Most of the grown people of my day remembered the battle. At the time of its occurrence the towns of Cork were famed for their societies of Orangemen,--men who were born in Ireland, but who were sworn to uphold the foreign rule of England in their native land. They were schooled, and the like of them are to-day schooled, into believing that only for the protecting power of England, the Catholics of Ireland would kill the Protestants of Ireland. These Orangemen societies grew strong in many places, and became so aggressive and so fostered and patronized by the English governors, that they acted as if their mission was the English mission of rooting the old Irish race out of Ireland altogether. The spirit that harmonized with their education was the spirit expressed by those words painted on the gates of the town of Bandon: “Turk, Jew or Atheist may enter here, but not a papist.” Of that it is said that some one wrote under it these words: “Whoever wrote that wrote it well, For the same is written on the gates of hell.” But about this battle of Ross that is celebrated in song by John Collins, I may as well let the poet tell the story of it in those words of his that are sung to the air of “The Boyne Water.” July the twelfth in ancient Ross There was a furious battle. Where many an Amazonian lass Made Irish bullets rattle. Sir Parker pitched his Flavian band Beyond the Rowry water, Reviewed his forces on the strand And marshaled them for slaughter. They ate and drank from scrip and can And drew their polished bayonets; They swore destruction to each man Dissenting from their tenets. Replete with wrath and vengeance, too, They drank “Annihilation To that insidious, hated crew-- The Papists of the nation!” Their chief advanced along the shore And every rank incited; “Brave boys,” said he, “mind what you swore”-- And what they swore recited. “This night let’s stand as William stood: Set yonder town on fire; Wade through a flood of Papist blood Or in the flames expire.” The listening multitude approved, With shouts of approbation, Of what their generous leader moved In his sweet peroration. Each swore that he would never flee, Or quit the field of action, Unless assailed by more than three Of any other faction. They crossed the purling Rowry Glen, Intent on spoil and plunder; Their firelocks raised a dreadful din, Like peals of distant thunder. The Garde-de-Corps first led across; The rest in martial order, And in full gallop entered Ross In fourteen minutes after. The warlike women of the town, Apprized of the invasion, Like Amazons of high renown, Soon formed into a legion. With courage scarcely ever known, Led on by brave Maria, Each stood, like David with a stone, To face the great Goliah.