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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 over-

thrown;
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 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 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,

scattered, 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 !

John Banim was the founder of that school of Irish novelists, which, always excepting its blameless purity, so much resembles the modern romantic French school, that if it were possible to suspect Messieurs Victor Hugo, Eugène Sue, and Alexander Dumas of reading the English which they never approach without such ludicrous blunders, one might fancy that many-volumed tribe to have stolen their peculiar inspiration from the O'Hara family. Of a certainty the tales of Mr. Banim were purely original. They had no precursors either in our own language or in any other, and they produced accordingly the sort of impression more vivid than durable, which highlycoloured and deeply-shadowed novelty is sure to make on the public mind. But they are also intensely national. They reflect Irish scenery, Irish character, Irish crime, and Irish virtue, with a general truth which in spite of their tendency to melo-dramatic effects, will keep them fresh and life

like for many a day after the mere fashion of the novel of the season shall be past and gone.

The last of his works, especially “Father Connell,” contains the portrait of a parish priest so exquisitely simple, natural, and tender, that in the whole range of fiction I know nothing more charming. The subject was one that the author loved; wiiness the following rude, rugged, homely song, which explains so well the imperishable ties which unite the peasant to his pastor.

SOGGARTH AROON.

Am I the slave they say,

Soggarth aroon ?
Since you did show the way,

Soggarth aroon,
Their slave no more to be,
While they would work with me
Ould Ireland's slavery,

Soggarth aroon ?

Why not her poorest man,

Soggarth aroon,
Try and do all he can,

Soggarth aroon,
Her commands to fulfil
Of his own heart and will,
Side by side with you still,

Soggarth aroon ?

* Anglice, Priest Dear.

Loyal and brave to you,

Soggarth aroon,
Yet be no slave to you,

Soggarth aroon,
Nor out of fear to you
Stand up so near to you-
Och ! out of fear to you,

Soggarth aroon !

Who in the winter night,

Soggarth aroon,
When the could blast did bite,

Soggarth aroon,
Came to my cabin-door,
And on my earthen floor
Knelt by me sick and · poor,

Soggarth aroon ?

Who on the marriage-day,

Soggarth aroon,
Made the

poor
cabin

gay,
Soggarth aroon,
And did both laugh and sing,
Making our hearts to ring
At the poor christening,

Soggarth aroon ?

Who as friend only met,

Soggarth aroon ; Never did flout me yet,

Soggarth aroon, And when my hearth was dim, Gave, while his eye did brim,

What I should give to him,

Soggarth aroon ?

Och! you, and only you,

Soggarth aroon
And for this I was true to you,

Soggarth aroon;
In love they'll never shake,
When for ould Ireland's sake,
We a true part did take,

Soggarth aroon !

There is a small and little-known volume of these rough peasant-ballads, full of the same truth and intensity of feeling, -songs which seem destined to be sung at the wakes and patterns of Ireland. But, to say nothing of his fine classical tragedy of “Damon and Pythias,” Mr. Banim, so successful in the delineation of the sweet, delicate, almost idealised girl of the people, has written at least one song that may rival Gerald Griffin in grace and sentiment. A lover sings it to his mistress.

'Tis not for love of gold I go,

'Tis not for love of fame;
Though fortune may her smile bestow,
And I may win a name,

Ailleen;
And I may win a name.

And yet it is for gold I go,

And yet it is for fame;

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