On April 27, 1878 a steam boiler explosion took place at the foundry, killing thirteen people. The following poem was written:
LAMENTABLE LINES
Written on the late awful Accident at
HAMMOND LANE.
You citizens of Dublin of every creed—each one and all,
Whom God has blessed with means, pray listen to the call
Of charity and love, nor let it come to you, I say, in vain,
From the suff'rers of the tragdey which occured in Hammond-lane
The twentyseventh of April ( 78 ) will long remembered be
By Widows and by Orphans who ne'er again shall see
The face of him so dearly loved, who brought them daily bread,
Who cheered their hearts when aching with the joyful words he said.
And with him thirteen others lie in one ghastly pile,
In fragments and in pieces—I shudder even while,
To you, I tell the story of this sad Catastrophe
Which has plunged so many souls into eternity.
At Messrs Strong's great Iron Works where, employment numbers get.
This melancholy thing occured which I never can forget—
Sad in all its aspects, so sickening to contemplate ;
Direful in its Consequences, heart rending to relate
It was at the hour of dinner, and convenient to the spot
Stood poor Duffy's public house, a place so often sought
By workingmen, as was their wont, to have their pint of beer—
With their piece of bread and butter—the poor man's only cheer.
While thus in peace and quiet, as they enjoyed their rrugal meal,
Like light'ning, in an instant, around their senses steal
A death—like curtain which closed their eyes on things mundane,
And ope'd them to eternity, for endless joy or pain.
A dreadful crash, the only warning—like cannon's awful roar;
A heap of ruins next moment with mangled corpses all in gore :
The boiler o'er the way alas ! how sad, had burst, and oh !
The cause of all this misery—this wretched scene of woe.
Beneath the fallen houses, and heaps or aebris lay
Disfigur'd bodies—young and old—some still alive they say ;
Oh ! let us rescue, if we can, is the cry of some one near,
For in that rubbish yonder, some dismal moans I hear.
Our stalworth men, in numbers, responded to the call,
And worked like gallant heroes beneath the forming wall
That threat'ned to engulf them, and each moment life destroy,
But those fearless boys of Dublin would work away or die.
Two young and beauteous maidens were numbered with the dead—
In innocence and beauty their lamps of life had fled—
And with their loving father, have journeyed on their way
To happiness, I hope, where evermore they'll stay.
Peace to their souls, poor victims, and may the Lord on high,
Console their friends, heart—broken, who for their lost ones sigh ;
And crown the good Sir John—the flower of Arnott's name—
For his kind and princely offering—God bless him for the same.
Thus ends my tale, good people, so sad in every line,
Of this melancholy accident I've tried to tell in rhyme
And let us hope in Goodness, nor think our hopes in vain—
That we'll never have to picture another Hammond-lane.
