The Irish standard., 1886-07-17
THE IRISH DRUMMER BOY.
The Heroic Act Of Tommy Gowan, a Street
Arab, Who Was Branded as 1.-THE
Wickedest Boy in New York.
He DIED LIKE A LITTLE SOLDIER.
he Waved the Colors Over His Head
and shrisked, 'shame on Ye, Boys!
Would Ye Desert the Old Flag7"
(By William Collins }

(I3y William Coliins.)
Among the regiments terribly deci-
mated at the second battle of Bull Run
were those belonging TO Sickles' Bri-
gade. Held in reserve during the fierce
carnage of the earlier part Of the day,
they had only seen the battalions Of
stretcher- bearers and trains Of ambu~
lances loaded with their groaning bur-
dens. Late in the afternoon came the
orders to go to the front.
The drum corps, contrary to custom,
accompanied the brigade into the line
OF fire. Army drummers were generally
the lowest Of the low, but Tommy
Gowan was worthy to be branded as
the ''Wickedest boy III New York. y
Under IL years old he was yet plunged
to the eyes in every possible vice. No
gentler prophecy was ever made than
that he would yet dance in the air al a
ropes end. A street Arab, with all the
most hideous defects Of his clan, even
the tenderness that soldiers generally
felt for their boyish pets Of the drum
corps extended not to him.
The order was given to dislodge the
enemy holding a section Of dense woods
and underbrush. The position was
very strong, and obsr1ucted by all the
contriyances of the engineer. Three
times the brigade charged up to the
jaws Of the cannon, and each time was
rolled back like paper shs,veled in the
fire. Again the officers marshaled them
into a. line of attack. A deadly storm
from the yawning hell of artillery again
tore through the broken, bleeding ranks.
The last of the color guard, the fifth
man who had 1,preared the fatal banner
within all hour, went down shot
through the heart. 1t was critical
moment. The officers could hardly
make themselves heard in the horrid
din. The line wavered and shook, as a
wild, impressible panic shot through
the hearts that had thrice, charged ON
those appalling woods with such a law
ish waste of life.
at this moment the dr,mmer-boy
GoYan rushed forward, seized the dis
honored colors from the earth and, fac
ing the regiment, backed towards the
enemy for several rods. The hero's
heart, under all the foul rags and tat
ters that had swatled and buried it out
of sight, burst through it's bonds under
the inspiration of that terrible moment.
The gutter-snipe that bad grown like a
toad-stool out of the slurns of the Five
Points, was transfgured into the SEM
blance Of a young demi-god, with the
light Of heaven and martyrdom shin
ing on his brow.
shrilly he scrielxed. as he waved the
ponderous colors over his head, "Fie.
Shame on ye, boys! Would ye desert
the old hag2" and the next moment
t,,mbled into lifeless heap, literally
torn in two by shell. The Irish regi-
ment gave one frantic yell of wrath
that stined the rafting fusilades, and
swept on with the impetus OF an avail
anche. Nothing human could endure
before that frenzied onset, and in mo-
ment the ConfederaJes were hurled
back in rout and confusion.
The name of young GoWan is carved
in no marble tablet, stamped on no
medal of honor, and was mentioned but
by one NEWSPAPER. Yet i'll the memory
of all who witnessed that transcendent
outburst of the divine and heroic
through q corrupt and callous crust it
sends burning thrill through all the
nerves at the recurring thought. Victor
Hugo could put in the mouth Of Cam
bronze the foulest Of words to express
his boundless despair and rage when
ordered to surrender the shattered
fragment of the ''Old Guard" at Wat
erloo; he could make Gavroche die at
the barricades Of Paris with the gay
laugh quivering Oh his shrunken lips.
But he never conceived anything more
supremely grand than the death of that
Irish drummer-boy.
Thrice UP against their battery,
We rushed to the attack,
And thrice with fearful slaughter
Our lines were driven back;
Once more our Colonel marshaled us,
And on we pushed again,
But torn and shattered, back recoiled
With scarcely half our men.
A cry Of terror thrilled the ranks,
And wavered the Brigade.
Before their battering guns we stood
Pale, painting, and dsmayed.
The last man of the color-guard.
His death shot there had found,
And close beside his battle flag
Lay torn upon the ground.
Fast flashed the red artillery
Our bleeding columns through,
And thickfand fast to earth they fall,
Our gallant menin blue.