
Nor grudged to their adopted land, their dead so thickly strown,
But fiercely dealt her vengeance out, whilst waiting for their own.
—Tonight within Cremona's walls, all silent as the dead,
Nought heard is but the flashing rain, the sentry's measured tread
Is muffled by the gusty winds in eddying blasts that sweep,
All else is hushed, the garrison is weary and asleep:
Divided by the river Po, their force lay thus arrayed—
This southern town held by the French, the north by the Brigade.
A narrow bridge connects the town, and whilst their comrades slept,
By thirty-seven of the Gael, as watchful guard was kept—
And many a heart is winging back, away, across the main
To that dear land they loved so well, nut ne'er may see again,
They dream of homes by Shannon's side, where they so often played
Bright careless happy boys, before they donned the white cockade
Of Heart laved scenes that smiling lie, by Leinster's vales and rills,
By Ulster's glens and Connaught's plains, and Munster's lakes and hills;
They dream of friendship and of love,—they dream of bliss and woe,
But dream not by traitor led, the Austrian's now creep,
With baited breath and stealthy step, upon them while they sleep.
The sentry too, is musing, before the northern gate
With measured step and piercing eye, and hero heart elate
She paces thro' the rain and gloom, but on the muttering blast,
Hears not the foe whose serried ranks are gathering thick and fast.
A curse upon the traitor-wretch who to the wily foe
For sordid gold the town betrayed, A sewer that ran below,
The walls, its bed had long been dried, and save to him alone,
It hidden lay, unused, unsuspected and unknown,
Thro' this he led the Austrian's, and now thick thro' the night,
Their column's sudden break upon the startled sentry's sight.
His warning cry rings up into the very vault of heaven,
As rush the legions of Eugene, around the Thirty-Seven;
And 'ere his cry had died away, their Irish bullets tore,
A yawning gap right thro' their ranks—their steel was red with gore
As with one cry—as when in wrath the lion from his lair
Enraged springs—they slash upon the foreman's closing square;
Again and still again they charge withe cheers upon their ranks,
But columns, massing denser still, are closing on their flanks.
Then inch by inch, before the foe, outnumbered back they fell,
Yet high above them, muskets' peal uprose their maddened yell
As fast they fired, reloaded, and then fired and cheered again,
Marking the bloody way they went, with heaps of foemen slain.
Their numbers now are thinning fast, but still they bravely fight,
As wolf-dog 'gainst the howling wolves defends the flock at night.
Their Cry grows weaker as they fall, and all are bleeding fast,
When to their ears a shrilling shout comes ringing on the blast;
And in their shirts rush thro' the night—a tempest on the sea.
Their comrades of the "Old Brigade," led by O'Mahoney
When in the night the fierce typhoon, sweeps white upon a fleet
That turns and flies before its scream, afraid its wrath to meet:
So in their shirts these grenadiers rushed screaming thro' the blast
Upon the panic stricken foe that fled before them fast.
Back, back they drove, before their wrath, a shattered struggling wreck
And vainly strove with hurried fire that hurricane to check;
But fast the foe came pouring in, Eugene in the Town Hall
Commands and Thirty Thousand men, are rushing to his call.
But numbers freed not the brigade, as like avenging fates
In that fierce tempest Irish rush, they drive them to the gates,
There, cheering high above the fight, outnumbered ten to one,
They hand to hand still held their own, still gallantly fought on—
They fought, like tigers for their young, as oft they fought before,
But higher into Glory's skies did "Wild Geese" never soar.
God's blessing upon their name, their race, and on their land!
Where'e'er they strike have heaven guide and strengthen still each hand.
Still hand to hand they fiercely fought, and steel and bullet sped,
Bright deeds for valor, doing till their shirts with blood were red.
But fast they’re falling—faster—as the bullets shower like rain:
Now thro' the gates the Austrian's are surging back again;
Before their massing Columns they retired, but did not yield,
But turned at bay and charged them back until their columns reeled,
Back step by step, across the bridge, with care already ruined,
With serried ranks they face the foe, and drive them to their camps,
Bright deeds of chivalry were done that night by the "Brigade";
But with the Austrian's fought one whose name will never fade,
McDonnell! he was Irish too! We hail his name with joy,
Who charged that night thro' thickest fight, and captured Villeroy.
