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23720
1.26
 2 372.0.1.26

Harvard College Library

MIAS
CADE

ET IN
M
LU
IL

FROM THE BEQUEST OF

THOMAS WREN WARD

TREASURER OF HARVARD COLLEGE
1830-1842

1
 2 372.01.26

Harvard College Library

MIRRV
ARDIA
A
EMI

N
O
CAD
CHRIST
ACAD

CLESIA OV.

VERO
N N
I

FROM THE BEQUEST OF

THOMAS WREN WARD

TREASURER OF HARVARD COLLEGE
1830-1842

1
 23720.1.26
do cum gloire de agus
onora na néireann ."

HE VOICE
OF BANBA

ongs and Recitations

S. for Young Ireland .

BY

" Brian na banban "

( man Ó huiginn ).

Dublin :

M. H. GILL & SON , LTD .

1907

PRICE SIXPENCE NET.

 BY THE SAME AUTHOR :

A Bunch of Wild Flowers

POEMS ON RELIGIOUS SUBJECTS ,

“ I find it a real bunch of flowers, breathing freshness and sweetness

and a spirit of tender devotion. ” —His Eminence Cardinal Logue.
“ A holy little budget of song, Mr. O'Higgins treats of a
variety of pious themes-- the Sacred Heart, the Blessed Virgin,the Saints,
the Holy Souls, Nuns, little children, " God's wee birds,' Ireland , the
Church, and many other sacred subjects, sung very musically and with a
tender piety. - The Irish Monthly.
“ The fervour and faith of the book are reminiscent of the high
religious traditions of Gaeldom. ” —The Irish Peasant.
“ The feeling inspiring Brian's poetry is by turns tender and lofty, and
the sentiments he arouses in our hearts are of an ennobling nature. ” — Sinn Féip
“ The book breathes throughout a simple, straightforward piety. ” —The
Leader,
“ Each poem vibrates with deep religious feeling, and is full of pathos
very tender and sweet. ” -- The Freeman's Jonrnal.
“ Lofty thought is expressed with befitting dignity ” — Irish Independent.
' ní leis an mBéarla a baineann aon tairie dá 6fuil sonnta act
leis an aigne Saevealać.” — Pádraig Mac Suiore in The Cork Examiner. :
“ The spirit of the religion that treathes in them is kindly Irish of the
Irish '--intimate, confiding, personal, as of friend speaking to friend ” - The
Irish News ( Belfast).
“ Poems bearing the stamp of sincere and deep religious feeling
movingly expressed.” - The Leinster Leader .
“ Should be in the library of every Irish boy and girl. " -St . Anthony's
Annals.
“ Little messengers to make the world happy and glad and bright. "
The Anglo - Celt (Cavan ).
“ There is an -atmosphere
The Shield
of sweetness, of peace, and of rest, hovering
around each verse . (Cork ).
Breathing a sanctity sufficiently intense to have emanated from the
cloister. ” —The Irish People.
“ A proof, if proof were needed , of the continued existence of this
simple faith of ours — this love which binds us to the feet of God in a sweet
and holy bondage.” — The Western People.
Inspired as they are by a vivid faith they must needs give to the
mind of the reader a tinge of the warmth of that faith .” — The Kerry People.
“ Little jewels of Irish faith and love. ” —The Derry People.

Beautifully Printed and Bound. Price 6d. net, by post 7d.

M. H, GILL & SON, Ltd. , 50 Upper O'Connell Street, DUBLIN.
AND ALL BOOKSELLERS .
 in ‫تھا۔‬
bpian o helizan
33
07
The Voice of Banba
Songs and Recitations for young freland

BY

" Brianna Banban ”

(Brian Ó huiginn )

Dublin

M. H. GILL & SON, LTD.

I907

92
23720.1.206
2
PATVARE CALLER
APR 29 1919
LIBRARY
Ward fund
CONTENTS.
PAGE PAGE

The Cause of Róisín Dúb 5 Shoddy Genteel 36

Welcome, O Gaelic Tongue ... 6 The Death of Emmet 37
Moses. Ritooralalooralalay 8 Slán le Béul áta 'n Šaore
A Tool of England IO a15 40
an Seóinín II The Downfall of the Seóinín
Death in Exile I2 Capital 41
The Poor Lone Boy ...
14 a Stóir mo chorde 42
" Let ye spake Engilish and Hugh O'Donnell Roe 43
be Dacint " 15 The Unfortunate Coon 45
an freagra 17 " The Road to Hell ” 47
Sinn Féin añáin 17 The Seóinın Maids of Erin 49
Daughters of Banba 18 The Shrine of Duty 50
The R. I. C. 20 The Comical Boy 51

...
The Dying Sagart 21 The Return of the Seóinín 52
The Grand International Show 23 Irish Ireland 54
An Irish Mother's Knee 25 Beyond the Bog 55
What the People say 27 Ireland's Hurling Men 56
The Sioe and the Seóiníní 27 Be Men To - Day 58
A Song of Cáitlín 30 Young Ireland's Cailíní 59
The Shamrock and the Cross 31 Prince Ping -Pong 60
...

Cacair Saröðin 34 A Mother's Lament 62

...

Irish Slaves ! ...

35 The Awakening of Banba 63

Several of the songs in this book were issued in a little

booklet last year under the title of " Songs of Irish Ireland."
The demand for them was so great that, although not
placed before the public in the usual way, the whole
edition (2,000 copies) was completely sold out in a few
months .
 cogar .
.

EARS 760, by a pleasant hearth in a glen

between two brown bogs, the Voice of Banba came to
my ears through the sweet strains of an Irish
y
mother's songs. It was a low , strange, mystic voice
then , but it went straight to my heart and thrilled
me through and through with love for the one who
called . Clearer and clearer it grew as the years
‫ حرک‬cocuk
went by, until one day it burst out strong and
resonant in Banba's own Language above the din
and tumult of a great city, and I felt the full magic
of its pleading, and the intensity of its passionate
call, as I had never felt them before.
Since then it has been constantly vinging in
my ears, and surging through my mind, and singing
in my heart. It has come to me on the breezes
from the West and from the North , from the South
and from the East, in many tones but laden with
the same sweet message always. Sometimes it is an
appealing voice, trembling with the fervour of its
plea ; sometimes it is a plaintive voice, sorrowing for
the noble dead and for the faded glories of the past ;
sometimes it is a wrathful voice, charged with scorn
for the faithless and faint of heart ; sometimes it is
a merry voice, laughing out of existence the inanities
and absurdities that would foolishly try to impede
the onward march of a Nation , but more often it is
a proud and inspiring voice vibrating with the hope
and promise of a glorious future day.
iv
cogar

I hear it blending with the salutations of the

young men and maidens who walk light- heartedly
along country roads for miles to the classes of
Connradh na Gaedhilge ; in the songs and prayers
and stories of little children at the Feiseanna ; in
. the swish of the camdin on the hurling field ; in the
martial tread of the thousands who march through
the Capital of Ireland on Dómhnach na Gaedhilge;
in the lilt of the pipes and the patter of dancing !
feet and the laughter of joyous hearts at Céilidh
and Sgoruidheacht and Aeridheacht. Sweet it is
and tender at all times with a wondrous charm
that no voice nor pen can tell but which every heart
MUST feel.
It is the call of a Land who , though old in
years as the oldest upon earth , is still ever young /
in spirit ; a Land who , though trampled again and
again even unto the very verge of death, has never
died ; a Land with a glorious past and a noble
destiny ; it is the call of that Land to every child
who has drawn life from her veins to come to her
aid in this the greatest and the final fight for
Nationhood. In these unpolished ballads ( of neces
sity for the most part in the Béarla ), I have striven
to interpret its meaning for Young Ireland — for
the boys and girls of to - day, who will be the main
stay and support of Banba on the morrow , in the
last stages of her weary journey up the rugged way
that leads to Freedom .

Bran 6 nuiginn .
Lá féile pádraig, 1907.
 The Doice of Banba .

The Cause of Róisín Dúð.

( Air- " The Reaper of Glanree. ” )

E ask me what I'll sing for ye—'tis easy then to know ,

I see in many a face around, the light of youth aglow ;
And this shall be my only theme— 'tis neither
strange nor new,
But earth has not a nobler one-the Cause of
Róisín Dúo.

Brave men have toiled and fought for it, thro’ nigh eight
hundred years,
They faced the power of foreign gold combined with foreign
spears,
Their blood bedyed the Irish fields, outspread like crimson
dew ;
They poured it freely for their love - the Cause of Róisín Dúð .

In dungeon and on scaffold -tree their toil was oft repaid ,

And even in the hour of death , they raised their eyes and
said
“ Our hearts must turn at first, O God ! above all else , to You ,
But next to You, alone , we prize the Cause of Róisín Dúð."

They speak like fools who say 'twill die, they lie who say
'tis dead.
And we will place the Freedom Crown once more on Roisin's
head ,
What all the years have failed to kill , no man can now
subdue ;
It MUST NOT die, it SHALL NOT die -- the Cause of Róisín Dúð.
Young men ! young maids ! O , never cringe beneath the
Saxon rod,
Look up to day ! we've work to do , for Roisin and for God,
Come , pledge with me your sacred word , to be forever true ,
Till victory's sun is shining on the Cause of Roirin Dúb.
 6

Welcome, O Gaelic Tongue.

e have crushed thee , Tongue of Eire, and laughed all

M thy sounds to scorn ;
The fairest gems that crowned thee have by ruthless
hands been torn ;
Thine own have turned from thee with sneers of cold disdain :
But at last we truly know thee and welcome thee again ,
And clasp thee to our bosoms- life, light, and hope, and soul
Of a fallen Nation groping in the dark for Freedom's goal.
We have chased thee, Tongue of Eire, from each memoried
hill and glen ,
Where thou reigned when Ireland's children were not
cringing slaves, but men
When thy sounds above the banquet and the battle- field
were heard,
And the clans of ancient Eire to the noblest actions stirred.
We have nursed a foreign jargon while thy richness hidden lay
’ Mong the peasant homes of Desmond and where Corrib's
waters play.
Tongue that woke the echoes over tocher and hill and bay
When the queenly Banba rallied her warriors to the fray,
What time the proud Milesians came from beauteous lands
afar
To their destined isle of ocean , seen in dreams like a lovely star ;
Thou wert spoken by bard and druid ere the Christian
dawn had come,
And we have denied and crushed thee in the land that was
then thy home.
Tongue that rang through Alpine passes framght with
menace to the foe,
When King Dathi chased the pirates from our green hills
long ago,
Broke their power and sent them flying over seas and over
lands ,
Swept them homeward as the billows dash the wreckage
on the strands ;
And the war-cries of the Irish found their fierceness in thy
strains
As they crushed the alien robbers on those foreign hills and
plains.
 7

Tongue that lived when sainted Patrick o'er the seas to

Eire came
With the Word of man's redemption in his Master's sacred
Name,
When our land came forth from darkness and her children
took the Faith .
For whose sake they've suffered exile , persecution, sorrow, death.
In thy strains that Word was spoken , in thy strains that
Vow was made
Which , in spite of every torture , never yet has been betrayed .
Tongue in whose fiery accents Brian cheered on his men
that day
When they rallied for God and Ireland and shattered the
foreign sway ,
And drove from our isle for ever, back to their swamps and
plains,
The terror and scourge of Europe, the savage, ungodly Danes ;
'Twas thou raised the caoin o'er Brian and the brave hearts
who with him fell,
The tale of whose deeds and virtues only thy sweet notes
can tell .

