FONTENOY.

117

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 breaks 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 turned his rein.

"Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed; "the Irish troops remain."

And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo,

Had not these exiles ready been, fresh, vehement, and true.

"Lord Clare," he said, "you have your wish; there are your Saxon foes!"

The Marshal almost smiles to see how 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 't was 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 were staked on him alone.

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere,

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 those 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 be

hind!

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!

66

'Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sacsanagh!"

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, 't is bloody now, their guns are filled

with gore;

Through scattered ranks and severed files and trampled flags they tore.

The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, scattered, fled;

The green hillside 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!

THOMAS DAVIS.

NASEBY.

119

Naseby.

H! wherefore come ye forth in triumph from the north,

red?

And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout? And whence be the grapes of the wine-press that ye tread?

Oh! evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,

And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod;

For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong,

Who sate in the high places and slew the saints of God.

It was about the noon of a glorious day of June,
That we saw their banners dance and their cuirasses shine,
And the man of blood was there, with his long essenced hair,
And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine.

Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword,
The general rode along us to form us for the fight;
When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a
shout

Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right.

And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore,
The cry of battle rises along their charging line:

"For God! for the cause! for the Church! for the laws! For Charles, King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine!"

The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums, His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of Whitehall;

They are bursting on our flanks! Grasp your pikes! Close your ranks !

For Rupert never comes, but to conquer or to fall.

They are here - they rush on

gone

we are broken we are

Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast.

O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right! Stand back to back, in God's name! and fight it to the last!

Stout Skippen hath a wound the centre hath given ground. Hark! hark! what means the trampling of horsemen on our rear?

Whose banners do I see, boys? 'Tis he! thank God! 'tis he, boys!

Bear

up another minute! Brave Oliver is here!

Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row:
Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dikes,
Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the accurst,
And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes.

Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide
Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar;
And he he turns! he flies! shame on those cruel eyes
That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war.

Ho, comrades! scour the plain; and ere ye strip the slain, First give another stab to make your search secure;

Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and

lockets,

The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor.

Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold,

When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day; And to-morrow shall the fox from her chambers in the rocks Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey.

Where be your tongues, that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate?

And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades? Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches, and your oaths? Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your

spades?

CARMEN BELLICOSUM.

121

Down! down! forever down, with the mitre and the crown! With the Belial of the court, and the Mammon of the Pope! There is woe in Oxford halls, there is wail in Durham's stalls;

The Jesuit smites his bosom, the bishop rends his cope.

And she of the seven hills shall mourn her children's ills,
And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's

sword;

And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hear What the hand of God hath wrought for the houses and the

From the smoky night encampment, bore the banner of the

rampant

Unicorn,

And grummer, grummer, grummer, rolled the roll of the drummer,

VOL. III.

Through the morn!

Then with eyes to the front all,
And with guns horizontal,

Stood our sires;

And the balls whistled deadly,

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