On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza!
"Revenge, remember Limerick! dash down the Sacsanach!"
VI.
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 the 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,