Tongue of Benburb and Armagh, of Owen and dauntless Hugh

Tongue of Athlone and Limerick, of Custume and Sarsfield true
That rang thro' the hills of Ulster and swept o'er the
Saxon Pale,
That made the mail- clad hirelings and the church-looting
hellhounds quail
When thou leapt from the burning bosoms that yearned to
avenge the woes
OfSagart ,and sire, and maiden , slaughtered by brutal foes !
Tongue in whose low, soft, murmurings the hurried prayers
were said
When the priest lay hid in the heather , a price on his
sacred head
When he and his people, kneeling in devotion to One on high ,
Had the mountain -rock for their altar, their church-roof the
cloud - clad sky
When the scourge of the Penal era made the hearts of the
bravest quail,
Thou rose from the rugged hill-sides in the prayers of the
faithful Gael,
 8

Tongue of the widowed mother as she wailed for the home

stead razed ;
Tongue of the homeless peasant, as he knelt on the green
sod, dazed,
And thoughtof his bright young children and his wife, in
her fair fresh bloom ,
Thro' the laws of a soulless tyrant gone down to the grave's
dark gloom
How oft hast thou floated upward from a quivering girlish
lip
In a heart-wrung prayer to Mary from the deck of the
emigrant ship !
And we had disowned and crushed thee and jeered all thy
sou nds away :
But at last we have seen thy beauty, and we open our
hearts to -day.
Without thee our lot is bondage -we are slaves 'neath the
Irish skies ;
With thee, from the children of Eire, a nation in strength
will rise ,
And the veil from the past be lifted, and the songs of the
past be sung,
Then come to our hearts for ever-welcome O Gaelic
Tongue !
Fáilte, 'gus mile fáilte, thou of the memories grand,
Fáilte, O Shield of Eireann , hope of the Irish land.

Moses Ritooralalooralalay.
A skit on the absurd law relating to Irish names on carts,

He bobby marched on, he was lord of the town,

But he suddenly stopped with a short and a frown,
For the name on the dray that stood over the way,
Was “ Moses Ritooralalooralalay ! ”
Chorus.
Ritooralalooralalooralalay,
Ritooralalooralalooralalay,
Oh , where would you find such a name on a dray
As Moses Ritooralalooralalay ?
 9

The peeler grew proud , like a hen in a cleeve,

And visions came on of a V on his sleeve ;
" Promotion , " he whispered , “ I'll try for to - day
With Moses Ritooralalooralalay . ” Chorus.

Come, tell me your name," said the limb of the law

To the little black man settling delph in the straw.
" Vat's dat, sir, my name , sir ? 'tis dere on de dray,
And it's Moses Ritooralalooralalay." Chorus.

“ Well , it isn't a legible name, d'ye mind,

And if it is Irish , you'll surely be fined,
And then I can look for a rise in my pay,
So come with me, Misther Ritooralalay.” Chorus.

“ O , it's all very fine,” said the local Jay Pee,

“ But this thing is too complicated for me ;
We'll have to get Pether the Packer to say
What he thinks of Ritooralalooralalay." Chorus.

Well , the trial came on , and it lasted a week ;

One judge said 'twas German , another 'twas Greek,
Prove it Irish ,” said Pether, “ beyond yea or nay,
And we'll sit on Ritooralalooralalay.” Chorus.

At last he grew mad, and he glared all around ;

He looked at the lawyers, they looked at the ground .
He brow -beat the jury, but all they could say
Was “ Ritooralalooralalooralalay." Chorus.

Then he turned to the prisoner, as stiff as a crutch :

“ Are you Irish , or English , or German , or Dutch ? "
“ I'm a Jew, sir - a Jew , dat came over to stay,
And my name is Ritooralalooralalay ." Chorus.

“ We're two of a trade ," said the Judge to the Jew,

“ You pack for a living, I pack for it too.
This numbskull has blundered, and for it he'll pay , ”
“ Vich is right,” said Ritooralalooralalay. Chorus.

There's a sorrowful scavenger sweeps in the street ;

He once was a peeler, the pride of his beat .
He moans all the night, and he groans all the day,
“ Ritooralalooralalooralalay .' Chorus.
 10

A Tool of England.
An Irishman's Address to his son, who has joined the British Army.

jou have donned the red of England, you are England's

creature now ,
And the cursed brand of serfdom has its mark upon
your brow ;
From this moment I disown you, who have spurned your
name and race,
Who have sold your Irish birthright for the bargain of 1
disgrace.
Wait a moment , boy,and listen, for the last time ere you go
From the father who has lived to see this day of bitter woe,
Who would rather see you lying stark and lifeless by his side
Than the purchased slave ofPower and the tool of brutal Pride.
You were careless , happy, guileless, from the moment of
your birth,
Until vilecompanions lured you from your father's humble
hearth ;
Now you've sold the love of boyhood and the light of man
hood's flame
For the hired helot's pittance and the craven traitor's name.
But the memory of those early days shall linger in your heart,
To haunt you and to mock you till your soul and body part ;
And your mother's voice, upbraiding, from the darkness of
the grave,
Shall be with you, night and morning , on the land or on
thewa ve .
Once I wore the garb of felon, and 'twas England dressed
me so,
When I strove to light o’er Ireland Freedom's bright and
blessed glow ;
And I gloried in that title, and I proudly wore that dress,
Since then I've hated England more, loved Ireland none
the less.
Little did I think that day,when fenced around with hated foes,
Whose sneering words of insult cut my heart like brutal blows,
That I'd live to see the bitter day when on my son would shine,
The murder-tainted garb of those who plundered me and
mine.
 II

You will go, to filch from free- born men the fruits of honest toil,
Peaceful homes to loot and level, sacred altars to despoil ;
And the curse of maid and mother every day shall reach
your ears
Thus is England's record written : ruined hearths, and blood ,
and tears .
Then away ! and seek the glory of a Saxon robber war,
It will be, mayhap, a fortune, or a title, or a scar,
Or a resting -place for ever in some land where wild beasts
roam ,
Or the meanest, darkest fate of all-- a pauper's grave at home.
Were you standing on the gallows for your country's sake
to die ,
I would bless you calmly, proudly , without tear or faltering
sigh ,
But you're son of mine no longer - wretched tool of England,
GO !
BLACK AND FRUITLESS BE THE HARVEST OF THE SEED THAT
NOW YOU sow !
Many lands have slaves and traitors who would sell their
race for Gold,
Who would lead the greedy wild beast on the unprotected fold !
But the meanest, vilest wretch of all that curse the earth
to-day
Is the Irish -born slaveling who would fight in England's pay !

an seoinín .
( Air— " The Unfortunate Rake.” )

INCE I was feted , respectfully treated ,

And looked to with homage, in country and town ;
Now list to my story — I've lost all my glory
My day has departed , my star has gone down ,
Everyone looks with an eye of disdain on me,
Crushing me, pressing me close to the wall ;
Trials and troubles come down like the rain on me,
Nobody cares for the Seóinín at all !
Chorus
Ocón ! with their Teanga na n - éireann ,
Their Máirin and nóirin , their Seagan and Miceal
 I2

Telling me straight , with their impudent staring,

That nobody cares for the Seóinín at all !
Nightly and daily they're talking of Céilio ,
Of Cuaird and of Feis, and of Rinnce and Ceol ;
When I say, “ O , is that you ?” they'll cry “ Cionnas tá tú ? "
In a way that would banish all peace from your soul.
Every new day they are breaking the heart of me ,
Flinging their sneers at the Club and the Ball ;
Whatever I do they have always the start of me,
Nobody cares for the Seóinín at all ! Chorus.

When I try to play cricket, I never can stick it

They cry " imitation " or “ Sinn Féin amáin , "
They bother my hearing with yelling and cheering,
And shouting for something they call a camán .
There's nothing but Piping, and Fiddling, and Reels for them
(Polkas and Lancers will soon get a fall) ;
Fortune and favour are coming in creels to them ,
Nobody cares for the Seóinín at all ! Chorus.

I'm trying to meet them, but never can beat them ,

They know all my plans and they baffle my skill ;
I try to out - run them , mislead them , or shun them ,
But all is in vain — they are after me still.
The voice of a Gael is a torment and woe to me
Biting me worse than the sharpest of gall
Crying all day , “ You may bundle and go,” to me,
Nobody cares for the Seóinín at all ! ” Chorus.

Death in Exile.

EAR a city's heart, in a squalid room,

With throbbing temples, and halting breath ,
Unknown , unseen, ʼmid the crash and boom,
A daughter of Ireland fights with Death .
Alone, alone in the stranger's land
Her dreamland once, but how cheerless now !
With no voice to comfort, no kindly hand
To quench the fire of her throbbing brow,
 13

'Tis the same sad story, so often told

A home at the foot of an Irish hill,
A heart that craved for the stranger's gold ;
A foolish head, and a wayward will.
Her mother pleaded, her father frowned ,
And some one asked her with him to stay ;
But no ! 'twas vain : she was Westward bound :
“ I will come back rich to you all some day.”
And thenin exile — the sickening heat,
The cold, strange faces, the city's roar;
The heart nigh broken , the faltering feet,
And the feeble hands that could toil no more.
And now she is dying of want and care,
Far, far from those who are fond and dear ;
No friend beside her to breathe a prayer,
No priest, no mother-and Death so near !
" O God of pity !" - 'tis faint and low ,
A heart-wrung prayer, and a human cry
“ They are waiting at home for me still, I know :
O, let me see them before I die !"
The eyelids droop, and, with God's good -will,
A vision comes that is fair and sweet :
She is back once more on the heath - clad hill,
In the midst of all that she longed to meet.
O, mother, 'tis grand to be home again ,
Where smiles are bright, and where hearts are true.
In the stranger's country there's always pain
There's wealth , I know ; but there's hunger too.
“ See the sunlight dancing on Cillín -bán,
And the raindrops glistening like joyous tears !
And here come Sighle, and Mike, and Seaghan,
To clasp my hand after all the years !
And, mother, list to the birdeens' song !
They are singing, surely, to welcome me !
And the boys and girls, in one great throng,
Are gathering down by the old ash tree.
" I will join in the dance, for my heart is light
But the place grows dark, and I wonder why
Ah ! the sun is setting — 'twill soon - be - night
And the stars—will shine-in the - clear blue sky.”
 14

Aye ! ' the sun is setting.'- The sun has set

For one poor exile no more to rise ;
Its beams will dance on the mountains yet,
But never to gladden her sightless eyes.
A nameless grave, where the west winds blow
A grave where nobody comes to pray
There, one is sleeping who fain would go
To Cillin-bán, where the sunbeams play.
And far away, o'er the ocean wild,
In an Irish home, by an open door,
A mother prays for her absent child,
And waits -- for one who will come no more .

