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 those 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

66

huzza!

'Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the

Sassanach!"

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 several files, the trampled blags 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.

CHARLES EDWARD AT VERSAILLES ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF CULLODEN (1746) (Abridged)

BY WILLIAM E. AYTOUN

TAKE away that star and garter-
Hide them from my aching sight:
Neither king nor prince shall tempt me
From my lonely room this night;
Let the shadows gather round me
While I sit in silence here,
Broken-hearted, as an orphan
Watching by his father's bier.
Let me hold my still communion
Far from every earthly sound-
Day of penance-day of passion-
Ever, as the year comes round:

Fatal day, whereon the latest

Die was cast for me and mineCruel day, that quelled the fortunes Of the hapless Stuart line!

Phantom-like, as in a mirror,

Rise the grisly scenes of death-
There before me, in its wildness,
Stretches bare Culloden's heath:
There the broken clans are scattered,
Gaunt as wolves, and famine-eyed,
Hunger gnawing at their vitals,
Hope abandoned, all but pride.
There they stand, the battered columns,
Underneath the murky sky,

In the hush of desperation,
Not to conquer but to die.
Hark! the bagpipe's fitful wailing:
Not the pibroch loud and shrill,
That, with hope of bloody banquet,
Lured the ravens from the hill,
But a dirge both low and solemn,
Fit for ears of dying men,
Marshalled for their latest battle,
Never more to fight again.

Madness-madness! Why this shrinking?

Were we less inured to war
When our reapers swept the harvest

From the field of red Dunbar ?

Bring my horse, and blow the trumpet!
Call the riders of Fitz-James:

Let Lord Lewis head the column !
Valiant chiefs of mighty names—
Trusty Keppoch! stout Glengarry!
Gallant Gordon ! wise Lochiell!
Bid the clansmen hold together,
Fast, and fell, and firm as steel.

Elcho! never look so gloomy;

What avails a saddened brow?
Heart, man, heart!-We need it sorely,
Never half so much as now.

Had we but a thousand troopers,
Had we but a thousand more!
Noble Perth, I hear them coming!
Hark! the English cannons roar.

God! how awful sounds that volley,
Bellowing through the mist and rain.
Was not that the Highland slogan ?
Let me hear that shout again!
Oh, for prophet eyes to witness

How the desperate battle goes!
Cumberland! I would not fear thee,
Could my Camerons see their foes.
Sound, I say, the charge at venture—
'Tis not naked steel we fear;
Better perish in the mêlée

Than be shot like driven deer!
Hold! the mist begins to scatter !
There in front 'tis rent asunder,
And the cloudy bastion crumbles
Underneath the deafening thunder;
Chief and vassal, lord and yeoman,
There they lie in heaps together,

Smitten by the deadly volley,

Rolled in blood upon the heather; And the Hanoverian horsemen

Fiercely riding to and fro,

Deal their murderous strokes at random.

Woe is me! where am I now ?

Will that baleful vision never

Vanish from my aching sight?

Must those scenes and sounds of terror
Haunt me still by day and night ?

Yes, the earth hath no oblivion
For the noblest chance it gave,
None, save in its latest refuge-
Seek it only in the grave!
Love may die, and hatred slumber,
And their memory will decay,
As the watered garden recks not
Of the drought of yesterday;
But the dream of power once broken
What shall give repose again?
What shall chain the serpent-furies
Coiled around the maddening brain?
What kind draught can nature offer
Strong enough to lull their sting?
Better to be born a peasant
Than to live an exiled king!

LAMENT FOR CULLODEN (1746)

BY ROBERT BURNS

The lovely lass o' Inverness,
Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
For e'en and morn she cries, Alas!
And aye the saut tear blins her ee:
Drumossie moor-Drumossie day-
A waefu' day it was to me!
For there I lost my father dear,
My father dear, and brethren three.

Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay,
Their graves are growing green to see:
And by them lies the dearest lad
That ever blest a woman's ee!
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,
A bluidy man I trow thou be,

For mony a heart thou hast made sair
That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee.