nd the flag went on.

This I caught from a swinging sabre,
All I had from a long night's labor;
When Chester[A] flamed, and the streets were red,
In splashing shower fell the molten lead,
The fire sprang up, and the old roof split,
The fire-ball burst in the middle of it;
With a clash and a clang the troopers they ran,
For the siege was over ere well began.

This I got from a pistol butt
(Lucky my head's not a hazel nut);
The horse they raced, and scudded and swore;
There were Leicestershire gantlemen, seventy score;
Up came the "Lobsters," covered with steel--
Down we went with a stagger and reel;
Smash at the flag, I tore it to rag.
And carried it off in my foraging bag.

[Footnote A: Siege of Chester, in the civil war, 1645.]

GEORGE WALTER THORNBURY.

* * * * *

FONTENOY.

[May 11, 1745.]

Thrice at the huts of Fontenoy the English column failed,
And twice the lines of Saint Antoine the Dutch in vain assailed;
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 came his chosen troops like clouds at eventide.

Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread;
Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head.
Steady they step adown the slopes, steady they mount the hill,
Steady they load, steady they fire, moving right onward still,
Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace-blast,
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 breaks 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;
Bombshells and grape and round-shot tore, still on they marched and
fired;
Fast from each volley grenadier and voltigeur retired.
"Push on my household