The Poor Lone Boy.

(fonn--" Šeóvaim aris an crúiscín .”

HERE's a certain purty cailín óg, I'll tell ye what her

name is,
She lives beyond Cill Scire, where the little runnin'
sthrame is ;
She stole the heart away from me, with fairy chains she
bound it,
She smiles on every buacaill in the parish and around it ;
But she doesn't care a tráitnin for a poor lone boy.
Chorus
o grao mo choide mo Róisín, sláinte geal mo stóirin ;
She'd turn all my weary woe to happiness and joy,
With a single word of welcome to a poor lone boy.
I'm not the one to boast about the beauty of mo stóirín ,
Tho' if you wandered over every hill and glen and boitrin ,
And even if you travelled on the magic steed of Oisin ,
You'd seek in vain through Éirinn for a fairer flower than
Róisín ;
O, but where's the use in talkin' for a poor lone boy.
Chorus - o , grád mo croide mo Roisin .
Her eyes are like the summer skies, her hair is brown an'
curlin',
Her voice is like the runnin' sthrame among the sedges
purlin ',
 15

Whene'er she smiles at all you'd swear ' tis coaxin' you the
rogue is,
An' you'd think her little lips are always askin ' what a póg
is ;
But they never whisper “ Fáilte ” to a poor lone boy.
Chorus- , grád mo čroide mo Roisin .
I'll step across the runnin' sthrame that's liltin' like a
túirnin ,
I'll meet her an' I'll tell her how I'm pinin’ for mo múirnin ,
An' 'tis I will have the heart of joy , of joy beyond comparin',
An ' 'tis I will be the proudest lad in all the land of éireann,
If she'll only whisper “ fáilte ” to a poor lone boy.
Chorus - o , gráo mo choioe mo Róisín .

Let ye spake Engilish and be Dacint.

(The advice of Cailleac an Béarla).
From the Irish of an t-acair peadar ó laoğaire.

y friends, if ye listen a short while to me

M I will give ye a kindly and fruitful advice ;
I ask for no gratitude, favour or fee
Your careful attention will amply suffice.
I suppose that a spark of affection remains
In your hearts, for the language your forefathers spoke ,
Ere we crippled your mother and bound her with chains,
And clothed her soul in a coarse foreign cloak ?
That language is useless, unprized , disesteemed,
'Tis rude and unpolished , uncouth , unrefined ;
Does it merit being sought for, upraised and redeemed ?
Not at all - passye on - let it languish behind .
Be loyal instead to the fine, cultured speech,
That came here with the Saxon - melodious, genteel,
Till you've mastered the doctrines the foreigners preach,
And the love for your land that the foreigners feel.
Then away with your weak , vulgar , broken old tongue !
Let ye spake Engilish and be dacint.

Remember ! the old days are not with us still,

We are travelling apace on the railroad of time ;
We must nurture the present , the past we must kill,
And a barbarous speech to revive is a crime.
 16

If you say " Dia ' s Muire Duit " now , to a friend,
He will class you at once as a clod ” and a “ clown "
But if you say “ How d'ye do " - with a blend
Of “ BaiJove ” -you're as good as a gent from the town .
Say, what is the value of living at all
If you can't call around you esteem and respect ?
Why fight for the cabin and barter the hall ?
Why cling to the spars of a ship that is wrecked ?
My friends,don't be foolish — your past is no more ;
Your language is dying—what good is she now ?
Instead of the bright flashing gems that she wore
There is nought but the cold dews of death on her
brow .
Then away with your weak , vulgar, broken old tongue ,
Let ye spake Engilish and be dacint.
Should one of ye sail , as we say, o'er the pond,"
To seek for a fortune " out there in the west,"
Your friends who have travelled and prospered beyond
Will treat your rough talk to a sneer and a jest.
You must change “ Bail o Dia ort ” to How d'ye do
“ Foin dee " you must say in a smooth -rolling tone,
You must drop vulgar words like Fairior and “ diriú ,"
You must murmur “ O Crickey " instead of “ Ocón ,''
You must train your rough tongue to the sound of
da'awn south ,”
“ I guess ” and “ I reckon ,” “ Bai Jove ” and “ next
fall. ”

You must warble them too -- not alone thro' your mouth,
But out thro' your nose with a musical drawl,
When you meet with some rude Gaelic speaker you've
known .
Who will startle your nerves with a harsh “ Conus
Taoi " ?
Say , “ I hoven't any Iwish , so leave me alone ;
Don't try on your joking, old fogey, with me.
My friends, ' tis as coarse as the barking of dogs,
'Tis the croaking of death that ye hear in its tones :
Let it go, drive it back to the mountains and bogs,
'Tis the language of dreamers and dunces and drones
Then away with your weak , vulgar, broken old tongue
Let ye- spake Engilish and be dacint.
 17

an freagra.

in mar a laðrann linn Cailleac an Béarla

SI Cailleac gan cóir a's gan cáil a's gan éifeact
Cailleac ' tá brodamail, brománac, bréagac
Sin í a cómairle do Člannaið na n -éireann !
Tá cómairle níor fire 'guinn, Comairle níos Gaedealaige
Comairle an sinnsir Bí eolasac, éactac
Comairle na Saoi agus cóſairle na n -éigre
Comairle na Naoń agus cómairle na laočnda
Comairte ' nois dúinne muinntir na n-éireann
Labraimis an Šaedilge 'gus bimir Gaedealac.

sinn féin amáin .

( Fonn- " ó dómnaill abú ." )

WAKE ! Men of Eirinn, the long night is ending ,

The first golden gleam of themorning has come ;
Voices, longsundered, in concord are blending,
High hopes are surging in hearts that were numb.
On, for a Nation's right,
On to the noble fight ;
Leap from your sleep at the Call of the Dawn.
Win back your own again,
Tear off the thraldom chain ,
On on , the war -cry is “ Sinn féin aſáin . "
Why should we sleep while our land is in danger ?
Why should the frown of a thief make us quail ?
Why should we crave in the halls of the stranger ?
Only the Gael can make laws for the Gael !
On, for a Nation's right,
On to the noble fight ;
Leap from your sleep at the Call of the Dawn.
Win back your own again ,
Tear off the thraldom chain ,
On, on, the war -cry is “ Sinn Féin aſáin ."
 18

Here , in the land that is Liberty's altar,

Here , and HERE ONLY, the battle must be ;
Think of the Prize, and your hearts will not falter
Think of the Future , when Ireland is free !
On , for a Nation's right,
On to the noble fight ;
Leap from your sleep at the Call of the Dawn .
Win back your own again,
Tear off the thraldom chain ,
On , on , the war-cry is “ Sinn Féin añáin .”
Men from the plains of Muigh - eo to Loch gCarmain ,
Men from Loch Lein to the hills of Tir- Eoghain ;
Seed of the Gael , and the Dane, and the Norman
Join hands for Ireland—for Ireland alone !
On, for a Nation's right,
On to the noble fight;
Leap from your sleep at the call of the Dawn.
Win back your own again ,
Tear off the thraldom -chain,
On , on , the war - cry is “ Sinn Féin aſáin . "

Daughters of Banba.

The following verses were written when the women of

Ireland were not doing as much for the Revival Movement
as they are doing to-day. Even now there are many parts
of the country where they are idle and indifferent, and now
is the time that their aid is needed in the work of uplifting a
Nation .

AUGHTERS of Banba , raise to-day

Your hearts from their weary sleeping ;
The clouds of the night have rolled away,
And the dawn to the skies is leaping ;
The hills are red with a roseate glow ,
And the mist, as in fear recoiling,
Is drifting away from the plains below
Where Banba's sons are toiling .
 19

Daughters of Banba , stand ye apart

While the men of your race are awaking ?
While there's hope aflame in your mother's heart
The heart that was nigh to breaking .
Have ye no smile that would cheer her on ?
Have ye no hands that would aid her
To rise once more , as in days that are gone ,
To the state for which God has made her ?

Daughters of Banba, poor is she,

And spent with the endless sighing
For the ones who have fled from her over the sea
And the ones who to- day are flying.
Tho' poor, she would welcome your love far more
Than the wealth of a kingly treasure ;
But ye leave her, to seek for a fabled store
And the glamour of earthly pleasure.
Or ye stand aloof as she walks along;
With never a word to cheer her ,
While the grating sounds of an alien tongue
From your lips are floating near her.
She asks ye to win back your native speech,
But your ears are deaf to her pleading ;
She holds out her hands your hands to reach ,
But ye turn from her cold, unheeding.
Daughters of Banba, shame , O shame !
That ye hold back your heart's devotion ,
That should burn as bright as the morning flame
Leaping out o'er the darkened ocean ;
Shame ! that ye turn from your mother's call
And follow the strangers' guiding,
Her hopes, her future, her past, and all ,
For the strangers' smile deriding.
Daughters of Banba, wide is the door,
And welcomes are here before ye ;
O ! stand in the gloom of the night no more ,
But cast off the shroud that is o'er ye.
Fling to the strangers their crumbs of earth ;
Rise up from your slavish station ;
Throng to the mother that gave ye birth,
And help her to be-a Nation !
 20

The R. I. C.
( Air— " The Ould Plaid Shawl " ).
This song was written at a time when it was reported
that the “ law ” forbidding Irishmen to have their names
properly printed on their carts had been withdrawn. 'Liam
O Siriden of Druim Laoghaire, Baile Chaisleain, Co. na
Midhe, was one of the firstin Ireland to be prosecuted and
found guilty of the " crime.” He refused to pay the amount
of the fine, and, strange to relate, the “ authorities ” have
since taken no action regarding it. Nor has the Irish name
on the carts at Druim Laoghaire been changed in the least.

Rue sharp command is speeding now to every barrack

door :
“ For Irish names on Irish carts, you'll prosecute
no more .”
There are shouts of wild commotion from the centre to the sea,
And wails of consternation from the R. I. C.
On every County Sultan, and on every District Czar ;
On every Head and Sergeant, there's a frownas black as tar,
And for every private peeler, hungry -hearted for a V,
There's a future full ofcrosses in the R. I. C.

'Twas grand to walk along the roads, with neatly -parted hair,
With ºwinning smile, and stately step, and proud,
commanding air ;
To coax the girls, and scare the goats,and make the gosoons see
The glory and the greatness of the R. I. C.
'Twas grand to hunt for poteen , thro' the mountains and
the bogs,
'Twas grand to break a meeting up,'twas grand to poison dogs,
But the finest game of all was this—as you can plainly see,
Swearing Irish names were German to the R. I.C.
Now carts inscribed with Irish names, mayamble thro’the fair,
Andevery axle shouting out, “ Come near me, if you dare ,"
While every goat will cry, .“ Meg-geg, don't play your
pranks on me,”
And the donkeys bray defiance at the R. I. C.
•
John Bull has sent instructions round to every barrack door : '
“ For Irish names on Irish carts, you'll prosecute no more.”
Long life to · Liam O Siriden,' and others such as he,
And the dickens mend the sorrows of the R. I. C.
 21

The Dying Sagart.

