Tweet
June 20th has passed by already but I just wanted to remember those 100 Irish souls from Baltimore county Cork who were carried off in 1631 after a bloody June 20th raid by Algerian slave traders.
One hundred of the village's townspeople were kidnapped and dispatched to Algeria as slaves, never to return. Today this is referred to as the Sack of Baltimore. The fate of the hundred unfortunate men, women, and children has never been established.
The following is a poem by Thomas Davis written in their memory.
The Sack of Baltimore
Thomas Davis
The summer sun is falling soft o'er Carbery's
hundred isles
The summer sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's
rough defiles
Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a
moulting bird,
And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is
heard.
The hookers lie upon the beach; the children
cease their play;
The gossips leave the little inn; the households
kneel to pray;
And full of love, and peace, and rest - it's daily
labour o'er -
Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of
Baltimore.
A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with
midnight there;
No sound except that throbbing wave, in earth,
or sea, or air.
The massive capes and ruined towers seem
conscious of the calm;
The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing
heavy balm.
So still the night, these two long barques round
Dunashad that glide
Might trust their oars - methinks not few -
against the ebbing tide.
Oh! Some sweet mission of true love must urge
them to the shore:
They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in
Baltimore!
All, asleep within each roof along that rocky
street,
And these must be the lover's friends with gently
gliding feet -
A stifled gasp! A dreamy noise! "the roof is in
a flame!"
From out their beds, and to their doors, rush
maid, and sire, and dame,
And meet upon the threshold stone the gleaming
sabre's fall,
And o'er each black and bearded face the white
or crimson shawl;
The yell of "Allah" breaks abover the prayer,
and shriek, and roar -
Oh! Blessed God! The Algerine is lord of
Baltimore.
Then flung the youth his naked hand against the
shearing sword;
Then sprung the mother on the brand with which
her son was gored;
Then sunk the gransire on the floor, his grand-
babes clutching wild;
Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled
with the child,
But see, yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed
with splashing heel,
While o'er him in an Irish hand, there sweeps
his Syrian steel:
Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and miser's
yield their store,
There's one hearth well avenged in the sack of
Baltimore!
Mid-summer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds
began to sing;
They see not how the milking maids - deserted
in the spring!
Mid-summer day - this gallant rides from distant
Bandon's town;
These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that
skiff from Affadown:
They only found the smoking walls, that neighbour's
blood besprent,
And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile
they wildly went;
Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Cléire,
and saw five leagues before
The pirate galleys vanishing that ravished
Baltimore
Oh! Some must tug the galley's oar, and some
must tend the steed;
This boy will bear a Sheik's chibouk, and that a
Bey's jerreed.
Oh! Some are in the arsenals, by beauteous
Dardanelles;
And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy
dells.
The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen
for the Dey:
She's safe - he's dead - she stabbed him in the
Midst of his serai;
And when, to die a death of fire, that noble
maid they bore,
She only smiled - O'Driscoll's child - she thought
of Baltimore
'Tis two long years since sunk the town beneath
that bloody band,
And all around its trampled hearths a larger
concourse stands,
Where, high upon a gallows tree, a yelling wretch
is seen -
'Tis Hackett of Dungarvan, he who steered the
Algerine!
He fell amid a sudden shout, with scarce a passing
prayer,
For he had slain the kith and kin of many a
hundred there;
Some muttered of MacMurchadh, who brought
the Norman o'er;
Some cursed him with Iscariot that day in
Baltimore.
One hundred of the village's townspeople were kidnapped and dispatched to Algeria as slaves, never to return. Today this is referred to as the Sack of Baltimore. The fate of the hundred unfortunate men, women, and children has never been established.
The following is a poem by Thomas Davis written in their memory.
The Sack of Baltimore
Thomas Davis
The summer sun is falling soft o'er Carbery's
hundred isles
The summer sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's
rough defiles
Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a
moulting bird,
And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is
heard.
The hookers lie upon the beach; the children
cease their play;
The gossips leave the little inn; the households
kneel to pray;
And full of love, and peace, and rest - it's daily
labour o'er -
Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of
Baltimore.
A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with
midnight there;
No sound except that throbbing wave, in earth,
or sea, or air.
The massive capes and ruined towers seem
conscious of the calm;
The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing
heavy balm.
So still the night, these two long barques round
Dunashad that glide
Might trust their oars - methinks not few -
against the ebbing tide.
Oh! Some sweet mission of true love must urge
them to the shore:
They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in
Baltimore!
All, asleep within each roof along that rocky
street,
And these must be the lover's friends with gently
gliding feet -
A stifled gasp! A dreamy noise! "the roof is in
a flame!"
From out their beds, and to their doors, rush
maid, and sire, and dame,
And meet upon the threshold stone the gleaming
sabre's fall,
And o'er each black and bearded face the white
or crimson shawl;
The yell of "Allah" breaks abover the prayer,
and shriek, and roar -
Oh! Blessed God! The Algerine is lord of
Baltimore.
Then flung the youth his naked hand against the
shearing sword;
Then sprung the mother on the brand with which
her son was gored;
Then sunk the gransire on the floor, his grand-
babes clutching wild;
Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled
with the child,
But see, yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed
with splashing heel,
While o'er him in an Irish hand, there sweeps
his Syrian steel:
Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and miser's
yield their store,
There's one hearth well avenged in the sack of
Baltimore!
Mid-summer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds
began to sing;
They see not how the milking maids - deserted
in the spring!
Mid-summer day - this gallant rides from distant
Bandon's town;
These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that
skiff from Affadown:
They only found the smoking walls, that neighbour's
blood besprent,
And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile
they wildly went;
Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Cléire,
and saw five leagues before
The pirate galleys vanishing that ravished
Baltimore
Oh! Some must tug the galley's oar, and some
must tend the steed;
This boy will bear a Sheik's chibouk, and that a
Bey's jerreed.
Oh! Some are in the arsenals, by beauteous
Dardanelles;
And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy
dells.
The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen
for the Dey:
She's safe - he's dead - she stabbed him in the
Midst of his serai;
And when, to die a death of fire, that noble
maid they bore,
She only smiled - O'Driscoll's child - she thought
of Baltimore
'Tis two long years since sunk the town beneath
that bloody band,
And all around its trampled hearths a larger
concourse stands,
Where, high upon a gallows tree, a yelling wretch
is seen -
'Tis Hackett of Dungarvan, he who steered the
Algerine!
He fell amid a sudden shout, with scarce a passing
prayer,
For he had slain the kith and kin of many a
hundred there;
Some muttered of MacMurchadh, who brought
the Norman o'er;
Some cursed him with Iscariot that day in
Baltimore.
Comment