He scorned the bribe to set him free—yet brighter grow his fame,
A soldier still to honour true and to his Irish name—
The morning broke and in the air, the .mw-parser-output .wst-tooltip{cursor:help;border-bottom:thin dotted cornflowerblue}.mw-parser-output .wst-tooltip-nodash{border-bottom:none}(illegible text) still waved.
Proud over old Cremona's walls—by Irish valour saved;
But dear they bought that victory—three sons of Innisfail,
And while Je Denneur swells in France for victory, a wail
Went up to heaven from their own land—a death wail from her brave;
Who fell beneath a foreign flag, so far beyond the wave,
And with the wail of agony, a fervent prayer arose,
To Heaven for one such victory at home o'er Ireland's foes.
Long, long ago, from Amsterdam, a vessel sailed away,
As fair a ship as ever rode amidst the dashing spray;
Fond loving hearts were on the shore, and scarfs were in the air,
As to her o'er the Zuyder Zee they waft adieu and prayer.
Her gaudy pennant streamed aloft, and as she skimmed the seas
Each taper mast was bending like a rod before the breeze.
Within her there were gallant hearts, tho' filled with sadness no,
For still the lingering parting kiss was fresh on lip and brow.
Her captain was a stalwart man—a lion heart had he:
From childhood's days he sailed upon the rolling Zuyder Zee.
He nothing feared upon the earth, nor scarcely heaven feared
He would have dared and done whatever mortal man had done
He turned him from the swelling sail and gazed upon the shore
Ah! little thought the skipper then 'twould meet his eye no more
He dreamt not that an awful doom was hanging o'er his ship,—
That Vanderdecken's name would would yet make pale the speaker's lip.
The vessel bounded on her way, and spire went down:
Ere darkness fell, beneath the wave had sunk the distant town,
No More, no more, ye helpless crew, shall Holland meet your eye!
In lingering hope and keen suspense maid, wife and child shall die.
Away, away, the vessel speeds,—but sea and sky alone
Is round her as her course she steers across the torrid zone.
Away, away! the north star fades, the southern cross is high,
And myriad starts of brightest beam are sparkling in the sky.
The tropic winds are left behind—she nears the Cape of Storms,
Where awful tempest sits enthroned in wild and dread alarms:
Where Ocean in his fury heaves aloft his foaming Crest,
And dashes round the helpless ship that rides upon his breast.
Fierce raged the mountain billows round the Dutchman’s gallant craft,
But Vanderdecken to their rage a loud defiance laughed.
Tho' wave and tempest barred hos way, he brave them in his pride,
As onward still his course he held, and wind and wave defied.
He struggled madly forward in the weird unearthly fight;
His brow was black, his eye was fierce; but looks of wild affright
Were passed amongst the silent crew as still they onward steered:
They did not dare to question, but they whispered what they feared.
They knew their black-browed captain—'neath his darkened eye they quailed
And in a grim and sullen mood their bitter fate bewailed.
He never swerved, but day and night the deck he sternly paced;
As 'fore the hurricane the ship like some fleet courser raced
He fought the tempest inch by inch, and conquered—so he thought—
But ah! he little dreamt how dear that victory was bought.
Again his loud defiant laugh he shouted to the blast—
The placid ocean smile beyond—the dreaded Cape was passed.
Away across the Indian Main the gallant vessel glides
And gentle murmuring ripples break along her graceful sides.
The perfumed breezes waft her on—her destined port she nears
The Dutchman's brow has lost its frown—the mariners their fears.
"Land ho!" at length the welcome sound the watchful sailor sings,
And soon within an Indian bay the ship at anchor swings.
Not idle then the busy crew—ere long the spacious hold
Is emptied of its western freight, and stored with India's gold.
