Winter days would all grow long With the light her heart would pour, With her kisses and her song And her loving maith go léor.* Fond is Maire bhan astoir, Oh! her sire is very proud, And her mother cold as stone; But her brother bravely vowed She should be my bride alone; For he knew I loved her well, And he knew she loved me too, So he sought their pride to quell, But 'twas all in vain to sue. True is Maire bhan astoir, Tried is Maire bhan astoir, Had I wings I'd never soar From my Maire bhan astoir. There are lands where manly toil Surely reaps the crop it sows, Glorious woods and teeming soil Where the broad Missouri flows; Through the trees the smoke shall rise From our hearth with maith go léor, There shall shine the happy eyes * Much plenty, or in abundance. Mild is Maire bhan astoir, Mine is Maire bhan astoir, Saints will watch about the door Of my Maire bhan astoir. I subjoin one of the lyrics, a ballad of the "Brigade," which produced so much effect, when printed on the broad sheet of the "Nation." It is a graphic and dramatic battle-song, full of life and action; too well calculated to excite that most excitable people, for whose gratification it was written. FONTENOY. (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, The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye, 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 slope, 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, 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 ! 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 voltigeur 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 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. "Lord Clare," he says, "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 The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day; The 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 thrown; 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 commands, "Fix bayonets-charge!" Like mountain storm 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; 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 !" 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; 33 The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, The green hill-side is matted close with dying and with dead. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun, With bloody plumes the Irish stand: the field is fought and won! John Banim was the founder of that school of Irish novelists, which, always excepting its blameless purity, so much resembles the modern romantic French school, that if it were possible to suspect Messieurs Victor Hugo, Eugène Sue, and Alexander Dumas of reading the English which they never approach without such ludicrous blunders, one might fancy that many-volumed tribe to have stolen their peculiar inspiration from the O'Hara family. Of a certainty the tales of Mr. They had no preBanim were purely original. cursors either in our own language or in any other, and they produced accordingly the sort of impression more vivid than durable which highlycoloured and deeply-shadowed novelty is sure to make on the public mind. But they are also intensely national. They reflect Irish scenery, Irish character, Irish crime, and Irish virtue, with a general truth which in spite of their tendency to melo-dramatic effects, will keep them fresh and life c 3 |