In the quiet darkness that enveloped Limerick, the land lay still, awaiting the unseen threat that lurked on the hills. The foe, concealed in ambush, bided their time impatiently, ready to pounce upon their unsuspecting prey. Among them, noble Sarsfield, the valiant commander, stood resolute, leading his men before the break of day.
From Dublin, the enemy approached, armed with deadly intent and formidable weapons—huge guns, tons of powder, and thundering balls galore. Little did they know that their grand designs would soon be thwarted by the daring exploits of Sarsfield and his gallant band. With Dublin’s foe dreaming of their impending triumph, Sarsfield prepared to strike under the cover of darkness.
As the clock struck midnight, each man leaped onto his steed, galloping down moor and vale towards Cullen with lightning speed. Their destination: Ballyneety’s wall, where the enemy’s encampment lay with guns, stores, and all the trappings of war. The word was given, and the word was Sarsfield—a rallying cry that echoed through the night, signifying the commander’s unwavering leadership.
In the dead of night, with God’s intervention clearing the firmament and the moon and stars casting their celestial glow, Sarsfield led his men into action. Revenge for the Battle of the Boyne, a previous conflict where they had suffered, was sought that night. The convoy, laden with the enemy’s mighty store—pontoons, carts, powder casks, and camions—lay scattered before them.
With eager hands, they piled the spoils high, laying down the fuse, applying the match. A moment of suspense, then an explosion that shattered the stillness of the night, sending the enemy’s supplies skyward. Sarsfield’s men had achieved a daring victory, a triumph of cunning and courage under the veil of darkness.
Amidst the chaos, Sarsfield’s laughter rang out joyfully as they swiftly rode away, leaving behind a scene of destruction. The following day, many a toast was raised to their daring leader in the streets of Limerick. To Sarsfield, the man who, in the midnight hour, had wreaked havoc upon the foe and demolished their artillery at Ballyneety’s Tower.
So, the tale of Sarsfield’s men became a ballad, echoing through the ages—a testament to their valour and cunning, forever etched in the annals of Limerick’s history.
The Midnight Ride of Sarsfield’s Men
In Limerick’s embrace, the night descends,
A land in silence, where mystery blends.
Amidst the hills, in ambush, foes lay still,
Their deadly intent, the air does fill.
Noble Sarsfield, with resolute might,
Leads his men through the shroud of night.
Before the break of day, they stand,
A gallant band, at his command.
From Dublin, the foe, with warlike store,
Approaches with thunderous uproar.
Little they know, in the quiet of their dream,
Sarsfield’s vengeance, a midnight scheme.
As midnight chimes, each steed takes flight,
Gallop echoes through the moor, swift and light.
To Cullen’s domain, with lightning’s grace,
Sarsfield’s men hasten, a determined race.
Ballyneety’s wall, their destined goal,
The enemy’s encampment, their daring patrol.
The word is Sarsfield, a rallying cry,
Under moonlit sky, they’re ready to fly.
God clears the firmament, stars provide light,
Revenge for the Battle of Boyne takes flight.
Pontoons, carts, powder casks galore,
Spoils of war scattered on the floor.
With eager hands, they pile the prize,
Lay the fuse, beneath the skies.
An explosion, a triumphant roar,
Their victory, a spectacle to adore.
Sarsfield’s laughter fills the air,
As they swiftly ride, victory to declare.
Toasting him in Limerick’s daylight,
A leader bold, in the midnight.
Ballyneety’s Tower, witness to their might,
Where artillery fell in the cover of night.
A tale of cunning, courage, and lore,
Sarsfield’s men, forevermore.
So, let the ballad echo and ring,
Of Sarsfield’s men, a valourous wing.
In the tapestry of Limerick’s lore,
Their midnight ride, forevermore.
Dr Robert D. Joyce.
Weekly Freeman’s Journal – Saturday 26 March 1910