Again the ponderous Anchors weighed—the shore is left behind
The snowy sails are bosomed out before the favouring wind;
The mighty deep around her seems a calm and mirrored lake
And thousand trains of sparkling light are gleaming in her wake
For home she steers! She seems to know and answer to the word,
And swifter skims the burnished deep like some fair ocean bird.
"For home! for home!" the joyous crew, with gladsome voices cry,
And ere the dark-browed skipper has a mild light in his eye;
He looks above, where streaming high, the pennant cuts the blue,
And every rope, and spar, and sail is firm, and strong and true.
He pictures to himself the day when once again he'll see
The spires and domes of Amsterdam rise o'er the Zuyder Zee
Away across the burning zone the vessel southward flies,
Again the northern beacons fade and southern stars arise.
Oh! hapless crew, you little dream, as onward still you go,
That o'er your ill-fated ship is hung a doom of woe.
Again the stormy Cape draws near, and furious billows rise,
And once again the Dutchman's laugh, both wind and wave defies.
But fiercely swept the tempest ere the scornful laugh had died,
A warning to the daring man to curb his impious pride.
A crested mountain struck the ship, and like a frighted bird
She trembled 'neath the awful shock,—then Vanderdecken heard
A pleading voice within the gale—his better angel spoke,
But fled before his scowling look; then fierce the billows broke
Upon the trembling helpless ship—the crew with terror paled,
But still the captain never flinched, nor 'neath their fury quailed.
With arms folded o'er his breast, and fiercely flashing eye,
He answered back the angry frown that towered o'er the sky.
He seized the helm in his grasp, and fiercely dashed aside
The trembling watch who held it, then with heart of scornful pride,
All heedless of the warning blast or lightning's lurid flame,
He spoke—and this with impious words blasphemed God's holy name.
"Howl on, ye winds! ye tempests, howl!" your rage is spent in vain;
Despite your strength, your frowns, your hate, I’ll ride upon the main.
Dash on, ye waves! across your foam I’ll sail upon my path,
I Care not for thy Maker's smile—I care not for His wrath!"
He ceased—a deathlike silence reigned—the tempest and the sea
Were hushed in sudden stillness by their ruler's dread decree.
All motionless the vessel rode within the gathering gloom;
The Dutchman stood upon the poop and heard his awful doom;
The mariners were on the deck, in swooning terror prone;
Their hearts blood froze—they, too, were doomed; in angered mighty tone,
The awful words swept o'er the deep—"Go wretch!, accursed!, condemned!
Go sail forever on the deep, by angry tempests hemmed!
No home, no port, no calm, no rest, no gentle fav'ring breeze,
Shall ever greet thee. Go accursed! and battle with the seas.
Go braggart! struggle with the storm, nor ever cease to live,
But bear a million times the pangs that death and fear can give.
Away and hide thy guilty head! a curse to all thy kind
Who ever see the struggling, wretch! with ocean and with wind,
Away presumptuous worm of earth! go teach thy fellow-worms,
The awful doom that waits on him who braves the King of Storms!"
'Twas o'er! One lurid gleam of wrath lit up the sea and sky
Around and o'er the fated ship: then rose a wailing cry
From every heart within her wild anguish and despair;
But mercy for them was no more—it died away in air,
Again the lurid light gleamed out—the ship was still at rest,
The crew were standing at their ports: with arms across his breast
Still stood the captain on the poop—but bent and crouching now
He bowed before that fiat dread, and o'er his swarthy brow
Came lines of anguish, as if a thousand years of pain
Had lived and suffered—then across the heaving angry main
The tempest shrieked triumphant, and the waves in madness dashed
And hissed their scorn o'er the ship round which their fury cashed
And ever, ever, ever thus, that doomed crew will speed,
They try to round the stormy cape, but never can succeed.
And oft when storms are fiercest, 'mid the lightnings vivid sheen,
Against the tempest struggling, still the phantom ship is seen
Across the billows dashing; and 'tis said that every word
Of her captain's awful blasphemy upon the gale is heard.
