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 auxil

iary.

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 mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at eventide.

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 climb 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 broke 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;

Bombshell, and grape, and roundshot 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 turns his rein;

"Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, "the Irish troops remain;"

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 smiled to see, so 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 '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 Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere, Rushed on to fight a nobler band than those proud exiles were.

O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands,

"Fix bay'nets-Charge!" Like mountain-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 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 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, 'tis 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, fled

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!

Thomas Davis.

HERVÉ RIEL.

On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two,
Did the English fight the French, -woe to France!
And the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the
blue,

Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue,

Came crowding ship on ship to Saint Malo on the Rance, With the English fleet in view.

'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase,

First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville;

Close on him fled, great and small,

Twenty-two good ships in all;

And they signaled to the place, "Help the winners of a race!

Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick,—or, quicker still,

Here's the English can and will!"

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leaped on board.

"Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they;

"Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored,

Shall the Formidable here, with her twelve and eighty guns, Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons,

And with flow at full beside?

Now 'tis slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring? Rather say, While rock stands or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay!”

Then was called a council straight;

Brief and bitter the debate:

"Here's the English at our heels; would you have them

take in tow

All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and

bow,

For a prize to Plymouth Sound?

Better run the ships aground!"'
(Ended Damfreville his speech.)
"Not a minute more to wait!
Let the captains all and each

Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the

beach!

France must undergo her fate."

"Give the word!"

But no such word

Was ever spoke or heard;

For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these,

A captain? A lieutenant? A mate,-first, second, third? No such man of mark, and meet

With his betters to compete!

But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet,

A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese. And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel;

"Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools

or rogues?

Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell

On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell

'Twixt the offing here and Greve, where the river disembogues?

Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying 's for?

Morn and eve, night and day,

Have I piloted your bay,

Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of
Solidor.

Burn the fleet, and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues!

Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me, there's a way!

Only let me lead the line,

Have the biggest ship to steer,

Get this Formidable clear,

Make the others follow mine.