Thomas Davis, Selections from his Prose and Poetry Part 39

III.

"But, surely, that light cannot come from our lamp, And that noise--are they _all_ getting drunk in the camp?"

"Hurrah! boys, the morning of battle is come, And the _generale's_ beating on many a drum."

So they rush from the revel to join the parade: For the van is the right of the Irish Brigade.

IV.

They fought as they revelled, fast, fiery, and true, And, though victors, they left on the field not a few; And they who survived fought and drank as of yore, But the land of their heart's hope they never saw more; For in far foreign fields, from Dunkirk to Belgrade, Lie the soldiers and chiefs of the Irish Brigade.

FONTENOY.

1745.

I.

Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English column failed, And twice the lines of Saint Antoine the Dutch in vain a.s.sailed; 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, The French artillery drove them back, diminished, and dispersed.

The b.l.o.o.d.y Duke of c.u.mberland 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.

II.

Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread; Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head; Steady they step a-down 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 grew their ranks-- They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland's ocean banks.

III.

More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush round; As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground; Bomb-sh.e.l.l 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 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.

IV.

"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 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 n.o.bler band than these proud exiles were.

V.

O'Brien's voice is hoa.r.s.e 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 Sacsanach!"

VI.

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 b.l.o.o.d.y now, their guns are filled with gore; Through shattered ranks and severed files the trampled flags they tore; The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, staggered, fled-- The green hill-side is matted close with dying and with dead.

Across the plain, and far away, pa.s.sed on that hideous wrack, While cavalier and fanta.s.sin dash in upon their track.

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun, With b.l.o.o.d.y plumes, the Irish stand--the field is fought and won!

THE DUGANNON CONVENTION.

1782.

I.

The church of Dungannon is full to the door, And sabre and spur clash at times on the floor, While helmet and shako are ranged all along, Yet no book of devotion is seen in the throng.

In the front of the altar no minister stands, But the crimson-clad chief of these warrior bands; And, though solemn the looks and the voices around, You'd listen in vain for a litany's sound.

Say! what do they hear in the temple of prayer?

Oh! why in the fold has the lion his lair?

II.

Sad, wounded, and wan was the face of our isle, By English oppression and falsehood and guile; Yet when to invade it a foreign fleet steered, To guard it for England the North volunteered.

From the citizen-soldiers the foe fled aghast-- Still they stood to their guns when the danger had pa.s.sed, For the voice of America came o'er the wave, Crying: Woe to the tyrant, and hope to the slave!

Indignation and shame through their regiments speed: They have arms in their hands, and what more do they need?

III.

O'er the green hills of Ulster their banners are spread, The cities of Leinster resound to their tread, The valleys of Munster with ardour are stirred, And the plains of wild Connaught their bugles have heard; A Protestant front-rank and Catholic rere-- For--forbidden the arms of freemen to bear-- Yet foemen and friend are full sure, if need be, The slave for his country will stand by the free.

By green flags supported, the Orange flags wave, And the soldier half turns to unfetter the slave!

IV.

More honoured that church of Dungannon is now, Than when at its altar communicants bow; More welcome to heaven than anthem or prayer Are the rites and the thoughts of the warriors there; In the name of all Ireland the Delegates swore: "We've suffered too long, and we'll suffer no more-- Unconquered by Force, we were vanquished by Fraud; And now, in G.o.d's temple, we vow unto G.o.d That never again shall the Englishman bind His chains on our limbs, or his laws on our mind."

V.