But heaven help the hapless crew that impious sentence hears;
The doom of those is sealed to whom that fatal ship appears:
They'll never reach their destined port—they'll see their homes no more
They who see the flying Dutchman, never, never, reach the shore
A "Merry Christmas" each one sends
To-night across the foam,
To all the loved ones—all the friends
Who think of us at home.
From them a "Merry Christmas!" flies
On angel's pinions bright;
'Tis heard upon the breeze that sight
Around our ship tonight.
Though on our ears no voices fall,
Our hearts—our spirits hear—
"A Merry Christmas to you all,—
And happy, bright New Year!"
Then brothers! though we spend the day
Within a prison ship,
Let every heart with hope be gay,—
A smile on every lip.
Lets banish sorrows—banish fears,
And fill our hearts with glee,
And ne'er forget in after years
Our Christmas on the sea.
What flower so gay as the holly spray,
With berries so red and bright;
In the frosty rime of the Christmas time,
Hearts gladdened are at the sight.
'Tis the rarest tree in all Christendie!
When recalling old Christmas time,
We link the sheen of its leaves so green
With the merry joybells' chime.
Oh! dear to me is the holly-tree—
Dear the robin's carolled song!
And the mystic bough of the mistletoe,
That to Christmas times belong.
When the earth is white, and the sky is bright,
On the silent frosty air,
From the holly bush, how sweet the gush
Of the robin's song of prayer
When with wassail bowl we cheer the soul,
While the yule-logs cheery glow,
We kiss our girls beneath the pearls
Of the mystic mistletoe.
When hearts are light and eyes are bright,
And lips like the berries shine,
And draughts of joy, without alloy,
We quaff with the rich red wine.
Oh! red and white are the berries bright
Of holly and mistletoe;
When Winter's breath breathes frozen death
On all else—still bright they glow,
To gladden the walls of princely halls,
And the peasants cottage hearth,
In the happy time when the joyous chime
Rings "Peace to men on earth!"
No holly have we, or revelry,
Nor robin's song to cheer;
From the mistletoe away we go,
To a distant hemisphere.
Where all is strange and full of change
But still wheree'er we roam,
My heart yet clings to the hallowed things
Of Christmas time at home.
'Twas Christmas Day, as the evening fell, and the gladsome sounds of mirth
O'er the City's darkening streets rang out from many a happy hearth:
The north wind loved the joyous tones, and he whistled his loudest blast
Of boisterous murth round those cheerful homes, as he rapidly hurried past.
Away o'er the fields and woods he rushed, but he paused in his wild career,
For again through the gathering gloom arose, those sounds he loved to hear.
Then down to a cottage far below he stooped in his rapid flight,
And he shouted with glee, did the old North Wind, on that happy Christmas night.
Away again o'er the woods and wilds—all wrapt in a stormy shroud;
But soon in the path of the old North Wind rose a castle's turrets proud;
The sound of the feast, and the song, and the dance, came cheerily up from below,
And the great yule-log in the castle's hall sent out its general glow.
The old Wind paused with a beaming smile, and peered at the happy throng,
Then round that noble castle's walls, he roared his boisterous song.
Ah! he loved those sounds, and he lingered a while to feats on the pleasing sight,
Then away again, with a laugh and a shout, making glad that Christmas night.
o'er country and city, and hamlet he sped, and from all came joyous sounds;
The old wind whirled and shrieked with glee, for he soon would finish his rounds.
Away o'er the forest and filed he swept and his voice grew hoarse and proud,
As low as the rude Old Tyrant's power the forest monarchs bowed.
A mighty oak from its roots he tore and hurled aloft from his path:
"How strong I am!" said the Old North Wind: "Oh! who can withstand my wrath!"
And this he spoke, as he onward sped—"Truly every heart is light;
In merry England, from the east to the West, no mortal is sad tonight!"
But now in his path stood a gloomy pile, ere the cheering thought had passed:
A prison, all massive, and silent, and stern, its darkening shadow cast.
