Snippet #2004416

On the twenty-first of July, beneath the burning sun.
McDowell met the Southern troops in battle, at Bull Run;
Above the Union vanguard, was proudly dancing seen,
Beside the starry banner, old Erin's flag of green.

Colonel Corcoran led the Sixty-ninth on that eventful day,
I wish the Prince of Wales were there to see him in the fray;
His charge upon the batteries was a most glorious scene,
With gallant New York firemen, and the boys that wore the green.

In the hottest of the fire there rode along the line
A captain of a Zouave band, crying, "Now, boys, is your time;"
Ah! who is he so proudly rides, with bold and dauntless mien?
'Tis Thomas Francis Meagher, of Erin's isle of green!

The colors of the Sixty-ninth, I say it without shame,
Were taken in the struggle to swell the victor's fame;
But Farnham's dashing Zouaves, that run with the machine,
Retook them in a moment, with the boys that wore the green!

Being overpowered by numbers, our troops were forced to flee,
The Southern black horse cavalry on them charged furiously;
But in that hour of peril, the flying mass to screen,
Stood the gallant New York firemen, with the boys that wore the green.

Oh, the boys of the Sixty-ninth, they are a gallant band,
Bolder never drew a sword for their adopted land;
Amongst the fallen heroes, a braver had not been,
Than you lamented Haggerty, of Erin's isle of green.

Farewell, my gallant countrymen, who fell that fatal day,
Farewell, ye noble firemen, now mouldering in the clay;
Whilst blooms the leafy shamrock, whilst runs the old machine,
Your deeds will live bold Red Shirts, and Boys that Wore the Green!

Your deeds will live bold Red Shirts, and Boys that Wore the Green!*

Today was not going well for Wildcat Kate. Not only had she ridden into the small mining town, only to be confronted by the local marshal and an overly brave (and overly armed) girl but her escape attempt was about to turn sour. Coming down the middle of the road, was Darby O'Rourke, singing, not at the top of his lungs but close enough. He was on foot, setting an easy marching pace, the very same one that had been drilled into him as a soldier in the vaunted Irish Brigade and leading a fat mule, which was trying to drag it’s feet. The animal wasn’t fond of going into places that gunshots had recently come from.

Darby however, didn’t much care who was shooting, so long as it wasn’t at him, which is why he was singing, other then because he enjoyed hearing himself do so. He was letting everyone ahead of him know, that he was coming through. Of course that didn’t mean he was just going to walk through a gunfight. He had unslung the loaded Springfield model 1873 and wrapping one hand around the grip, rested the long rifle on his shoulder.

As the sound of hoofbeats came racing towards him, the older soldier stopped dead in the road, the mule turning sideways in an attempt to leave the area. Hold the mule’s reins in one hand, he watched the approaching rider without concern and calmly stood his ground. Whoever it was, they weren’t just going to ride him down or force him to jump out of the way, no sir! He had marched through raining artillery fire and made bayonet charges against massed rifle fire, one single horsemen wasn't going to make him turn aside.

Besides, with the two small bags of gold dust in his pockets, he felt like he could buy the whole town, which only added to his cocky boldness. The river had been kind to him recently, allowing him to pan out more then enough gold this time. Not only could he afford a night in the saloon and the supplies he need for his mining camp but he had money to spare this time. Enough to buy a few more claims or get the tool he would need to start digging down into the earth, searching for veins of rich ore beneath the desert.





*The Boys That Wore The Green by William Woodburn