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.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun,
With bloody plumes the Irish stand, -the field is fought
and won!

T

HE tent-lights glimmer on the land,
The ship-lights on the sea;

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 gold that kindly Nature sifts
Among his sands of wrong;

The power to make his toiling days
And poor home-comforts please;
The quaint relief of mirth that plays
With sorrow's minor keys.

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 rout runs mad and fast;
From hand to hand, from gate to gate,
The flaming brand is passed.

The lurid glow falls strong across
Dark faces broad with smiles:
Not theirs the terror, hate, and loss
That fire yon blazing piles.

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,
The joy of uncaged birds:

Softening with Afric's mellow tongue
Their broken Saxon words.

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 jus’ as ’trong as den;

He say de word: we las' night slaves;
To-day, de Lord's freemen.

De yam will grow, de cotton blow,
We'll hab de rice an' corn:

O, nebber you fear, if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn!

Ole massa on he trabbels gone;
He leab de land behind :

De Lord's breff blow him furder on,
Like corn-shuck in de wind.

We own de hoe, we own de plough,
We own de hands dat hold;

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
De driver blow his horn!

:

We pray de Lord he gib us signs
Dat some day we be free;

De Norf-wind tell it to de pines,

De wild-duck to de sea;

We tink it when de church-bell ring,
We dream it in de dream;

De rice-bird mean it when he sing,

De eagle when he scream.