The Irish standard., 1899-05-13
NEWS FROM IRELAND
The Battle of Fontenoy.

The Battle of Fontenoy.
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 fanking battery,
And we'll they swept the English ranks
and Dutch auxiliary.
AS vainly through De Barri'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 mastering come his chosen troops
like clouds at eventide.
Six thousand English veterans in state
ly column tread,
Their. cannon blaze in front and flank,
Lord Hay is at their head;
Steady they step adown the slope
steady they climb the hill;
Steady they load-steady they fire,
moving right onward still,
Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as
through furnace blast,
Through rampant, 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
Knocked at hostile force;
Past Fontenoy-past Fontenoy, while
thinner grow their ranks
They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee
through Hollands 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
voltiguer 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.
'sNot yet, my liege," SAKE interposed;
''the Irish troops renain!'
And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had
been 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 g.y,
The treasured wrongs of fifty years are
in their hearts to-day
The treaty broken, ere the ink where
with twas writ could dry,
Their plundered homes, their ruined
----.--- sllrines, 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 nobler band than
these proud exiles were.
O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as,
hating, he commands,
elk bayonets" "charge"-like noun
tain storm, rush on these fiery
bands
Thin is the English column now and
faint their volleys grow,
Yet, must'ring all the strength they
have, they make 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, bark to
that fierce huzza!
Revenge! Remember Limerick! dash
down the Sassanach!"
Like lions leaping at fold, when mad
with funger's pang,
Right up against the English line the
Irish exiles sprang;
Bright was their steel, it's 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,
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!
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