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Catalog Number 1938.100.51
Object Name Poem
Accession number 1938.100
Description Poem or Song

Full transcription of text follows:

"Marching Song of the Irish Brigade" to the tune of the "Mountains of Mourne" Do ye ask what's the trampling of feet that you hear And what Regiments are these that are raising a cheer. Don't you see on our wagons the Shamrock displayed? We're the bhoys of Ould Ireland-The Irish Brigade. For our long months of training are over and done And we're off with our bayonets to tickle the Hun. Faith, we feared for a time we'd been lost or midlaid. But at last they've remembered the Irish Brigade. There's many a Colleen with tears in her eye; From Killarney to Dublin no cheek will be dry; But we're not after boasting the conquests we've made, For what girl can resist us- The Irish Brigade. Ooh, we're powerful with spades when digging a trench, And when once we start talking we're divils at French. And our shots all get home in a brisk fusilade, And we're spoiling for murder-The Irish Brigade. Sure the Kaiser they say's at the height of his fame, And he boasts that he's getting the best of the game, "Don't be talking," cries Haig, "I've a trump to be played," "And the trump in my hand is-The Irish Brigade. Let the Boche do his worst; faith, we'll laugh in his face, Though he scatter 'Jack Johnsons' about the whole place. 'Tis not at such trifles our bhoys are dismayed, Sure, we're fighting to win-we're the Irish Brigade. Now, when Wilhem's World Empire is shrunken and thin, And we're billeted snugly in the spacious Berlin, Sure, in Unter den Linden we'll hold a parade, And we'll show him the bhoys of the Irish Brigade.

From the service of Eleanor McGee, American Red Cross nurse at Base Hospital # 23 "The Nouvel" located in Vittel, Vosges, France from 1918-1919 (?).
Date n.d.
Year Range from 1918
Year Range to 1919
Subjects World War I
Poetry
Irish