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212 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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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. |
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More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs
rush round; As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew
the ground; Bomb-shell, 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. |
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