( an t-atair Boğan Ó Graṁnaig , d’éag 18ad Deiread
fogíair, 1899 ).

He autumn sun is shining o'er the Irish hills of green,

In autumn's fairest, brightest garb the Irish vales
are seen ;
The woods and streams and fairy glens all show surpassing
fair ;
The purest charms that nature owns give forth their beauty
there,
And in Columbia's far -off land a dying sagart lies,
And thinks of many a well-loved scene beneath the Irish skies;
And wonders if the winds that sigh and murmur through
' the trees
Were wafted from his own dear home, with love across the
seas ,
The fair broad plains of Royal Meath stretch out before
his gaze ,
And fancy shows his childhood's haunts, the dear familiar
ways ;
The beaten path across the fields, the rugged old boreen ,
Where as a child, he revelled ’mid the summer's scent and
sheen.

The friends of boyhood throng around and grasp his feeble

hand ,
With sorrowing mien and tearful gaze beside his couch they
stand ;
And favourite playmates whisper low of simple pleasures
flown,
And boyish tricks and pranks they played when life seemed
all their own .
He sees himself-- a youth - imbued with all youth's hopes
and dreams ,
That coursed thro' mind and heart and brain like swiftly
flowing streams ;
And bade him trace each change and turn in Eire's sad
career ,
When crushed by might , she lived on Hope thro' many a
century drear.
 22

And how he yearned to raise to life his country's native

Tongue,
The tender speech so long untaught--the songs so long
unsung.
And how his young heart wished that ere Death came he
yet might see
Her children strong in manly pride, her hills and valleys free .
The dreamer chose a priestly life, and now his mind recalls ,
The projects planned for future years within the college walls,
The hopes and fears—the glowing thoughts come back with
clearness now ,
And bring a tinge of boyish flush across the pallid brow .
And now another scene looms up, and with it comes a sigh ,
For memories sweet crowd fast around of glorious times
gone by.
When still a youth he sped to learn his cherished mother
tongue
From simple men and kindly dames the Connacht homes
among
And once again himself he sees, this time in priestly garb ;
And heeding not the critic's jeer, the scoffer's poisoned barb.
But struggling on to raise his land from darkness and
disgrace,
To spread once more from sea to sea the language of his race .
And lo ! he sees the dawnlight break above the night of gloom
His teaching helps to roll away one stone from Freedom's
tomb.
He hears a murmur rise and swell that tells the day has come,
When manly thought, not servile cant, must build an
Irish home.
But ah ! the brightness of his life is marred by fell disease,
The homely joys and strife and toil ' mid native scenes must
cease.
To fight that foe he needs must leave the land his heart adores,
So, like another Colmcille, he wanders from her shores.
But though he travelled far away his heart was with her yet ,
His every thought and wish and hope amid her hills were set ;
And still he taught , and still he strove, to lift the drooping
head
To rouse to action once again the spirit almost dead .
 23

And so, while life is fading, the sagart's mind goes back,
And pauses at each scene that meets his gaze on memory's
track ;
The boyhood dreams, the manhood thoughts, all rise at
Fancy's call,
While faster o'er that noble heart Death's gloomy shadows fall.
Then a look of deepest yearning comes across the worn face
For the ties that time or exile from the heart can not efface ;
a prayer to Heaven breathing, to watch o'er the
Withrold
en sod,”
The soul goes floating upward to its Maker and its God.
.

The autumn shades are falling o'er the hills of Innisfail,

The autumn winds are sighing, with a low, sad, plaintive
wail ;
For a whispering voice has floated o'er the ocean from the
West,
And it tells that Eoghan O’Gramhnaigh from Life's toiling is
at rest.
Then a throb of woe and sorrow shakes the land from shore
to shore,
And the heart of Gaelic Erie fills with anguish to the core,
And she cries, “ O son, your ashes shall be brought to me
some day ;
Where your spirit lives your clay shall rest — within my
breast for aye.”

The mighty deeds of warriors, as Time goes on, may fade ;

Their actions and their names may sink forgotten in the shade ;
Butnever while the Irish hills their lofty summits rise,
Shall men forget to bless the clay where Eoghan O'Gramh
naigh lies.

The Grand International Show.*

( Air— " The Top of Cork Road).
fig for the mad -heads who prate Nationality,
AS We will be true to the old hospitality ;
Fling to the dickens all childish formality
Open the gates, let the foreigners come !
The Irish International Exhibition, Dublin, 1907.
 24

What can poor clodhopping Ireland show ?

She's vulgar and lazy, andstupid and slow.
Let the Jew artificer
From darkness release her,
And flatter and fleece her,
And wink at his chum !

Chorus .

Hurrah ! for the grand International Show

Jingoes and Germans and Jews in a row ;
Irish humility,
Foreign civility,
Shoddy gentility
Guarding them all !

0, such a show ! ' twill be surely the greatest one

Ever was held upon earth-since the latest one ;
Highest in tone, and in motive the straightest one ;
(Run on the lines of the railways and trams).
Gorgeous and grand are the things to be shown :
First on the list is a king - off his throne,
Then big shoddy dealers,
And mud-Ainging squealers,
And broad - footed peelers ,
As gentle as lambs !
Chorus.

Beautiful samples of “ Henglish " society ;

Tipsters and toffs in the grandest variety ;
Irish Seoinini, with Seoinin anxiety,
Rushing to mix with the cross -channel mob.
Who ever saw such a noble display ?
Princes (and pickpockets ) pleasant and gay.
Jews and Jewesses,
And loyal addresses,
And Royal caresses,
And-all for a bob !
Chorus,
 25

An Irish Mother's Knee.

" The greatest of all Irish schools is an Irish mother's knee ." .
Máire de Buitleir.

HROUGHOUT the land of Eireann stand the stranger's

halls of learning,
Where minds are trained for combat with the sweep
ing storms of life,
Where skilful hands are buckling on the strong defensive
armour

That will bring the youthful battlers all-triumphant thro'

the strife .

But all their arts of teaching, and all their stores of knowledge
Cannot raise to strength the blossom that has fallen from
the tree :
The lesson of all lessons is the one that's learned in child.
hood ,
And the greatest school in Eirinn is an Irish mother's knee,
O, the college halls are stately , and those books are mines
of learning,
And the flowers that men call culture, rich in perfume,
flourish there ;
Grand old volumes, treasure-laden from the rich fields of
the Ages,
Rest within those peaceful chambers , weary 'neath the
load they bear.
Yet, for all, there's something higher than the wisdom of the
masters ;
There's a power far above them, great and learned tho'
they be :
You will find it by the hearth -stones , near the bogland and
the mountain ,
'Tis the knowledge given in childhood on an Irish mother's
knee.

See a simple -hearted peasant girl, a flower from Eire's garden,

Forced by fate, or lured byfolly, to a land beyond the seas,
Where the strangers frown upon her, and the foulsome
breath of cities
Breaks the spirit, once as buoyant as her native mountain
breeze.
 26

What sustains her in the conflict, when destruction strives

to claim her,
When the dark clouds gather round her, and the hope
lights fade and flee ?
Oh ! there's something unforgotten, something never lost or
broken :
'Tis the Faith she found in childhood , on an Irish mother's
knee.

Here, again , we see two pictures - one a man with honours

laden,
From the stranger's halls of learning - on the sweets of
culture fed,
Of Irish birth , but false to Eire, with the slaveling's word of
scorn
For the land that nursed his fathers, and gave their dust
a bed .

And the other - never college walls enclosed that manly

form ,
He has roamed the giant mountains that are sleeping by
the sea ;
In the language of his country he can trace his country's
story,
For he learned it thus in childhood by an Irish mother's
knee.

Aye, the stranger's halls have charms for a vain and foolish
people ,
Taught to ape the airs and customs of a cold, unfeeling
race,
That would rob our country's life -blood, that has naught for
her but hatred ,
That has left the deep wounds on her form , the tear -drops
on her face.

But to raise, erect and noble, in the hearts of Eire's children

The lofty aspirations , and the feeling of the free,
To teach them changeless love of God, of manhood and of
freedom ,
The only school in Eirinn is an Irish mother's knee .
 27

What the People Say.

(fonn-- " an leipreacán . " )

1ST liom go fóill, a múirnín O

és And hear my story true .
Bíonn daoin ' a' ráð ' s a' tráċt gać lá
That I'm in love with you.
Gur é do glór ró -oinn , a stór,
My theme by night and day ;
o ní neósfainn féin gur fíor an sgeul,
But that's what the people say.

Dá ofagainn-sé cáil a's clú gan smáu

And acres broad and free ;
Da Ufagainn -se ór a's árd -onóir
And ships upon the sea.
D'fearr liom ná 140 , a rúin mo Croide ,
Your smile to light my way,
Gac uile lá, a mile Śráda,
Well—that's what the people say.

' Sé deirtear fós, a cailín cóir,

That you have love for me ;
' S dúbairt bean indé go ndúbairt bean léi
That you my bride will be .
a rúin mo člé18' , a cuid de'n traogal ,
My light and hope alway ;
O cúir do láṁ im ’ láim , a Šráo ,
And say what the people say .

The Side and the Seóiníní .

HERE's a stir and a hum on the heathery hill ,

T In the heart of the fairies' camp,
And the moon shines down on the bustling scene
Like a mighty, resplendent lamp.
The fairies are gathered around their king,
Clan after clan - arrayed
In their costly, courtly, shimmering robes
Of jewels and rich brocade.
 28

The king stands up, with a stately mien ,

(A dignified, tiny man)
And a cheer goes down o'er the heathery hill
From each and from every clan ,
Then dies away o'er the moon - lit plain,
And when all is still , he speaks,
With a gleam of pride in hiswee, bright eyes
And a glow in his plump, round cheeks.
My people,” he says, “ I have jovial news
To gladden your hearts to - night;
Of late, up there i mBaile Áta CLIAT ,
Was enacted a stubborn fight,
' Tween all that goes to enslave a land
And all that would make it free ;
'Tween the Gael that we love, and a worthless race
By the name of the Seóinini !
" The Gael was the victor -he won the fight,
And routed the sneaking foe,
Who passed on the road by the mountain foot
In their flight, some hours ago ;
My guards and I were walking there,
Dusk closing around the place,
When they jostled and staggered along the way
With terror on every face.

" Go mbeannuiģ10 Dia dit ! cá Bruil s10 a'dul ' ?

