In the sputtering flare of the arc lamp in front of Liberty hall stood
squads of boys. Some of them wore brass-buttoned, green woolen waists, and
some, ordinary cotton shirts. Some of them had on uniform knickers, and
some, long, unpressed trousers. On the opposite side of the street were
blocked similar squads of serious-eyed, high-chinned girls. Some of them
were in green tweed suits, and others as they had come from work. They were
companies of the Citizens' Army recruited by the Irish Labor party, and
assembled in honor of the return of the Countess Markewicz from jail.

"Though cowards flinch and traitors sneer,
We'll keep the red flag flying here."

Young voices, impatient of the interim of waiting, sang the socialist song.
The burden was taken up by the laborers, whose constant movement to keep a
good view was attested by the hollow sound of their wooden-soled boots on
the stone walks. And the refrain was hummed by the shawled, frayed-skirted
creatures who were coming up from Talbot street, Gloucester street,
Peterson's lane, and all the family-to-a-room districts in Dublin. On the
skeletonish railroad crossing suspended over the Liffey, tin-hatted and
bayonet-carrying British soldiers were silhouetted against the
moon-whitened sky. Up to them floated the last oath of "The Red Flag":

"With heads uncovered swear we all,
To bear it onward till we fall.
Come dungeon dark or gallows grim,
This song shall be our parting hymn."

Clattered over the bridge the horse-dragged brake. In the light of a search