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 these 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. This 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 ; The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, staggered, fled,— The green hill-side is matted close with dying and with dead. With bloody plumes the Irish stand-the field is fought and won! "THE IRISH BRIGADE" AT FONTENOY. BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING. By our camp fires rose a murmur, And as we took our places, Few and stern were our words, While some were tightening horse-girths, The trumpet blast has sounded We looked upon that banner, And the memory arose Of our homes and perished kindred, And we swore to God on high, Loud swells the charging trumpet,— There are memories to destroy, Plunge deep the fiery rowels In a thousand reeking flanks,— Down, chivalry of Ireland, Down on the British ranks! Now shall their serried columns Beneath our sabres reel, Through their ranks, then, with the war-horse; With one shout for good King Louis, Triumphant our hurrah, And we smote them down, still cheering, As prized as is the blessing To the tempest-driven ship, The smile of gentle maid,- See their shattered forces flying, See, England, what brave laurels For your brow to-day we twine. Oh, thrice blest the hour that witnessed From the chivalry of Erin, And France's "fleur de lis." As we lay beside our camp fires, THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. F. M. WHITCHER. Yes, he was one o' the best men that ever trod shoeleather, husband was, though Miss Jinkins says (she 'twas Poll Bingham), she says, I never found it out till after he died, but that's the consarndest lie that ever was told, though it's jest a piece with everything else she says about me. I guess if everybody could see the poitry I writ to his memory, nobody wouldn't think I dident set store by him. Want to hear it? Well, I'll see if I can say it; it ginerally affects me wonderfully, seems to har *Ireland, the bright toast forever. rer up my feelin's, but I'll try. Dident know I ever No occasion give for any blame, An' so it goes on, but I guess I wont stop to say the rest on't now, seein' there's seven and forty verses. Parson Potter and his wife was wonderfully pleased with it; used to sing it to the tune o' Haddam. But I was gwine to tell the one I made in relation to husband; it begins as follers: He never jawed in all his life, He never was onkind; And (tho' I say it that was his wife,) Such men you seldom find. That's as true as the Scripturs; I never knowed him to say a harsh word. I never changed my single lot, I thought 'twould be a sin Though widder Jinkins says it's because I never had a chance. Now 'taint for me to say whether I ever had a numerous number o' chances or not, but there's them livin' that might tell if they wos a mind to; why, this poitry was writ on account of being joked about Major Coon, three year after husband died. I guess the ginerality o' folks knows what wos the nature o' Major Coon's feelin's towards me, tho' his wife and Miss Jinkins does say I tried to ketch him. The fact is, Miss Coon feels wonderfully cut up 'cause she knows the Major took her "Jack at a pinch,"-seein' he couldent get such as he wanted, he took such as he could get-but I goes on to say: I never changed my single lot, I thought 'twould be a sin,- For I thought so much o' Deacon Bedott, If ever a hasty word he spoke, His anger dident last, But vanished like tobacker smoke Afore the wintry blast. And since it was my lot to be If I was sick a single jot, He called the doctor in That's a fact; he used to be scairt to death if anything ailed me. Now only jest think,-widder Jinkins told Sam Pendergrasses wife (she 'twas Sally Smith) that she guessed the deacon dident set no great store by me, or he wouldent a went off to confrence meetin' when I was down with the fever. The truth is, they couldent git along without him no way. Parson Potter seldom went to confrence meetin', and when he wa'n't there, who was ther', pray tell, that knowed enough to take the lead if husband dident do it? Deacon Kenipe hadent no gift, and Deacon Crosby hadent no inclination, and so it all came onto Deacon Bedott,-and he was always ready and willin' to do his duty, you know. As long as he was able to stand on his legs he continued to go to confrence meetin'; why, I've knowed that man to go when he couldent scarcely crawl on account o' the pain in the spine of his back. He had a wonderful gift, and he wa'n't a man to keep his talents hid up in a napkin, so you see 'twas from a sense o' duty he went when I was sick, whatever Miss Jinkins may say to the contrary. But where was I? Oh! If I was sick a single jot, He called the doctor in; I sot so much store by Deacon Bedott I never got married agin. A wonderful tender heart he had, Whisky and rum he tasted not |