I asked , in my blandest tones,
But they answered not, only filled the air
With a volume of death-like moans ;
Then shuffled their feet on the road again,
Commencing to move along ,
But I vowed they'd answer my question first,
(Tho' my heart was'nt over-strong. )

" Stad ! adeirim leat ! ' I cried aloud

To the first one that moved ahead ;
He looked around with a fearful gaze,
Then took to his heels and - fled !
And after him scampered the shivering crowd,
Leaving waggons and stores behind,
While their groans of pain, and their gasping cries,
Came backward along the wind.
 29

“ We took what they'd left — as was only fair

There being nobody else to claim
And it scarce repays for the thousand sneers
They had fastened around our name.
We dragged them , and carried them, up the hill
( I tell ye, 'twas wearisome toil ),
But they're safe at last, in the Fairies' Camp,
And we're here to divide the spoil.

“ There are shoddy gentility golfing sticks

In couples and tens and scores ,
We've a stock of the medals the Yeomen won
RETREATING BEFORE THE BOERS !
We've a choice selection of ping -pong bats
( Now very antique and rare),
And a volume or two of Society Notes '
A little the worse for wear !

“ We've a couple of coons, in an iron cage,

With banjo and all , complete ,
They'll frighten the foxes away at night ,
When they sing of ma honey sweet ';
Their faces are painted a darkish brown,
But their bodies are black and blue,
And they rave, betimes , of a ' darky gal,'
Called Louisiana Loo .'
6. There are hundreds of other things, old and new ,
And in quality much the same,
But out ofthe lot there are just a few
That I'd specially wish to name :
These are up -to -date fashions that ladies wear,'
In manifold shapes and shades,
A bundle of shoddy-respectable songs,
And a waggon of Seónin Maids.
“ Now, into the work with a right good will,
Let each one take a share ,
And I'll stand by, while the sport goes on,
To see that ' tis fair and square. ”
Cheers are given again and again ,
As they eagerly press around,
To divide the spoil — and 'tis many a laugh
Is heard, when the coons are found.
 30

Then all is confusion and clamorous din,

'Till a chorus of wild delight
Goes madly forth from a thousand throats,
As thus shouts one wee mite :
“ I'll take that waggon of Seóinín Maids
To my kingdom beyond the hills,
I'll place them in charge of my Castle of Cats,
Who are anxious to dance quadrilles.”
When all is divided and stowed away,
They gather around the king,
And a cry goes forth from their gladsome hearts
With a joyous, triumphant ring
A cry that startles the sleeping birds,
As it sweeps o'er the moon - lit lea :
“ Hurrah for the Side, and hurrab for the Gael,
And HURRAH FOR THE Seóiníní !”

A Song of Caitlin .
( Air— " Cac Céime an téió .” )

SING a song of Thraldom , of men in slavery sleeping;

28 Of alien robbers reaping the harvest of the years ;
Of pleasant hearths deserted, of storms darkly sweeping;
Of grey -haired people weeping, and children pale
with fears.
And not a ray to break their grief,
And none to brave the raiding thief,
But all prepared to crave relief
From him—who'd lash them in their chains .
God forgive the bond-slaves who crouch beneath the
tyrant's heel
And never feel one free thrill coursing through their veins !
I sing a song of Waking, of friends , long- severed , meeting ;
Of baffled foes retreating in terror and amaze ;
Of hands long parted clasping, of voices raised in greeting ;
Of hearts in concord beating with hope for future days.
Of men who strive as Brian strove
To place their Isle all strife above ;
Of men who bind their minds, their love,
 31

To her - their Mother and their Queen

+ Cáitlin Ni n -úllacáin, who long has trod the ways of pain,
But who shall reign, as fair a one as eyes have ever seen.

The Shamrock and the Cross.

N distant years long passed away, a blessed Saint of God

Plucked forth a tiny Shamrock spray from Tara's
verdant sod ;
He blest its leaves of purest green , and proudly by its side
He placed his Master's saving Cross — the Cross on which He died.
Then to our Pagan sires he said,who, awe-struck , clustered round ,
And watched the plant, at his command , spring fair above the
ground
“ Three Persons in one God there are, as from one single root,
And from one stalk and from one stem three Shamrock leaves
doth shoot.
That True God died upon this Cross that ye might never die
That ye might ever dwell with Him in homes beyond the sky ;
Dash then aside your idols false - your gods of lifeless clay
And worship Him Whose sacred Word I preach to ye to-day.'
And answered back those chieftains bold— “ No other God but
He
Shall we adore ; for ever more let these our emblems be ;
May every woe our country know, may Paradise be our loss,
When we betray or cast away the Shamrock and the Cross ! ”

Then flourished well that sainted land, till swooped a ruthless

horde
Down on its shores from Denmark's plains -- their only God
the sword ;
No faith or saving creed they knew, save greed of gold alone
So Eire's fanes and temples proud down in the dust were thrown.
She bore her lot as He had borne the Cross she loved so well,
Beneath whose shade she'd face combined the might of earth
and hell ;
When thickest fell her noble sons beneath the swords of Wrong ,
She sighed and murmured in her woe, “ How long, O Lord ,
how long ?”
 32

Her heart beat high with hope and pride when kingly Brian rose
And rallied all her proudest clans to rout the plundering foes. E
On Clontarf's plain the ruthless Dane put forth his vaunted
might,
But Brian's cause was just and true - he bore the sword of Right .
The fight was hard, and fierce, and long, but when at last
'twas o'er
No savage horde of Northern Danes profaned the Irish shore ;
The Irish banner proudly waved o'er moat and tower and fosse,
From sea to sea were once more free the Shamrock and the
Cross.

Once more rose up those temples grand - a spoiler came again ;

This time 'twas not the savage North , the fierce, marauding
Dane,
But one more treacherous swept across the smiling Irish sea
The Saxon came with heart of lust to trample on the free.
Oh ! then commenced our sad campaign 'gainst England's
scourge of steel
What pen can tell the maddening pain a suffering people feel ?
The children torn from mothers arms by England's robber
knaves,
Sent o’er the seas to western lands and sold as “ Irish slaves ; ”
The Sagart hunted with the wolf thro' woodland, plain and hill
An equal price on either head to those who'd catch or kill ;
Our altars burned , our shrines defiled, and sacked by blood
stained hands,
Our churches ruined and dashed to earth by plundering, God
less bands;
Insulted virtue, outraged youth-all, all can tell the tale
Of every effort made to crush and rob the hapless Gael.
'Twere easier count the leaves of fern that spring from out the
moss,
Than tell what Ireland bore for them—the Shamrock and the
Cross.

But many a glorious ray illumed the darksome track of years,

And many a glad and joyous smile shone out through Banba's
tears.
Her faithful sons-as brave and true as earth has ever known
Full oiten made those despots dark for all her wrongs atone.
O'Neill the just, O'Donnell Roe, and Sarsfield true and tried,
 33

Are 'mong the thousands who for her have toiled and fought
and died ;
And many a name, less known to fame, is locked within her
breast,
Of those who fell and proved their love—the noblest and the
best.
When Ireland called they grasped the sword and raised the
Flag of Green,
While high within its emerald folds her emblems proud were
seen.
They fought in “ battle's fierce array" from Cork to Innishowen
Some sleep by Limerick's storied walls, some down by old
Athlone;
And far away in distant lands on many a battle -plain
They wrought revenge on Saxon foes from Russia's steppes to
Spain ;
Thro’Europe's crimsoned fields and where Columbian banners
toss,
They died at home and o'er the foam for Ireland and the Cross.

Young hope of Ireland ! yours the task to tell those deeds of

yore
Enshrine those memories and those names deep in your bosoms'
core ;
When tyrants scoff-as tyrants will — and call ye serfs and slaves
( When they have borne your country's wealth across the
darkling waves),
Go, bid them trace the annals proud of Brian's warlike race,
Which all their might from out our hearts could never yet efface,
And say to them , "foul spoilers, yes, loyal indeed are we
To all we prize and cherish most, but never yet to ye !”

Foul spoilers ! ye have robbed our land and borne her wealth
away ;
Ye bade us turn from her command, and yet we proudly say—
“From high Beann Eadair to the West, from Antrim's glens
to Ross,
We pledge our faith to Innisfail, the Shamrock and the Cross ! ”
 34

catair Saiovín .
( Air- “ Moses Ritooralalooralalay . ” )

In the Spring of 1906, an Instructress was sent by the

Kerry Co. Council to give a Cookery Course in Cahirciveen.
She was a native of Munster, but she would not allow her
intending pupils to sign their names in Irish on the Register,
and when they refused to give a meaningless English transla
tion of the names they had always borne, she became enraged
and insulted them , with the result that fourteen cáiliní left
the class - room . The Instructress was soon afterwards re
moved to another district and was ordered by the County
Council to take the names of pupils in future in Irish when
ever they were submitted to her.

c ! éist liom a čáirde, is brónać mo scéal,

That vulgar invention called Teanga na nGaedeat ,
Has ruffled the temper and altered the mien
Of a charming young lady 1 g Cacair Saiddin .
Chorus
Ocón ! ' Sé mo Orón ! Olagón ! Aililliú !
The fat's in the fire, and we're all in a stew ;
If you call yourself Máire or Cáit or Eiðlín ,
You can't boil potatoes i gCatair Saidvin .
Such names should be kept in their places, you know ,
On the hills and the bogs, with the vulgar and low ;
They should never be spoken or written or seen
In a cookery class-room 1 g Cacair Saidvin .
Chorus
Ocón ! ' Sé mo Orón ! Olagón ! dililliú !
The fat's in the fire and we're all in a stew ;
If you call yourself nora or Brigid or eiblin ,
You can't bake a pancake i gCaćair Saidvin .
' Tis “ foolish , ridiculous, childish, absurd ”
( And something else too but I can't find the word ) ,
To talk about Irish, or anything mean ,
In the presence of “ gentry " 1 g Catair Salobin .
Chorus
Ocón ! ' Sé mo bron ! Olagón ! Aililliú !
The fat's in the fire and we're all in a stew ;
If you call yourself Nora, S108án , or eidlin ,
You can't scour saucepans i gCatair Saidvin .
 35

Those rude Gaelic Leaguers alone have the cheek

(Altho' they seem gentle enough-till they speak),
To drag in philology flavoured with spleen
And mix it with pastry 1 gCatair Saidoin .
Chorus
Ocón ! Sé mo örón ! Olagón ! dililliú !
The fat's in the fire and we're all in a stew ;
If you call yourself Máire, or Brigid, or eilin ,
You won't get a husband 1 g Cacair Saidvin .
This Irish Revival is growing too strong,
Spite of Bryce and of Wyndham , of Dudley and Long,
And I hear for a fact that a Kerry cailin
Can cook without English 1 gCatair Saidoin.
Chorus
Ocón ! Sé mo Orón ! Olagón ! dililliú !
There's one thing I nearly forgot you can do ;
If you call yourself Máire, or Cáit, or eiðlin ,
You can frizzle a Seóinín i gCatair Salóðin .

Irish Slaves !
( A Royal Visit Ode ) .

