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IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 213 |
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"Lord Clare," he said, "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 nobler band than these proud . exiles were. |
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O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands,
" Fix bay'nets "—"charge,"—Like mountain storm, rush on these fiery bands I
Thin is the English column now, and faint their vol-ieys 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 I
One volley crashes from their line, when, through the surging smoke, |
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