But yet our valiant Englishmen in fight were ne'er dis

mayed,

But still they kept their motion, and Wymans Captain made,

Who shot the old chief Paugus, which did the foe defeat,
Then set his men in order, and brought off the retreat;
And, braving many dangers and hardships in the way,
They safe arrived at Dunstable, the thirteenth day of May.
Unknown

ADMIRAL HOSIER'S GHOST

WRITTEN ON THE TAKING OF CARTHAGENA FROM THE SPANIARDS, 1739

As near Portobello lying

On the gently-swelling flood,

At midnight, with streamers flying,
Our triumphant navy rode;
There while Vernon sat all-glorious
From the Spaniards' late defeat,
And his crews, with shouts victorious,
Drank success to England's fleet:

On a sudden, shrilly sounding,

Hideous yells and shrieks were heard;
Then, each heart with fear confounding,
A sad troop of ghosts appeared;
All in dreary hammocks shrouded,
Which for winding-sheets they wore,
And, with looks by sorrow clouded,
Frowning on that hostile shore.

On them gleamed the moon's wan lustre,
When the shade of Hosier brave
His pale bands was seen to muster,
Rising from their watery grave:
O'er the glimmering wave he hied him,
Where the Burford reared her sail,
With three thousand ghosts beside him,
And in groans did Vernon hail.

"Heed, oh, heed our fatal story!

I am Hosier's injured ghost;
You who now have purchased glory
At this place where I was lost:
Though in Portobello's ruin,

You now triumph free from fears,
When you think on our undoing,

You will mix your joys with tears.

"See these mournful spectres sweeping Ghastly o'er this hated wave,

Whose wan cheeks are stained with weeping;
These were English captains brave.
Mark those numbers, pale and horrid,
Who were once my sailors bold;
Lo! each hangs his drooping forehead,
While his dismal tale is told.

"I, by twenty sail attended,

Did this Spanish town affright; Nothing then its wealth defended But my orders-not to fight! Oh! that in this rolling ocean

I had cast them with disdain,

And obeyed my heart's warm motion,
To have quelled the pride of Spain!

"For resistance I could fear none;
But with twenty ships had done
What thou, brave and happy Vernon,
Hast achieved with six alone.

Then the Bastimentos never

Had our foul dishonor seen,

Nor the sea the sad receiver

Of this gallant train had been.

"Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying,
And her galleons leading home,

Though condemned for disobeying,
I had met a traitor's doom:

To have fallen, my country crying,
'He has played an English part,'
Had been better far than dying
Of a grieved and broken heart.

"Unrepining at thy glory,

Thy successful arms we hail;
But remember our sad story,
And let Hosier's wrongs prevail.
Sent in this foul clime to languish,
Think what thousands fell in vain,
Wasted with disease and anguish,
Not in glorious battle slain.
"Hence with all my train attending,
From their oozy tombs below,
Through the hoary foam ascending,
Here I feed my constant woe.
Here the Bastimentos viewing,
We recall our shameful doom,
And, our plaintive cries renewing,

Wander through the midnight gloom.

"O'er these waves forever mourning
Shall we roam, deprived of rest,
If, to Britain's shores returning,
You neglect my just request;
After this proud foe subduing,

When your patriot friends you see,
Think on vengeance for my ruin,

And for England-shamed in me.”

Richard Glover [1712–1785]

FONTENOY

[APRIL 30, 1745]

THRICE at the huts of Fontenoy the English column failed, And twice the lines of Saint Antoine the Dutch in vain as

sailed;

For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery, And well they swept the English ranks and Dutch auxiliary.

As vainly through De Barri's wood the British soldiers burst, The French artillery drove them back, diminished and dispersed.

The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye,
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride!
And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at even-
tide.

Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread; Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head.

Steady they step a-down the slope, steady they climb the hill,

Steady they load, steady they fire, moving right onward still, Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnaceblast,

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.

More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush round;

As stubble to the lava-tide, French squadrons strew the ground;

Bombshell 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, Had not these exiles ready been, fresh, vehement, and true.

"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 today:

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.

O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands:

"Fix bayonets-charge!" Like mountain-storm rush on those 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 battlewind!

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!"