RAISING the tongue that has called them Idolators,

Licking the hand that has smitten them down,
Flaunting their shame for the world to gaze at it.
Kissing the hem of the Conqueror's gown.
Traitors to all that is noble and freedom - like,
Cringers to all that debases, depraves
Ye who wish to see Man's lowest, meanest type,
Look at it here, they are mean Irish Slaves !
Hailing the Flag that is dripping and heavy
With the hearts' blood of the innocent dead,
Clasping the hand that has stricken the freeman,
That denies to the starving ones shelter and bread,
That robs from the savage the means of subsistence,
And refuses the food that his dying voice craves ;
That plunders the homestead and murders the captive
Such is the shrine of our mean Irish Slaves !
 36

Such is the Idol they kneel to and fawn upon ,

Base are they, bending to all that is base,
Mouthing their cant of “ allegiance ” and “ loyalty,"
With the flickering smirk of the slave on each face.
Never a thought of the brave who have perished,
Never a thought of the Famine - filled graves,
Of the gray hairs insulted, the homes desecrated,
Lurks in the minds of those mean Irish Slaves !
Spawn of the Earth, kneel ye down in your bondage,
Kiss every link of the shackles ye wear,
Whine at the feet of the Royal Blasphemer,
Be true to the title he gave ye to bear.
But think ! there will soon come a full Day of Reckoning ,
Around ye are lashing the strong-rising waves
That willyet sweep ye out from a nation of freemen
A Land without footing or shelter for Slaves !

Shoddy Genteel.
(Air-- " Billy O'Rourke. " )

' M Shoddy Genteel, if ye'd like to know,

81: I'veAA trudged
sorrowful-hearted buaćaill ;
and tramped thro' rain and snow
From Baile áca cliać to eocaill,
And thro' the land, of peace bereft,
I'm hunted helter-skelter,
And there's not even one of my family left
To offer me food or shelter
mo Orón ! ocón ! I'm all alone,
Poor Shoddy Genteel, the Seoinin.
We once were a powerful, flourishing tribe,
In every spot you'd find us,
'Till bouncing Gael and meddling scribe
Stood up.to sneer behind us.
Now all have passed away save one,
And I'm that sole survivor ;
When a Gael cries “ Cogar !" I turn and run,
Tho'I can't tell what's the cry for
mo Orón ! ocón ! I'm all alone,
Poor Shoddy Genteel, the Sewinin !
 37

The tears run down my nose in streams

To mourn the by -gone gay-time,
And my mind is filled with woful dreams
And night-mares in the day-time.
I sneak thro' every lonely way
From Foyle to Gráig na Manac,
And the youngsters pause in their games to say
“ Cia leis an spailpín gránna ?”
mo oron ! ocón ! I'm all alone,
Poor Shoddy Genteel, the Seóinín !
'Tis Irish here and Irish there
In every nook and corner,
They'd jeer to death a man who'd dare
To imitate the foreigner.
' Tis " A gráo " instead of " my ducky dear,"
" A stor " in place of " Popsy ,"
And " a leino mo choide ” are the words I hear
Instead of “ my Mopsy -wopsy .'
mo Orón ! ocón ! I'm all alone,
Poor Shoddy Genteel, the Seóinin !
I'm weary and tired of Irish life,
And I'm leaving it all behind me ;
I'll skidaddle, and seek for a Chinese wife
Or an Indian squaw, to mind me.
I'll be skipper and passenger, mate and crew,
Of the stately barque I'm going in ,
And whenever ye hear of the Wandering Jew,
maise, think of the Wandering Seóinin !
mo oron ! ocón ! I must be goin',
Poor Shoddy Genteel, the Seóinin !

The Death of Emmet.

(September 20th, 1803).
S

EE ! there within the heart of Dublin City

That silent throng of people waiting-why ?
Because a noble youth - 0 tale of pity !
Comes forth to-day for Freedom's Cause to die.
 38

He saw his country scourged and bruised and beaten,

And trampled down, a butt for brutal scorn ;
Because he tried her sorrow-draught to sweeten,
In manhood's budding strength he dies this morn.
And gathered closely there with placid faces
And fireless gaping eyes, to see him fall
To see his bright hopes crushed in Death's embraces
Are they, the slaves he strove to free from thrall.
Hush ! here he comes with steps that do not falter,
With fearless gaze and proudly -arching brow,
A noble offering he-for Freedom's Altar;
But ye, who watch ! where is your manhood now ?
Why tender not your hearts to anger's leading
And dash, likewind -lashed waves, upon that crew ?
Who, back and forth like fiends accurst are speeding
In joy, because they've hellish work to do !
What matter tho' he's hedged around by foemen ,
A people's will is mightier than the sea ;
What ! fear ye then those black- souled coward yeomen ?
Ah ! sad his fate who dies for such as ye !
The axe is raised—the kingly head is bending
The longing eyes look wistfully around ;
Great God ! and shall it come—the cruel ending,
And shall he die like this - in fetters bound ?

O, if ' twere where the battle-flame was sweeping,

Above the rush and roar and din of strife,
Where angry men 'gainst lines of foemen leaping,
Avenged the wrongs of sire and maid and wife !
But here to die , 'mid foes exultant, jeering
His work undone, his country still in chains;
Hark ! hears he not the sound of distant cheering
He feels the fire of Freedom in his veins !
mo bron ! mo Orón ! not so, 'tis fancy only
Some woman's wail, perhaps some pitying moan
For him who faces death unarmed and lonely,
Who fights the last great fight of all- alone,
 39

The hour has come, bis star of life is paling,

But still the hope- flush lives upon his cheeks ;
He looks around , that eagle eye unquailing,
And as the upraised axe would fall, he speaks

Not yet,"
,” he says, “ not yet, I am not ready , "
His longing gaze is fixed upon the street,
His heart is throbbing now with beat unsteady ,
He listens for the sound of rushing feet.

“ Not yet, not yet," once more the words are spoken ,
And while they come upon each gasping breath ,
The blow is struck — the brave, proud heart is broken
The noble spirit stilled in endless death.

A leering brute stoops down a moment later

And raises up the ghastly, bleeding head,
“ Behold ,” he cries, " the fate of every traitor ;
Ha ! ha ! the dogs have wine that's rich and red ! ”

And ye who came with hasty footsteps, thronging,

Who round the block in rageless silence stood,
Who knew his heart for Freedom's light was longing,
And saw him die that dogs might lap his blood !

Go ! hide your heads in guilty shame unending

And see that blood - stained form before your eyes ;
Nor time, nor change, nor storms the wide earth rending,
Shall stifle in your hearts his anguished cries .

But come it will — the patriot's vindication,

And men shall rise to blot out every stain,
To win back life and strength to Emmet's Nation ,
To tear from off her limbs the thraldom chain.

Some day guilt receives its own red wages,

And if we fail to pay back every debt ;
There's One, Who rules o’er all thro ' all the ages,
And He remembers well—if we forget.
 40

slán le réut áta in Saortag.

( Fonn— “ eoğan Cóir ." )

The Farewell Song sung by the Students of the Munster Irish

Training College at the close of the Session in 1905 and 1906 .

Táá aðrán agam le rád dio,

a Saedilgeoirí ghaomara groide,
act cuirim 1 n -uṁail i dtrác dio
Ná fuil ionnam ac file gan Brig.
Tá catugad a's crad in mo croide 'stig
a's cuiſneóćaid mé go dti lá an luain
ar an aimsir do caiteamar le céile
1 gColáiste fior - Saoolac na Muman ,
Cur -fá
Fágaim-se slán ag an gColáiste,
agus fós ag an mbaile beag sář,
Go raio séan agus grád agus Gaedilg
1 mbeul áta 'n Gaortait go brát !
Biomar go boċt a's go bronać ;
Di ár otir gan onóir 's gan cáil ;
Vi ár dteanga ag steaṁnugad gac lá uainn
Roiñ an driodar do táinig tar sáil '.
ac tá si 'sa deire fé méas 'guinn
a's mairfid si feasta go buan,
mar cliaban na Gaedilge i n-éirinn
Sé Coláiste fior - Saodlać na Muman.
Cur-fa.
a cáirde mo cléið sé mo lean geur
Go Ofuil na laeteannta Grianmar' a gcric,
oc dímís ag obair go tréanṁar
Cun an Gaedilge oo scaipead ' sa tir
Séan agus aoineas a' tsaoigil við
Sin m'fior-guide cun Dia ar Búr son
a'r go gcasfamaoid go léir ar a céile
arism gColáiste na Muman .
Cur -fá.
 41

The Downfall of the Seóinín Capital.

Rathmines has been called the Capital of Seóinín - Land . When a

Gaelic League Entertainment was held there for the first time, an indig
nation meeting of the “ respectable ” inhabitants was held , and the
Chairman's opening address was as follows :
've been called on to tell ye a sorrowful tale,
Which it grieves me , indeed , to disclose ;
The low-bred, impertinent , dastardly Gael
Has trod on respectable toes !
With his beastly, uncultured, abominable Speech,
He has beaten his way thro' our lines,
With a shout he has stepped from his ship to our beach ,
And our prestige is lost in Wrauthmines.

“ He has come, with a legion of scoffers and spies,

The Seóiníní home to invade ;
The games, and the songs, and the dances we prize
To trample , defile, and degrade .
With their jabber of Rinnce ,' and ' Ceol, ' and 'aṁrán , '
Their ' Teanga na nGaedeal ' and ' Sinn Féin, '
With their “ Cailín mo įroide ' and their Buaćaillín
Bán '
Encircling us round, like a chain !

“ Weare Jingoes, ' ' West- Britons, ' or ' Johnnies,' or Coons , '
It is treason to sing · Dolly Grey ' ;
Our high -class duets and respectable tunes
Are alien ,' or Saxon ' they say .
It is ' fraud ,' ' imitation ,' — or something as bad
Society's favours to woo ;
The man who plays golf is a ' tuppenny cad, '
Tho' the blood in his veins may be blue !
" And the ladies, the pride of our Capital here,
Whose fashions were first in the land,
Even they are not free from the jibe and the sneer
Of this heartless, contemptible band.
Every hour of the day there's a scornful smile
At their accent, their dress, or their names,
They are aping adorers of Sasana style,
They are .shoddy gentility dames.'
 42

“ Just think of it ; here where we glided along

More genteel than our means could allow ,
With our waltzes and polkas, our golf and ping-pong,
And, O ! what a change for us now !
Shall we bow to the Gael with the grin on his face
And scoffers arrayed at his heels ?
Shall we fling away all that belongs to our race
For their pipes, and their jigs, and their reels ?
" O , Seoiníní, Jingoes, West-Britons, and all,
Shall we die without striking a blow ?
Fly, fly to your golf-sticks, we'll conquer, or fall
For the honour of Dolly' and ' Flo .'
Not a word ! not a stir !-has your chivalry passed ?
O, woe for the light that declines !
The reign of the Seóinin is broken at last,
And the Gael is the Lord of Wrauthmines . ”

a STOIR mo Croide.
(Fonn—" Bruać na Carnaige báine ." )

From the home that you'll soon be leaving ;

'Tis many a time, thro' the night and day,
That your heart will be sorely grieving:
The strangers' land may be bright and fair,
And rich in its treasures golden ;
But you'll pine I know, for the long ago,
And the love that was never olden.

a stóir mo choide ! in the strangers' land

There is plenty of wealth, and wailing ;
Where gems adorn the great and grand,
There are faces with hunger paling.
When the road is toilsome and hard to tread,
When the lights of their cities blind you ;
O, turn , a stóir, to the East'rn shore
And the ones that you leave behind you.
 43

A stóir mo choide ! when the evening mist

O’er mountain and sea is falling ;
Then turn away from the throng, and list ,
And maybe you'll hear me calling
For the sound of a voice that I'll sorely miss,
For somebody's quick returning ;
a rúin , a rúin , O, come back soon
To the love that is always burning.

