FONTENOY
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.
