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               FONTENOY.

rice, at the huts Fontenoy, the English column
failed,
And twice the lines of St Antoine the Dutch in vain
assailod;
For town and slopes were guarded with fort and
artillaay,
As vainly, through Da Barri's wood the British
soldiers burst—
To French artillary drove them back diminished
dispersed.
The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with
anxious eye,
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance
to try.
Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his gen'rals
ride,
And mustering come his chosen troops; like clouds
at eventide.
Six thousand Edglish veterans in stately column
thread
Their cannon blaze in front at the flask, Lord Hay
is at their head;
Steady they step a-down the slope — steady they
climb th e hill;
Steady they load—steady they fire, moving right
onwerdstill,
Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a
furna oe blast,
Throughrampert, trench, palisade, and kept their
course
ith ready fire and steadiness—that mocked at
hostile fo ce.
Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grew
their ranks—
They break as broke the Zuyder Zee through
Hollands ocean banks.
More idly than the summer files 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 ahd fired,
Fast as each volley grenadier and voltiguer 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.
There were thos exiles ready then fresh, vehement
and true.
"Lord Clare," he says " you hare our wish there
are your Saxon foes,!'

The Ma shall almost miles 6 see, so furiously
goes,
How fierce the look those exiles wear who're wont
to be so gay,
The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their
hearts to-day,
The rreaty broken, ere the ink wherewith 'twas
wri 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 allrested on him alone

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nir ever yet elsewhere,
Bushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud
exiles were,
O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as halting, he
Commands,
"Fix bay'nets " " charge," Like mountain storm
rush on those fiery bands.
Thin is the English column now, and faint their
volleys grow,
Yet must'ring all the strength they have they make
a gallant show.
They dress their ranks upon the hill to face the
battle-wind,
Their bayonets the breakers' foam : like rscks, the
men behind.
One volley crashes from their line, when, through
the surging smoke,
With empty guns clutched in their hands, thehead-
long Irish broke.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce
huzzah,
" Revenge ! remember Limerick ! dash down the
Sassana !

Like lions leaping on a fold, when mad wi,h hunger
pang.
Bight up against the English line the Irish exiles
eprang,
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 desp'rate strength, paused,
raired strggard, fled—
The green hill side is matted close with dying and
with dead,
Across the plain, and away passed on that hideous
wrack,
While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their
track.

On Fontenoy, m Fontenoy, like eagles in the sua
With bloody plumes the Irish stand— the battle
fought and won.