Hugh O'Donnell Roe .

(A.D. 1602).

The lament of one of O'Donnell's people when thenews reached Ireland

that the brave Hugh Roe had been poisoned by the English in Spain.

HEY'VE poisoned him , they've poisoned him , our glory

and our joy !
The one who led Tirchonnaill's clans when yet a
beardless boy,
The one who broke the Saxon power, and crushed the Saxon
pride ,
And swept their hosts from many a field like reeds before
the tide,
My bitter, blighting curse be on their heads for evermore,
And may God's wrath with vengeful fire sweep down upon
their shore,
From every seed they place in earth may nought but ashes
grow
The wolves who drank the young heart's blood of Hugh
O'Donnell Roe.
The hate that nerved him in the fight their own false hands
had sown,
The day they lured him to their ship by stately Innishowen,
And chained him fast in Dublin towers , though little more
than child ,
Small wonder that his heart was filled with throbbings fierce
and wild.
For every link that bound his limbs a lasting vow he made
That while his hand could lift a spear or grasp a trusty blade,
That while remained in his right arm the strength to strike
a blow ,
SO LONG should England feel the hate of Hugh O'Donnell Roe.
 44

But English chains could never hold a captive such as he,

And one brave day we welcomed home our gallant chief
tain - free
And never had Tirchonnaill's homes a warrior lord more true,
Or one more fit to lead the fight than he-our dauntless Hugh .
Then, then burst forth like lightning flash his long-pent
fiery wrath,
And woe betide the Saxon churl that dared to cross his path ;
And cried he in our midst that day , bis dark proud eyes
aglow
“ For God and home, who'll follow now with Hugh
O'Donnell Roe ? ”

He rode and fought from Bann to Boyle, a sweeping, venge

ful flame
To burn to ashes, root and branch , the Saxon race and name.
He drove the robber wolves to bay by ford and castle wall,
From Connacht's plains thro' th' Annallies to heath- clad
Dun-na-nGall.
The fiery cross lit up the skies o'er many a field of dead ;
Tirchonnaill's war -cry pierced the souls of those who turned
and fled.
“ Clan Chonnaill on ! your chieftain leads , strike down the
Saxon foe !
No SAXON SWINE SHALL RULE OUR LAND !” cried Hugh
O'Donnell Roe.

Tireogbain's Hugh , Tirchonnaill's Hugh , like brothers

hand - in -hand,
Stood fighting Ireland's foes — ALONE — two chiefs in all the
land.
mo Orón ! the East and West were dead , the South was
fast asleep ,
And bravest ships must sink at last where winds in fury
sweep.
Pressed on the English foemen then , aye, ten to every Gael ;
My God ! ' twas hard to see their flag wave high above
Kinsale,
The night came down, the fiery cross was crushed and
drooping low !
Away to Spain — for swords and men-sailed Hugh
O'Donnell Roe .
 45

Oh ! how he pleaded, how he prayed, while sped the weary

days !
His eyes forever towards the sea, his fervent soul ablaze,
Till forth the kingly mandate went : — " A Royal fleet shall
sail
To aid the men who fight for God in distant Innisfail,
And even , while new life and hope were throbbing in his
heart,
The foe, who feared him in the fight, drove home the craven
dart.
Weep, weep, Tirchonnaill ! Ireland, weep ! unchecked the
tears may flow .
Our pride, our strength, our SWORD is gone-brave Hugh
O'Donnell Roe.

He's dead-our Love, our Prince, our Chief, the Flower of

all our race.
He's dead to-day in far-off Spain , and who shall take his
place ?
Raise, raise for him the sorrow dirge, O Daughters of the
North ,
Your shield is gone, your foes are here, and who shall drive
them forth ?
But shall we only weep ? No ! No ! Revenge is ours to-day.
Tirchonnaill, on ! snite down the wolves ! No man shall
shirk the fray,
Till we have paid, a thousand times , the sacred debt we owe
To those who drank the young heart's blood of Hugh
O'Donnell Roe.

The Unfortunate Coon .

(Air— " Garryowen .” )
I'm a weary, forsaken , unforturate coon,
18 Flung out of the halls where I once was a king,
The droning of “ cuisle," " a stóir," and " a rúin ,"
Has taken the place of the songs that I sing ;
For the buaćailli
And the cailíní,
(Sure that's the way that they're talking now),
Have nought but scorn and sneers for me,
For the gleam of my teeth and my sable brow ,
 46

Chorus.
O , look at me, battered , and broken , and bruised ,
And bothered with " cuisle, " " A stóir," and " a rúin ,"
I'm ousted , I'm hunted , despised, and abused
I'm a weary, forsaken, unfortunate Coon .

My friend , the poor seóinin , is worse than myself

He's baffled and beaten wherever he goes,
And I have my banjo laid up on the shelf,
And I'll have to be washing the paint off my nose ;
For the buacailli
And the cailini
Are mocking all that I say and do,
Ofuil Dinah ag baile ? " they shout in glee ,
And they cry to me : “ Cionnas ' tá Lubbly Loo ?"
Chorus.

There are places, I know, that are faithful and true

Where the seóiníní swarm like mice in a mill,
Where the Cad gives me greeting with “ How d'ye do ? '
And the maids that are “ class ” have a gráð for me still ;
But the cailini
Tbat here I see
Have scornful looks when they pass me by,
That command all peace from my mind to flee,
And that make me afraid tho' I can't tell why.
Chorus.

I'm a waif on this world, foot-weary and sore,

My life is all torment, and torture and tears ,
With " astóir " and " a rúin ," and " a rúin " and " a stóir,"
All night in my dreams and all day in my ears ;
And the buacailli
And the cailíní
Have vowed , I hear, that we all must go,
The Clan with the title of Seóinini
And the family travelling as Coon and Co.
Chorus,
 47

“ The Road to Hell . ”

(From A Bunch of Wild Flowers).

During the past fifty years, one-half of the Catholics in the United
States have fallen away from God. Most of these were of Irish birth or
descent. Irish people , for your children America is the Road to
Hell . ” - Father Shinnors, O.M.I. , in the Irish Ecclesiastical Record.

lost ! lost to God when they leave their land , and

dead to His Holy Word !”
Oh , where's the heart can hear that cry and still
remain unstirred
And still be blind to the exile's fate in those heathen lands
afar ,
Where Gold is the rich man's only God, and the poor man's
guiding star ?
" On the Road to Hell !" Has it come to this with the Irish
race at last ?
Has the time of our noble , unswerving Faith , of our honour
and manhood passed ?
Must we, who were never afraid to meet the scoffers face
to face,
Must we blush and bow our heads at last in shame for our
land's disgrace ?

“ One- half of them lost to God out there ” one- half of our
people gone !
What boots it now the woes endured—the brave fights
fought and won ?
Of what avail was the Martyr's death-the Saint's appeals
to God
If half our people fly from Him when they fly from their
native sod ?

Oh ! where is our love for Brigid now ? Where has

Patrick's teaching flown ?
Must we blush to-day for the sins and crimes of the people
he called his own ?
Must he curse the land he so often blest, for whose sake
his life was given ?
Must he turn in loathing from Ireland's name by his
Master's side in Heaven ?
Ó , Irish priests, ye have heard that cry ! the children ye
have loved
Have gone to a darker fate than Death ; do ye still remain
unmoved ?
Will ye try even now to hold the ones that are still in the
olden land ?
O, Priests of God ! for His sweet sake, stretch forth a
saving hand ?

Now is the time the saving time—the wolf's at work again

To set them adrift on the Road to Hell out there o'er the
endless main ;
O , Priests of Ireland ! only speak-only tell them what lies
out there,
And they'll stay at home in the Irish land, tho'small be
their earthly share !

Fathers and mothers, to the fight for Gold would ye send

your children forth
To fall, as the tender blossoms fall 'neath the blasts from
the wintry North ?
Would ye rather see them rich and great and lost to God
and Faith
Than poor and pure in their humble homes—Irish in life
and death ?

O , list to that cry ere ye send them forth to the fight for
the world's dross !
Will all the glamour of earth suffice for their souls' eternal
loss ?
Keep them at home : let the tempters go ! with their world
of wealth and sin
Would ye drive your children away from God for the sake
of the gold they'd win ?

O, Patrick, save them to God and thee ! tear, tear from

their eyes the veil ,
And do not curse them yet, O Saint-they are dead , and
they cannot feel !
They are blind and they cannot see their way , for the
tempter veils them so
That they rush unheeding wherever he leads — unmindful
of where they go .
 49

O , Brigid ! sweet Irish Virgin Queen ! turn not from thy

land away !
For sake of the Past—the faithful Past-look down on our
Race to -day !
Show to our Youth the Kindly Light , and the dazzling
glare dispel
That lures them on by the tempting Road, that leads to
Wealth-and Hell !

The Seóinín Maids of Erin.

(Air_ " The Girl I Left Behind Me. " )

ur land has many a cailin fair

By town and vale and highland
Who'd give the Saxon stare for stare,
And tell him , “ This is my land ;"
But such are only poor and low,
And far beneath comparing
With the ones who haunt Bazaar and Show ,
The Seóinín maids of Erin .
Their brains are few , their aims are high ,
Far, far above their station ;
Their food's an anti- Irish pie
That we call Imitation ;
Their minds are set on this and that
That English dames are wearing ;
They'll tell the ways of every cat
The Seóinin maids of Erin.
Their nerves are weak and highly strung ,
Be careful when you're speaking ;
They hate this “ beastly Iwish Tongue”
That o'er the land is " sneaking. ”
To say "A múirnin ” or “ a gráv "
Would tell of vulgar rearing.
How sweetly they can drawl “ Papawh, "
The Sebinin maids of Erin .
They know what Czar and Sultan eat ;
How the people live in China ;
They'll tell how love -sick darkies greet
Their " gals " in Carolina ;
 50

They warble “ Dinah's " plaintive song,

Her love for “ Sambo " sharing ;
They dance quadrilles and play ping-pong,
The Seóinin maids of Erin .
Their “ accent ” holds the cultured ear,
Its every sense enthralling,
But it seems to us like sounds we hear
From the ducks when rain is falling.
And there are some and not a few
Who'd be so bold and daring
As to load a ship for Timbuctoo
With the Seóinín maids of Erin.

