And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo, Had not these exiles ready been, fresh, vehement, and true. "Lord Clare," he said, "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 gay! The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day: The treaty broken ere the ink wherewith 't was 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 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, 't is 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, scattered, 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. T HE tent-lights glimmer on the land, The night-wind smooths with drifting sand Our track on lone Tybee. At last our grating keels outslide, Our good boats forward swing; And while we ride the land-locked tide, Our negroes row and sing. For dear the bondman holds his gifts Of music and of song: The power to make his toiling days Another glow than sunset's fire Has filled the West with light, Where field and garner, barn and byre, Are blazing through the night. The land is wild with fear and hate, The lurid glow falls strong across With oar-strokes timing to their song, They weave in simple lays The pathos of remembered wrong, The hope of better days, The triumph-note that Miriam sung, Softening with Afric's mellow tongue SONG OF THE NEGRO BOATMEN. O, PRAISE an' tanks! De Lord he come To set de people free; An' massa tink it day ob doom, An' we ob jubilee. De Lord dat heap de Red Sea waves, He say de word: we las' night slaves; De yam will grow, de cotton blow, O, nebber you fear, if nebber you hear Ole massa on he trabbels gone; De Lord's breff blow him furder on, We own de hoe, we own de plough, We sell de pig, we sell de cow, But nebber chile be sold. De yam will grow, de cotton blow, We'll hab de rice an' corn: O, nebber you fear, if nebber you hear : We pray de Lord he gib us signs De Norf-wind tell it to de pines, De wild-duck to de sea; We tink it when de church-bell ring, De rice-bird mean it when he sing, De eagle when he scream. |