“Clear the way, boys, clear the way” said Meagher astride his steed.
The fighting sixty- ninth stepped forth, they were not afraid to bleed.
Upon St Marye’s heights Cobb’s Georgians waited, behind a low stone wall.
The lads attacked that stout defense – how senseless was it all.
There were Irish too up on the hill and they saw the Emerald flag.
“Oh God, what a pity! Here come Meagher’s fellows” one Irish rebel said,
But all obeyed the order given; to fill the air with lead.
The sixty-ninth could not reply, they all carried antique stock.
Muskets are no match for rifles at the distance they attacked.
They climbed that rise into a storm of canister and shot
They got as close as 40 yards before their surge was stopped.
Sixteen hundred had started out from the little town below,
They took the fight as far as any of mortal flesh could go.
As darkness fell upon the field there were wounded men and dying.
Some muttered prayers in their foreign tongue, how pitiful their crying.
It was a dark December for the army Burnside led.
Fourteen assaults in all repulsed with eight Thousand Union dead.
With eighty percent casualties Meagher’s boys had it worst of all:
Fewer than three hundred  were left to answer the roll call.