Classic Poem

You've heard no doubt of Irish bulls,
And how they blunder, thick and fast;
But of all the queer and foolish things,
O'Reiley, you have said the last.

You say we brought the rebs supplies,
And gave them aid amid the fight,
And if you must be ruled by rebs,
Instead of black you want them white.

You blame us that we did not rise,
And pluck war from a fiery brand,
When Little Mac said if we did,
He'd put us down with iron hand.

And when we sought to join your ranks,
And battle with you, side by side,
Did men not curl their lips with scorn,
And thrust us back with hateful pride?

And when at last we gained the field,
Did we not firmly, bravely stand,
And help to turn the tide of death,
That spread its ruin o'er the land?

We hardly think we're worse than those
Who kindled up this fearful strife,
Because we did not seize the chance
To murder helpless babes and wife.

And had we struck, with vengeful hand,
The rebel where he most could feel,
Were you not ready to impale
Out hearts upon your Northern steel?

O'Reiley, men like you should wear
The gift of song, like some bright crown,
Nor worse than ruffians of the ring,
Strike at a man because he's down.