7.3.04
Danny Morrison - Irish Republican News - Francis Hughes
**Posted on the board by Joy
The volunteer is not a song nor poem but spoken word , written by Gerry O'Glacain, Irish Brigade.
THE VOLUNTEER
The gunfire split the still night air,
and from my side the blood flowed red.
Informer's work had been well done; an ambush had been laid.
My comrades turned back to my aid. I waved them on again.
Escape for me was hopeless. Why should they die in vain?
The soldiers soon around me stood. Their unit I could guess.
Their blackened faces could not disguise the hated SAS.
"Finish him off." I heard one say as a gun moved toward my head.
"Tomorrow they'll all sing about another fenian dead."
"Just drop those guns down gently," a voice came from the dark.
They wheeled and fired a volley, but it seemed they missed their mark.
The stranger stood before them now with eyes that seemed alight.
The cowards turned and quickly fled as he raised his armalite.
His face somewhere I'd seen before, but I couldn't tell just where,
but I knew from his green battledress he was a volunteer.
He never said a word to me as we moved off through the night.
I was hoisted 'cross his shoulders, a burden which seemed light.
"You'll be safe here," at last he said , as a cottage door drew near.
"They're friends of mine, though we haven't met for many a lonely year.
He laid me gently down beside a wall of slate and stone.
I turned to thank my comrade brave, but found I was alone.
When next I woke, I found myself with a family staunch and true.
I told them of my comrade strange, but it seemed they already knew.
I gazed upon that parlour wall and things came clear at last,
and I thought of songs and stories heard often in the past,
and I knew then that our struggle was a fight we could not lose
for beneath his picture there I read " IN MEMORY OF FRANCIS HUGHES."
**Posted on the board by Joy
The volunteer is not a song nor poem but spoken word , written by Gerry O'Glacain, Irish Brigade.
THE VOLUNTEER
The gunfire split the still night air,
and from my side the blood flowed red.
Informer's work had been well done; an ambush had been laid.
My comrades turned back to my aid. I waved them on again.
Escape for me was hopeless. Why should they die in vain?
The soldiers soon around me stood. Their unit I could guess.
Their blackened faces could not disguise the hated SAS.
"Finish him off." I heard one say as a gun moved toward my head.
"Tomorrow they'll all sing about another fenian dead."
"Just drop those guns down gently," a voice came from the dark.
They wheeled and fired a volley, but it seemed they missed their mark.
The stranger stood before them now with eyes that seemed alight.
The cowards turned and quickly fled as he raised his armalite.
His face somewhere I'd seen before, but I couldn't tell just where,
but I knew from his green battledress he was a volunteer.
He never said a word to me as we moved off through the night.
I was hoisted 'cross his shoulders, a burden which seemed light.
"You'll be safe here," at last he said , as a cottage door drew near.
"They're friends of mine, though we haven't met for many a lonely year.
He laid me gently down beside a wall of slate and stone.
I turned to thank my comrade brave, but found I was alone.
When next I woke, I found myself with a family staunch and true.
I told them of my comrade strange, but it seemed they already knew.
I gazed upon that parlour wall and things came clear at last,
and I thought of songs and stories heard often in the past,
and I knew then that our struggle was a fight we could not lose
for beneath his picture there I read " IN MEMORY OF FRANCIS HUGHES."
