dedalus Posted August 17, 2013 Share Posted August 17, 2013 On the rain-sodden field at Fontenoy there is nothing to be seen or remembered but a misty view of Belgium, formerly France, just outside the town of Tournai. And here are no ghosts, no galloping horses, no spirits moaning in the air. I return to the waiting car, settle into its lingering warmth, and turn my mind to the evening: back to Brussels or on to Paris? There, there are many ghosts, perhaps no galloping horses, but lighter spirits in the air. That year of Bonnie Prince Charlie when the butcher Duke of Cumberland, who won the slaughter at Culloden, was soundly defeated here, is rarely recalled. So many wretched, reeling years have sadly intervened. And it was my young clansman Liam, sweet Liam Óg Ó Laighin, a harpist of darling promise, who, following his father and grandfather, grew to military age in France and happily joined the regiment whose banner you see below. Young Liam, Liam, ochóne, you did not survive the battering day although the hard-fought field was won. And you were carried to your father’s home by six young sorrowful comrades, and sadly laid to rest. The weathered stone lies broken under a grove of elms. The music: The history: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irish_Brigade_(France) Quote Drown your sorrows in drink, by all means, but the real sorrows can swim Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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