Bryan Byrne, of Glenmalure. Mary Tighe (née Blachford) Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Tighe, Mary, 1772-1810. Psyche, With Other Poems. London Printed for LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWN, PATERNOSTER-ROW 1811 pp. 281-296. 314p.

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Bryan Byrne , of Glenmalure .

The story of Bryan Byrne is founded upon facts which were related to the author in the autumn of 1798 : though the circumstances may not have happened in the exact manner which is recorded in the poem , yet it gives but too faithful a picture of the sentiments and conduct of those days . It is certain that at that period several unarmed persons , report says above twenty , were put to death by the troops near Wicklow , to retaliate the murder of many loyalists , and particularly of the three brothers mentioned in this ballad .

BRIGHT shines the morn o'er Carickmure , And silvers every mountain stream ; The autumnal woods on Glenmalure Look lovely in the slanting beam . And hark ! the cry , the cry of joy , The hounds spring o'er yon heathy brow ! — " 'Tis but the hunter's horn , my boy , No death-tongued bugle scares us now . " In vain the widowed mother smiled , And clasped her darling to her breast ; Horror and rage o'er all the child A manly beauty strange impressed . Fierce rolled his eye , of heaven's own hue , And the quick blood strong passions told , As fresh the breeze of morning blew From his clear brow the locks of gold . 'Tis not alone the horn so shrill ; — Yon martial plume that waves on high , Bids every infant nerve to thrill With more than infant agony . Yet gentle was the soldier's heart , Whom 'mid the gallant troop he spied Who let the gallant troop depart , And checked his eager courser's pride . " What fears the child ? " he wondering cried , With courteous air as near he drew . " Soldier , away ! my father died , Murdered by men of blood like you . " Even while the angry cherub speaks , He struggles from the stranger's grasp : Kissing the tears that bathed her cheeks , His little arms his mother clasp . " And who are these , — this startled pair , Who swift down Glenmalure arc fled ? Behold the mother's maniac air , As seized with wild and sudden dread ! " " 'Tis Ellen Byrne , " an old man cried ; " Poor Ellen , and her orphan boy ! " Then turned his silvered brow aside , To shun the youth's enquiring eye . " And is there none to guard the child , Save that lone frenzied widow's hand ? These rocky these steep woods wild , Sure some more watchful eye demand . "

Clough , the place at which Colonel Walpole was killed , and his detachment defeated by the rebels .

