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[May 11, 1745]
THRICE at the huts of Fontenoy the English column failed, | |
| And twice the lines of Saint 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 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 came 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 adown the slopes, steady they mount the hill, | |
| Steady they load, steady they fire, moving right onward still, | |
| Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through 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 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. | 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; | |
| Bombshells 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 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. | 30 |
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| “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; | 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 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. | 40 |
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| 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! | 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 huzza! | |
| “Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sacsanagh!” | 50 |
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| 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; | 55 |
| 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! | 60 |
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