The Bridgeport evening farmer., 1909-03-29

O'NeiIl. at Benburb, listen to the Irish Marsellaise, the war song of O'Don- nell, the basis for all that is best in Scctt'S "Hadl to the Chief; stand near Sarsfield at Limerick, and then at Landau, where he died, follow Clare's dragoons on the bloody field of Fonte- noy. or Wellington at Assaye, in India, at A1buera, Vimiera, Budajoz and Saia- rnanca. down to the last charge of the Old Guard of Napoleon under Ney at Waterloo, or stand with the O'BrfenS at MachiaS Maine, with Jack Barry, the Sullivans behind Washington, or follow Meagher's brigade up against Marye's Heights on those awful days before Fredericksburg, Dec. 12th and 18th, 1862, and you will see Irish valOr as it has come to us from heroic fath- alone would give fame to a race. Read Davis great war ballad of Fontenoy; in it he tells us that.
 BALLAD.
 FONTEN NOY. Thrice at the huts of Fontenoy, the
 English columns failed, And twice the lines of St. Antoine, the
 Dutch in vain assailed. For town and slope were filled with
 fort and flaEking battery. And well they swept those British
 ranks and Dutch auxiliary. As vainly through De Barris' woods,
 the British columns burst, The French artillery drove them back
 diminished and dispersed. The bloody Duke of Cumberland be-
 held 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 came his chosen troops
 like clouds at eventide. Six thousand English veterans, in
 stately column tread, Their cannonS 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, and steady they fire,
 moving right onward still Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as
 through a. furnace blast, Ger rampant, trench and palisade, and
 bullets showering fast. And on the open plain above they
 moved and held their course, With steady fire and grim resolve that
 mocked at hostile force. Past Fontenoy! Past F,ontenoy! While
 thinner grew their ranks, They broke, as breaks the Zuyder Zee,
 through Hollands ocean banks. More idly Ethan the summer flies.
 French tiralleurs rush round, Like 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 grenadter and
 voltigeur retired, Push on my household cavalry,
 King Louis madly cried, To death they rushed, but rude the
 shock not unavenged they died. On through the camp. the column trod,
 King Louis turned his rein, Mot yet my liege,'' Sake interposed,
 ''The Irish troops remain, And Fontenoy! famed Fontenoy, had
 been a. Waterloo, Were not those Irish ready then, fresh,
 vehement and true. Lord Clare,'' he said, you have your
 wish, there are your Saxon foeS! The marshall almost smiles to see how
 furiouSly he goes. How fierce the look those exiles wear,
 who're wont to be so gay! The treasured wrongs of a hundred
 years, are in their hearts today. The treaty broken ere. the ink where
 with twas writ could dry, 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 Fontenoyi On Fontenoy! Nor ever
 yet elsewhere.
 Rushed on to fight nobler band than those proud exiles were. OBr1en'S voice IS nOarSe With Joy, as
 halting he commands- Fix bayonets! Charge!" Like noun
 tain storm rush on those fiery
 bands.
 Thin is the English column now and
 faint their volleys grow, Yet mastering all the strength they
 have, they make a, gallant show, They dress their ranks upon the hill
 to face that battle wind, Their bayonets the breakers foam,
 like rocks the bRhind One volley crashes from their lines
 when, through the surging smoke, With empty guns clutched in their
 hands, the head-long Irish broke. On F'ontenoy! On Fontenoy! Hark to
 that fierce huzza- "Revenge! Remember Limerick! Dash
 down the Sassenach." Like lions leaping at a fold when mad
 with hunger'S Dang, Right up against those English lines, s those Irish eXiles sprang. Bright was their steel, 'Tis bloody now,
 their guns are filled with gore. Ger shattered ranks and severed files
 and tramoled flags they tore. The English Strove with desperate
 strength, paused, rallied, staggered, The green hillside is matted close with
 the dying and the dead Across the plain and far away passed
 on that hideous wrack. While cavalier and fantaSsin dash in
 upon their track On F'ontenoy, On Fontenoyi Like
 eagles in the sun, With bloody plumes the Irish stand,
 for Fontenoy is won.
 .'what might have been done by the Irish if the record had been written in gold instead of in blood can only be guessed. If not as prolific in inven- tion as the English, the race has an enviable record.
 ''In the art of war Irish have often been among the first captains of the