O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands, "Fix bay'nets-Charge!" Like mountain-storm, rush on

these fiery bands.

Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys 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 windTheir 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 Foutenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza!

Revenge! remember Limerick ! dash down the Sassenagh !'' 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
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!
Thomas Davis.

"THE IRISII BRIGADE" AT FONTENOY.

By our camp fires rose a murmur,
At the dawning of the day,

And the tread of many footsteps
Spoke the advent of the fray;

And as we took our places,

Few and stern were our words,

While some were tightening horse-girths,
And some were girding swords.

The trumpet blast has sounded
Our footmen to array;

The willing steed has bounded,
Impatient for the fray;

The green flag is unfolded,
While rose the cry of joy,

"Heaven speed dear Ireland's banner,
To-day at Fontenoy.”

We looked upon that banner,

And the memory arose

Of our homes and perished kindred,
Where the Lee or Shannon flows;
We looked upon that banner,

And we swore to God on high,
To smite to-day, the Saxon's might,-
To conquer or to die.

Loud swells the charging trumpet,
'Tis a voice from our own land;
God of battles-God of vengeance,
Guide to-day the patriot's brand;
There are stains to wash away;

There are memories to destroy,
In the best blood of the Briton
To-day at Fontenoy.

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; Through their bosoms with the steel.

With one shout for good King Louis,

And the fair land of the vine,

Like the wrathful Alpine tempest,
We swept upon their line,-

Then rang along the battle-field

Triumphant our hurrah,

And we smote them down, still cheering

Erin, slanthagal go bragh."*

As prized as is the blessing
From an aged father's lip,-
As welcome as the haven

To the tempest-driven ship,-
As dear as to the lover

The smile of gentle maid,-
Is this day of long-songht vengeance
To the swords of the Brigade.

*Ireland, the bright toast forever.

See their shattered forces flying,

A broken, routed line,

See England, what brave laurels

For your brow to-day we twine.

Oh, thrice bless'd the hour that witnessed
The Briton turn to flee
From the chivalry of Erin,

And France's "fleur de lis.”

As we lay beside our camp fires,
When the sun had passeri away,
And thought upon our brethren,
Who had perished in the fray,-
We prayed to God to grant us,
And then we'd die with joy,
One day upon our own dear land
Like this of Fontenoy.

Bartholomew Dowling.

THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY.

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 harrer up my feelin's; but I'll try. Dident know I ever writ poitry? How you talk! used to make lots on't; `haint so much late years. I remember once when Parson Potter had a bee, I sent him an amazin' great cheese, and writ a piece o' poitry, and pasted on top on't. It says:

Teach him for to proclaim
Salvation to the folks;

No occasion give for any blame,

Nor wicked people's jokes.

And so it goes on, but I guess I won't 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' Haddem. 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 'tain't 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 was 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
I never got married agin.

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
The wife of such a man,

Tell the men that's after me
To ketch me if they can.

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 come 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,
That felt for all mankind,-

It made him feel amazin' bad
To see the world so blind.

Whiskey and rum he tasted not—

That's as true as the Scripturs, but if you'll believe it, Betsy, Ann Kenipe told my Melissy that Miss Jinkins said one day to their house, how't she'd seen Deacon Bedott high, time and agin! did you ever! Well, I'm glad nobody don't pretend to mind anything she says. I've knowed Poll Bingham from a gal, and she never knowed how to speak the truth-besides she always had a pertikkeler spite against husband and me, and between us tew I'll tell you why if you won't mention ít, for I make it a pint never to say nothin' to injure nobody. Well,