[Clann]

Yesterday was the anniversary of the Batle of Glenmalure.

The Battle of Glenmalure took place in Wicklow in Ireland in 1580 during the Desmond Rebellions. An Irish Catholic force made up of the Gaelic clans from the Wicklow Mountains led by Fiach MacHugh O'Byrne and James Eustace, Viscount Baltinglass of the Pale, defeated an English army under Earl Grey de Wilton, at the O'Byrne clans' mountain stronghold of Glenmalure. While trying to climb the steep slopes of the valley, the inexperienced English soldiers were ambushed by the Irish rebels, who had hidden themselves in the woods. The English were sniped at for a long period of time before their discipline collapsed and they turned and fled down the valley. At this point, most of their casualties occurred, when the Irish left their cover and fell on the soldiers with swords, spears and axes. Around 800 English soldiers were killed, including Peter Carew, a colonist who had made claims to won large tracts of land in southern Ireland. The remainder of the English force limped back to lowland Wicklow and from there to Dublin. However, the following year, when offered terms, most of the Irish rebels, including O'Byrne, came in and surrendered. The exception was Baltinglass, who fled for France.

The battle is commemorated in the folk song Follow me up to Carlow.

Lift Mac Cahir Og your face,
Brooding o´er the old disgrace,
That black Fitzwilliam stormed your place
And drove you to the Fern
Grey said victory was sure,
Soon the firebrand he´d secure
Until he met at Glenmalure,
Feach Mac Hugh O´Byrne

See the swords of Glen Imayle,
Flashing o´er the English Pale
See all the children of the Gael,
Beneath O´Byrne´s banners
Rooster of the fighting stock,
Would you let a Saxon cock
Crow out upon an Irish rock,
Fly up and teach him manners

Curse and swear Lord Kildare
Feach will do what Feach will dare
Now Fitzwilliam, have a care
Fallen is your star low
Up with halbert, out with sword
On we go for by the Lord
Feach Mac Hugh has given his word
Follow me up to Carlow

From Tassagart to Clonmore,
Flows a stream of Saxon gore
Och, great is Rory Oge O´More,
At sending loons to Hades
White is sick and Lane is fled,
Now for black Fitzwilliam´s head
We´ll send it over, dripping red,
To Liza and the ladies