The air grew cold and his boisterous mirth was struck with a sudden chill,
For tho' keen are the frozen blasts of the north, there are others more piercing still.
Sadly he blew round the ponderous walls, for he saw not a sign of mirth;
Though he peered into every grated cell, no sound of joy came forth.
"Now," said he, "I must blow a cheery blast;" and he essayed a merry tone,
But he failed, and he shook his grisly locks, as it died in a hollow moan.
Then the Old Wind heaved a mighty sigh; "Oh! woe is me!" did he say,
"That I must return with such sad dining thoughts from such a cheerful day."
As thus he mused from a windows sill, he gazed o'er the dismal place;
Then turning, he looked within the cell and beheld an upturned face,
All rigid and pale, and with lowering brow looking out on te gathering night,
The Old King gazed through his mortal's soul, and with pity was moved at the sight.
He looked in the depths of the troubled heart, and an evil spirit was there:
"Ah!" said he, as he gazed at the stormy eye, "'tis the work of grim Despair,
Who is seeking his prey on this blessed night but I swear by my crown of snow
That I’ll thwart his plan 'gainst this wretched man ere I back to my ice caves go!
Then a cheering note did the Old Wind blow, as he entered the gloomy cell;
But all in vain were his cheering tones—still the restless footstep fell.
Again he blew in a stronger key, till at length his loudest roar
he had tried in despair: still the wretched man was heedless as before;
And with hasty step his dungeon paced, with a fevered throbbing brain,
And the spirit of evil triumphant laughed at the Old Wind's efforts vain.
But once more he paused in his weary walk to gaze with abstracted eye
Through the massive bars that in bold relief stood out 'gainst the wintry sky.
Again as the Old Wind scanned that face his courage revived; and now
Like Zephyr, soft as an angels wing, he played o'er that troubled brown,
He gently fanned the fevered cheek and cooed the throbbing brain,
Till the heart grew calm and the eye had lost its weary look of pain;
The broken spirit he mildly soothed with a low and plaintive air,
Till at length the weary soul he lured from the grasp of dark Despair.
The troubled heart was now at rest, and borne on the cadence mild,
came long-forgotten scenes of youth when he played a happy child;
But softer still the Old Wind blew, and recalled his father's death,
And his mother's voice—and a sob burst forth, for he felt her loving breath
Again on his brown: then he bowed his head 'neath the father's chastening rod,
And the penitent tears gushed freely forth as he raised his soul to God.
Then as he prayed, a heavenly voice brought peace to his heaving breast,
Saying—"Come to me all you weary ones, and I will give you rest."
"Oh! how glad I am!" said the Old North Wind; "now back again I'll go
to my own loved north, 'mid the icebergs vast and the pure eternal snow,"
Ah! well might he sing his boisterous song on his rapid homeward flight;
For a stricken soul made its peace with God on the blessed Christmas night.
With holly branch, and ivy bough
And mistletoe is gaily dight
Each homestead, and old Christmas brow
Is crowned with evergreen tonight.
A snowy mantle's on the grass—
Old frozen Winter placed it there.
And trooping to the midnight mass,
Our hearts are filled with holy prayer
To welcome blessed Christmas.
The church is all ablaze with light,
And pious hands have placed there
Festoons of brilliant green and white:
The crib arranged with holy Care,
From God's high altar there ascends
A light, like glory's brightest beam;
The organ's peal, that melting blends
Our souls into blissful dream,
To welcome holy Christmas.
The acolytes and priest arranged—
The "Glorian" breaks on the ear,
The grosser thoughts of earth then fade,
And falls a bliss from holier sphere.
Oh! there are souls so pure and bright
That hear the angel host that sings
His praise, and "peace to men" tonight,
And hear the rustle of their wings,
This holy blessed Christmas.
Then homeward trough the frosty night,
With kindly hearts and eyes aglow;
With spirits buoyant, stepping light,
We crunch the white and frozen snow;
And hands with cordial grasp are pressed,
And laughing voices cheerful greet
each other, and in every breast
A kindred heart doth warmly beat,
To wish "a merry Christmas."