“‘Why,’ replied Denis, ‘when I went to sarvice, my master lived in the very parish with Father Murphy, who, God bless him, coming one day through Ferns, saw the Yeo’s shooting poor Catholics like dogs, trying how many of them a musket ball would go through at once; so in the evening he called his congregation together in the chapel. It was as dark as _bags_, and not a candle lightning to show us the way to say our prayers. We were all silent as death, and you could hear a pin drop on the floor while the priest was speaking. He tould us ’twas better to die fighting for our religion and country, than be butchered like sheep by the Orangemen. He said what was Gospel, and faith we took his advice, and marched in fine order after him, and he in the middle of us to Oulard Hill, where we encamped for the night. The Yeo’s fled like murder at the sight of us, for they are the greatest cowards in the world, and sent the sogers to frighten us: but faith, their day was passed, and once we burnt the candle, we’d burn the inch. When the red coats appeared, our faces were all manner of colours, and many proposed to run away. ‘No, no,’ says I, ‘the priest and God is with us, and what have we to fear? Here is a ditch and gravel hole, and lie in them till the sogers come quite close, and when I cry out _Erin go bragh_, let every man start up, and use his pike.’ My advice was taken, and Father Murphy blessed us all. The sogers come up, sure enough with a fellow like a turkey cock strutting before them on his horse, and when they came quite near the ditch, he went behind them, and we could hear the words, “Ready, present, fire!” Pop, pop, pop, went their muskets; but faith I shouted out like a lion, _Erin go bragh_,[4] and it would do your heart good to see what sport we had. They weren’t a breakfast for us, and I had the pleasure, thank God, of sticking my pike into the rascally lieutenant, who murdered myself and my father.”