" Ah , well he knows each rock , each wood , The mountain goat not more secure ; And he was born to hardships rude , The orphan Byrne of Carickmure . " That boy had seen his father's blood , Had heard his murdered father's groan ; And never more in playful mood With smiles his infant beauty shone . " Sad was the pitying stranger's eye : " Too well , " said he , " I guess the truth ; His father , sure , was doomed to die , Some poor deluded rebel youth . " " No rebel he , " with eye inflamed , And cheek that glowed with transient fire , Roused to a sudden warmth , exclaimed The hapless Ellen's aged sire . " He did not fall in Tarah's fight , No blood of his the Curragh stains , Where many a ghost that moans by-night Of foully broken faith complains . " He triumphed not that fatal day , When every loyal cheek looked pale , But heard , like us , with sad dismay , Of fallen chiefs in Clough's dark vale . " For , wedded to our Ellen's love , One house was ours , one hope , one soul : Though fierce malignant parties strove , No party rage could love control . " Though we were sprung from British race , And his was Erin's early pride , Yet matched in every loveliest grace , No priest could e'er their hearts divide . " What though no yeoman's arms he bore ; 'Twas party hate that hope forbad : What though no martial dress he wore , That dress no braver bosom clad . " And had our gallant Bryan Byrne Been welcomed to their loyal band , Home might I still in joy return The proudest father in the land . " For , ah ! when Bryan Byrne was slain , With him my brave , my beauteous son His precious life-blood shed in vain ; — The savage work of death was done ! " .... He ceased : for now , by memory stung , His heart's deep wounds all freshly bled , While with a father's anguish wrung , He bowed to earth his aged head . Yet soothing to his broken heart He felt the stranger's sympathy , And age is ready to impart Its page of woe to pity's eye . Yes ! it seemed sweet once more to dwell On social joys and peaceful days , And still his darling's virtues tell , And still his Ellen's beauty praise . " But say , " at length exclaimed the youth , " Did no one rash , rebellious deed E'er cloud thy Bryan's loyal truth , And justice doom thy boy to bleed ? " " No ; never rash , rebellious deed Was his , nor rash rebellious word ; That day of slaughter saw him bleed , Where blushing Justice dropped the sword . " In Fury's hand it madly raged , As urged by fierce revenge she flew ; With unarmed Innocence she waged Such war as Justice never knew . " " 'Twas ours ( the sorrowing father cried ) , 'Twas ours to mourn the crimes of all : Each night some loyal brother died ; Each morn beheld some victim fall . " Oh , 'twas a sad and fearful day That saw my gallant boys laid low ; The voice of anguish and dismay Proclaimed full many a widow's woe ! " But doubly o'er our fated house The accursed hand of murder fell , And ere our Ellen wept her spouse , She had a dreadful tale to tell ! " For early on that guilty morn The voice of horror reached our ears ; That , from their thoughtless slumber torn , Before a helpless sister's tears , " Beneath their very mother's sight Three youthful brothers butchered lie , Three loyal yeomen brave in fight , Butchered by savage treachery . " They were my nephews ; boys I loved , My own brave boys alone more dear ; Their rashness oft my heart reproved , And marked their daring zeal with fear . " They were my widowed sister's joy ; Her hope in age and dark distress ; And Ellen loved each gallant boy Even with a sister's tenderness . " It was from Ellen's lips I heard The tidings sadly , surely true : To me , ere yet the dawn appeared , All pale with fear and grief she flew . " Roused by her call , with her I sought The sad abode of misery : But to the wretched mother brought No comfort , but our sympathy . " On the cold earth , proud Sorrow's throne , In silent majesty of woe , She sat , and felt herself alone , Though loud the increasing tumults grow . " In throngs the assembled country came , And every hand was armed with death : Revenge ! revenge ! ( they all exclaim , ) Spare no suspected traitor's breath : " No ; let not one escape who owns The faith of Rome , of treachery : This loyal blood for vengeance groans , And signal vengeance let there be ! " What , shall we feel the coward blow , And tamely wait a late defence ? No ; let us strike the secret foe , Even through the breast of innocence ! " Poor Ellen trembled as they raved ; Her pallid cheek forgot its tears ; While from the hand of fury saved , Her infant darling scarce appears . " I saw her earnest searching eye , In that dark moment of alarm , Ask , in impatient agony , A brother's dear , protecting arm . " Woe ! bitter woe , to me and mine ! Too well his brave , his feeling heart Already could her fears divine , And more than bear a brother's part . " When the first savage blast he knew Would bid each deadly bugle roar , Back to our home of peace he flew : Ah , home of peace and love no more ! " Oh ! would to God that I had died Beneath my wretched sister's roof ! Thus heaven in mercy had denied To my worst fears their utmost proof . " So had these eyes been spared a sight That wrings my soul with anguish still , Nor known how much of life , ere night , The blood-hounds of revenge could spill . " Sinking at once with fear and age , Her father's steps my child upheld ; The mangled victims of their rage Each moment shuddering we beheld . " Down yon steep side of Carickmure , Our rugged path we homeward wound ; And saw , at least , that home secure , 'Mid many a smoking ruin round . " Low in the Glen our cottage lies Behind yon dusky copse of oak : On its white walls we fixed our eyes , But not one word poor Ellen spoke ! " We came .... the clamour scarce was o'er , The fiends scarce left their work of death : — But never spoke our Bryan more , Nor Ellen caught his latest breath . " Still to the corse by horror joined , The shrinking infant closely clung , And fast his little arms intwined , As round the bleeding neck he hung . " Oh , sight of horror , sight of woe ! The dead and dying both were there : One dreadful moment served to show , For us was nothing but despair : " Oh , God ! even now methinks I see My dying boy , as there he stood , And sought with fond anxiety To hide his gushing wounds of blood , " Ere life yet left his noble breast , Gasping , again he tried to speak , And twice my hand he feebly pressed , And feebly kissed poor Ellen's , cheek . " No word she spoke , no tear she shed , Ere at my feet convulsed she fell , Still lay my children , cold and dead ! And I yet live , the tale to tell ! " She too awoke to wild despair With frenzied eye each corse to see , To rave , to smile with frantic air ; But never more to smile for me ! " But hold ! from yonder grassy slope Our orphan darling calls me hence : Sweet child , last relic of our hope , Of love and injured innocence . " Soldier , farewel ! To thee should power Commit the fate of lives obscure , Remember still in fury's hour The murdered youths of Glenmalure . " And chief , if civil broils return , Though vengeance urge to waste , destroy ; Ah ! pause ! .... think then on Bryan Byrne , Poor Ellen , and her orphan boy ! "