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Poor soul, and lonely,
Anguish that night;
Thy breatlı took flight.
Witli no derision
On thee doth fall.
Edmund C. Stcadman,
BATTLE OF FONTENOY.
May 11th. 1715.
Upon the death of Charles VI., Emperor of Austria, in 1740, his daughter Maria Theresa discovered that the sovercigns of Europe, instead of being true to their oaths and to her, made immediate claims upon her territories, and prepared to enforce them by open hostilities. In a short time the question became an European quarrei, to be settled only by the doubtful issue of war. Louis XV. of France and Frederick the Great opposed her, whilst England, Holland, Ilungary, Bavaria, and Hanover, aided her in the protection of those rights which had been guaranteed to her. In prosecution of this war, an army of 79,000 men, commanded by Marshal Saxe, and encouraged by the presence of both King and Dauphin, laid siege to Tournay, early in May 1745. The Duke of Cumberland advanced at the head of 55,000 men, chiefly English and Dutch, to relieve the town. After a fearful and bloody battle, terribly disastrous to both sides, Louis was about to leave the field. In this juncture Saxe ordered up his last reserve--the Irish Brigade. It consisted that day of the regiments of Clare, Lally, Dillon, Berwick, Roth, and Buckley with Fitz James's horse. O'Brien, Lord Clare, was in command. Aided by the French regiments of Normandy and Valsseany, they were ordered to charge upon the flank of the English with fixed bayonets without firing. l'pon the approach of this splendid body of men, the Linglish were halted on 1.o siope of a hill, and up that slope the Brigacie rushed rapidly and in fine
As vainly, through De Barri's wood, the British soldiers burst,
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, -
ing fast; And on the open plain above they rose and kept their course, With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked at liostile force: Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks, They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland's ocean
More idly than the summer slies, French tirailleurs rush round; As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground; Bomb-shell, and grape, and round-slot tore, still on they
marched and firedFast from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur retired. • “Pushi 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 re
main ;'' 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 sce, so furiously he goes ! Ilow fierce the look these exiles wear, wlio're wont to be so gay, The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-dayThe 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 over
throw,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 commanis,
these fiery bands.
sliow. They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that battle windTheir bayonets the breakers' foam ; lıke 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 ! “Revenge! remember Limerick ! daslı down the Sassenagh!" 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, 'uis bloody now, their guns are filled
Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and trampled flags
they tore; The English strove with desperato strength, paused, rallied,
staggered, fledThe 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 !
"THE IRISII BRIGADE" AT FONTENOY.
By our camp fires rose a murmur,
At the dawning of the day,
The green flag is unfolded,
Wie rose the cry of joy,
To-diy ai Fontenoy."
And the memory arose
Where the Lee or Shannon ilows;
And we swore to God on high,
To conquer or to die.
'Tis a voice from our own land; God of battles-God of vengeance,
Guide to-day the patriot's brand; There are stains to wash away;
There are memories to destroy, In the best blood of the Driton
To-day at Fontenoy. Plunge deep the fiery rowels
In a thousand recking thanks, -Downl, chivalry of Ireland,
Down on the British ranks : Now shall their serried columns
Beneath our sabres reel, Through their ranks, then, with the war-horso;
Through their bosoms with the steci. With one shout for good King Louis,
And the fair land of the vine, Like the wrathful Alpine tempest,
We swept upon their line, –
Triumphant our lurralı,
"Erin, slanthagal go bragl."*
As prized as is the blessing
romanul fut long
See their shattered forces flying,
A broken, routed line,
For your brow to-day we twine.
The Briton turn to flee
And France's " fleur de lis."
As we lay beside our camp fires,
When the sun had passari away,
Who had perished in the fray, -
And then we'd die with joy,
THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY.
YES,-he was one o' the best men that ever trod shoeleather, husband was, though Miss Jinkins says (she 'twas Poll Bingham,) she says, I never found it out till after he died, but that's the consarndest lie that ever was told, though it's jest a piece with everything else she says about me. I guess if everybody could see the poitry I writ to his memory, nobody wouldn't think I dident set store by him. Want to hear it? Well, I'll see if I can say it; it ginerally affects me wonderfully, seems to harrer up my feelin's; but I'll try. Dident know I ever writ poitry? IIow you talk! used to make lots on't; haint so much late years. I remember once when Parson Potter had a bee, I sent him an amazin' great cheese, and writ a piece o' poitry, and pasted on top on't. It says :
Teach him for to proclaim
Salvation to the folks;
Nor wicked people's jokes. And so it goes on, but I guess I won't stop to say thu rest on’t now, seein' there's seven and forty verses.