The Grand Old Duke of York
The Grand old Duke of York
He had ten thousand men
He marched them up to the top of the hill
And marched them down again
And when they were up they were up
And when they were down they were down
And when they were only half way up
They were neither up nor down.
The nearly out of ear-shot chatter;
The Duke himself lean to the bone, grey bewhiskered,
Eyes bulging concentration
It’s been three days;
Are they with him yet?
On the fourth day
Early in the morning
The mist hung over the top of the hill
He heard his men
The morning groans and random chatter
He sensed the disquiet
Perhaps today would have it.
He was shot off his horse by a Sergeant of Dragoons
A Belfast man, on the Tenth day,
Late in the afternoon;