Thrice at the huts of Fontenoy the English

column failed,

And twice the lines of St Antoine the Dutch in

vain assailed;

For town and slope were filled with fort and

flanking battery,

And well they swept the English ranks and

Dutch auxiliary.

As vainly, through De Baari's wood, the British

soldiers burst,

The French artillery drove them back, diminished

and dispersed.

The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with

anxious eye,

And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance

to try.

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals

ride!

And mustering come his chosen troops, like

clouds at eventide.

Six thousand English veterans in stately column

tread,

Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay

is at their head;

Steady they step a-down the slope—steady they

climb the hill—

Steady they load—steady they fire, moving right

onward still,

Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as though a

furnace blast,

Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and

bullets showering fast;

And on the open plain above they rose, and

kept their course,

With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked

at hostile force.

Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner

grow their ranks,

They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through

Holland's ocean banks.

More idly than the summer flies French tirailleurs

rush round;

As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons

strew the ground;

Bomb-shell, and grape, and round shot tore, still

on they marched and fired—

Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur

retired.

"Push on, my household cavalry," King Louis

madly cried:

To death they rush, but rude their shock—not

unavenged they died.

On through the camp the column trod—King

Louis turns his rein *,

"Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, "the

Irish troops remain;"

And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a

Waterloo,

Were not these exiles ready then, fresh,

vehement, and true.

"Lord Clare," he says, "you have your wish,

there are your Saxon foes;"

The marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously

he goes!

How fierce the look these exiles wear, who're

wont to be so gay!

The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their

hearts to-day—

The treaty broken, ere the ink wherewith 'twas

writ could dry,

Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines,

their women's parting cry,

Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their

country overthrown—

Each looks as if revenge for all rested on him

alone.

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet else-

where,

Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these

proud exiles were.

O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he

commands,

"Fix bayonets—charge." Like mountain storm,

rush on these fiery bands!

Thin is the English column now, and faint their

volleys grow,

Yet, mustering all the strength they have, they

make a gallant show.

They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that

battle-wind—

Their bayonets the breakers' foam; like rocks,

the men behind!

One volley crashes from their line, when, through

the surging smoke,

With empty guns clutched in their hands, the

headlong Irish broke.

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce

huzza!

"Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down

the Sassenach."

Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with

hunger's pang,

Right up against the English line the Irish exiles

sprang:

Bright was their steel,'tis bloody now, their

guns are filled with gore;

Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and

trampled flags they tore;

The English strove with desperate strength,

paused, rallied, staggered, fled—

The green hill-side is matted close with dying

and with dead.

Across the plain and far away passed on that

hideous wrack,

While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their

track.

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the

sun,

With bloody plumes the Irish stand—the field

is fought and won!

—-T. Davis.