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 guarded with fort and artillery, | |
| And well they swept the English ranks and Dutch auxiliary. | |
| As vainly through De Barri’s wood the British soldiers burst, | 5 |
| 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. | 10 |
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| 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, | 15 |
| 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 steadiness, 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. | 20 |
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| More idly than the summer flies French tirailleurs rush round; | |
| As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground; | |
| Bombshell, 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: | 25 |
| 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. | 30 |
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| “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, | 35 |
| 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 elsewhere, | |
| Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were. | 40 |
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| O’Brien’s voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands, | |
| “Fix bayonets—charge.” Like mountain storms 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— | 45 |
| 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 huzzah! | |
| “Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sassenach.” | 50 |
| 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— | 55 |
| 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! | 60 |
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