The Flight of the Wild Geese

The incident known as the 'Flight of the Wild Geese' refers to the 14,000 Irish Jacobite soldiers who sailed with their families from Ireland to France under the military provisions of The Treaty of Limerick of 1691. Under the command of Patrick Sarsfield, they continued to serve the cause of Catholic King James II during the Nine Years War. At the war's end they became incorporated within France's famed Irish Brigade, eschewing French white uniforms for British scarlet in recognition of their claim to be fighting for the rightful heir to the thrones of England, Scotland and Ireland. In 1697, the remnants of the Jacobite Irish Army were incorporated into France's Irish Brigade.

The Flight of The Wild Geese is one of the most significant events in the romantic cultural symbolism of Ireland. In his poem September 1913 W B Yeats lamented the gradual loss of a distinctive Irish culture:

Was it for this the wild geese spread
The grey wing upon every tide;
For this that all that blood was shed,
For this Edward Fitzgerald died,
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,
All that delirium of the brave?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Kipling mobilised the The Wild Geese for other purposes in his 1915 poem, The Irish Guards, written as a memorial to his son, Jack, killed at Loos that year:

We're not so old in the Army List,
But we’re not so young at our trade.
For we had the honour at Fontenoy
Of meeting the Guards’ Brigade.
'Twas Lally, Dillon, Bulkeley, Clare,
And Lee that led us then,
And after a hundred and seventy years
We’re fighting for France again!

Old Days! The wild geese are flighting,
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish there’s bound to be fighting,
And when there’s no fighting, it’s Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!

The fashion’s all for khaki now,
But once through France we went
Full—dressed in scarlet Army cloth,
The English —left at Ghent.
They’re fighting on our side today
But, before they changed their clothes,
The half of Europe knew our fame,
As all of Ireland knows!

Old Days! The wild geese are flying,
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish there’s memory undying.
And when we forget, it is Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!

From Barry Wood to Gouzeaucourt,
From Boyne to Pilkem Ridge,
The ancient days come back no more
Than water under the bridge.
But the bridge it stands and the water runs
As red as yesterday,
And the Irish move to the sound of the guns
Like salmon to the sea.

Old Days! The wild geese are ranging .
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish their hearts are unchanging,
And when they are changed, it is Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!

We’re not so old in the Army List,
But we’re not so new in the ring,
For we carried our packs with Marshal Saxe
When Louis was our King.
But Douglas Haig’s our Marshal now
And we’re King George’s men,
And after one hundred and seventy years
We’re fighting for France again!

Ah, France! And did we stand by you,
When life was made splendid with gifts and rewards?
Ah, France! And will we deny you
In the hour of your agony, Mother of Swords?

Old Days! The wild geese are flighting,
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish there’s loving and fighting,
And when we stop either, it’s Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!