The Shrine of Duty.

LAND, where wailing and useless weeping

A Goes out over valleys, and streams, and hills,
Where Despair forever a watch is keeping
Over untilled acres and silent mills ;
Where the fairest charms and brightest blessings
Have been placed, unstinted, by God's free Hand,
Where Nature shines in her grandest dressings
O, tell me, tell me, is this your land ?
Did He who gave ye this Land of Beauty
Design that ye should be only slaves,
Forsaking the Shrine of your Love and Duty,
To be wanderers dashed on the world's waves ?
For what did He give ye the stalwart arm ?
For what did He give ye the fertile brain ?
To be mariners battling the mighty storm
When it threatens, with fury, the stranger's plain ?
That ye should be toilers in every nation,
And wanderers straying in every clime ?
Your country's story - decay - stagnation,
Her Freedom lost, in the mists of time ?
Did He decree such a lowly ending
For the Race He guarded through years of woe ?
Did He will that the form , once proud, unbending,
Should be crushed, and shattered, and broken ? No !
 51

No ! He has help for the earnest toilers

Who would raise their land from a crippled state ;
Who would scorn to be weepers, and slavish moilers,
And tools in the hands of the thankless great !
Then, away ! away with this futile wailing,
Weep ye no more while there's work to do ;
Tears will not soften your Mother's ailing ,
Sighs will not raise her to life anew !
But hope, and courage, and manly thinking,
Will chase the clouds from her troubled brow ;
Will raise the heart that is sadly sinking
And the hour for thought and for toil is—Now !
Ye have watched a myth , till its light receded,
And left ye to mourn and cry “too late,"
Ye have scorned the Wealth at your feet - unheeded ,
While ye sought for its sheen at the stranger's gate !
Then, O, let the hour of vain lamenting
And false illusions, be cast away,
For all the sloth of the Past repenting,
Put forth your strength in the fight, to-day.
Let the silent mills be no longer telling
The ruin and wreck of a strong, proud land ;
O, give her the Heart with its manhood swelling ;
Give her the faithful, unfaltering Hand !
The Comical Boy.
(Air— " The Swaggering Jig .” )
stoirín , O how can you tease,
When you know that I'm faithful and true ;
Sure my heart is as light as the breeze
Whenever I'm looking at you.
There isn't a land or a throne,
Or anything underthe sun,
But I'd give for one jewel alone
A jewel that's hard to be won.
Chorus
And 0, Roisin, a stóirín ,
No palace or castle for me ;
I'd rather a cot in a bóitrin
With you in it, 'stóirin mo čroide,
 52

You give me a glance of your eye ;

I dance in the height of my joy ;
Then you say with a sort of a sigh ,
“ maise now , you're a comical boy ,”
You frown-and I wish I were dead ;
You smile-and I'm anxious to live.
Sure I'd rather one hair of your head
Than the riches the world could give.
Chorus.
I'm wasted to nothing — or less
With the weight of my grief and my woe .
I want you to answer me “ Yes,"
And you're constantly answering “ No ! ”
As you trip with a laugh through the dance ,
I sit in a corner and pine,
A -dreaming, like one in a trance,
That maybe some day you'll be mine.
Chorus.
A stóirin , I'll wait for the word ;
I know that you'll speak it some day,
And then, with a heart like a bird ,
I'll bear you in triumph away ;
And there won't be a happier pair
From far -away Foyle to Fermoy,
When your beautiful self is my share,
And yours is ~the “ comical boy ."
Chorus
And O, Róisín , a stóirin,
No king will be equal to me ,
When I come to that cot in the boitrin ,
With you in it , 'stóirin mo Croide .

The Seoinin's Return.

( After the Boer War in South Africa ).

LIST to the tale of a grief-stricken Sesinin

Who has come back to gaze on the scenes of his
youth ;
I will guard against tears, against useless bemoaning,
I have little to tell and my story is truth,
 53

After gallant retreats thro' the pathways of danger

' Fore the fierce Boer-land savages, tameless and wild ;
I stand in the home of my swell- days—a stranger,
Derided, insulted, abused and reviled .
I flew at the call of “ our empire " and duty
(To plunder and steal when the Boers should have died) ;
I went with the Yeomen in quest of the booty,
But, alas ! we were late — there was none to divide !
I sneaked from the war- field, more mud-stained than gory,
With little about me of war or its signs ;
I came back again without swag, without glory,
And found that the stranger had captured Wrauthmines.
'Tis Irish , outspread like a plague or a famine
From morning till night that I hear and I see,
And even in the streets every bare-footed gamin
Cries— " a Duacailli ! féac ar an saigdiúirin duide."

They grin and they talk about " Connrad na Gaedilge,"

And cry - but their meaning is Greek to me yet
“ Tá an spriosán tar n -ais a's a lúidín ' na Béul aige
Is dóća gur car' sé úd tall ar De Wet.”
Ping- pong is no more, and the banjo has faded,
' Tis replaced by the barbarous shriek of the pipes ;
The coons are disbanded, their art is degraded ,
They are wandering and wailing like wet-weather snipes .
The high-cla-as gentility accent is banished ,
Installed in its place is the vile Gaelic blas ;
The West - British method of speaking has vanished ,
And “ Sead " takes the place of the sweet - sounding
“ ya -as."
Georgiana, my love, has forbidden my calling
To Shoddyville Hall (where she dwells with " Papawh " ) ;
I fell on my knees, and I cried “ O , my dawling,
Are you going to forsake me ? ” —and she answered me
“ Tá. "
There's not even a " Johnny, " a " Toff," or a “ Chappie,”
To meet me and greet me with " how d'ye do ? ”
But always around me, to make me unhappy,
Is that vulgar- voiced, vile-spoken Gaedilgeoirí crew .
 54

The power of the Seóinín is shattered and broken,

I will fly far away from the scene of his fall ;
I will go where no rude Gaelic Language is spoken ,
To darken respectable hearts like a pall.
I will seek for a country where shoddy is worn ,
Where the sunlight of high -cla -as society shines,
And I'll try to forget all the insults I've borne,
Farewell, and forever, O dawling Wrauthmines.

Irish Ireland .
( Air— " Máirín .” )

of
© Who say your hearts have love
For her who walks along the thorny way,
Come forth and prove it now,
Stand up, like men, and vow,
To work, and strive, and fight for her to-day.
Chorus.
On, on with Irish Ireland ;
Leave the Saxon mireland ;
Cast away the wiles of Seagáinín Buide ;
Wipe out the foreign stain
And make our land again
A land of men-a Nation free !
O, ye who weep and wail ,
With faces blanched and pale ,
And souls that slavery's voice has hushed to sleep,
See, see , ' tis morning's light,
Come, join us in the fight,
We'll sow the seed , no matter who may reap.
Chorus - On, on with Irish Ireland, etc ,
O , ye who watch and wait
Beside the stranger's gate,
To snatch, with greed , the poisoned crumbs that fall,
Arise ! 'tis Manhood's dawn ,
No longer cringe and fawn ;
Fling back the traitor wine, that's mixed with gall.
Chorns - On, on with Irish Ireland , etc.
 55

Then onward , onward all,

'Tis Ireland's final call ;
Our cause is just, we must not-shall not -- fail !
The road we tread is long,
The foes we face are strong,
But those who fight for Freedom never quail !
Chorus - On , on with Irish Ireland , etc.

Beyond the Bog.

( An Irish Mother's Musing).

'm sittin' alone, lookin' out to the West ,

Where the light o' the day is dyin ' ,
And a sob swells up in my weary breast
And the tears from my eyes I'm dryin' ;
For Seaghan , my boy, is goin' away !
He says to me he'll come back some day,
But I'm thinkin ' he'll sleep in the stranger's clay,
In the world beyond the bog.
Our world was here by the bog - land side ,
With the heather around us bloomin ',
And stretchin' away from us, far and wide ,
To the hills in the Eastward loomin'.
Our home was small, but 'twas all our own ,
mo Léun ! ' tis now 'twill be sad and lone,
For its light and its hope will soon be goin'
To the world beyond the bog.
I thought he'd stay with us always here
( Sure 'twas only a mother's dreamin '),
His father's path and my own to cheer,
Till we'd see God's home - lights gleamin' .
My pride was he, so fair and tall ;
How my poor heart wailed like the Bean -Sidhe's call,
When he said , “ I'll be goin' in the early Fall
To the world beyond the bog ."
He says that he'll send me a store of gold,
But'tis little I care about it ;
For all he may say, it is poor and cold,
And I'd rather have him without it.
 56

For 'twould be like sellin' our own ceanadán

For a faded rose from the stranger's lawn ,
If I'd look in vain for my brown -eyed Seaghan
To the world beyond the bog .

O, gossoons of Ireland, learn to love

The land where your dead are sleepin'
Before ye set out o'er the seas to rove,
Think , think of a mother's weepin ' .
Think of the heart where the true gold lies,
Where the pure , strong love for ye never dies,
And turn the light of your longin' eyes
From that world beyond the bog.

Ireland's Hurling Men .

( Air— " Clare's Dragoons." )

Ho say our country's soul has fled ?

M Who say our country's heart is dead ?
Come, let them hear the marching tread
Of twice five thousand Hurling Men.
They hold the hopes of bye-gone years,
They love the past — its smiles and tears
But quavering doubts and shrinking fears
Are far from Ireland's Hurling Men !

Chorus.

Hurrah ! Hurrah ! the stout Camán ,

Not English steel can match its blow ;
Hurrah ! the arms of might and brawn ,
And hearts with Freedom's flame aglow !
They sing the songs their fathers sung,
When to the breeze the Green they flung
They speak their own sweet Gaelic tongue
That fires the blood of fighting men .
 57

When all around was dark as night,

With scarce a gleam of cheering light,
When traitors Aed their country's fight
She still had hope in Hurling Men !
Chorus - Hurrah ! Hurrah ! the stout Camán .
On Irish fields when heroes died,
And foemen thronged on every side,
Our leaders' joy — their hope and pride
Were gleaming pikes—and Hurling Men !
And if God wills that war's red train
Shall sweep once more o'er hill and plain,
Our land shall call and not in vain
For fighting lines of Hurling Men.
Chorus - Hurrah ! Hurrah ! the stout Camán .
But meanwhile, let each true heart toil
The foeman's every plan to foil,
And raise , like strong plants from the soil,
New hosts of Irish Hurling Men.
To guard their name and love their land,
With her thro' gloom and joy to stand ,
And each one's gift — a heart and hand

Chorus - Hurrah ! H rah ! the stout Camán .

Whencomes the day — as come it must

That England's rule of greed and lust
Shall lie, all broken, in the dust,
We'll still have Irish Hurling Men.
Then here's to her, the land we love ,
Each grand old hill, and glen, and grove
Her plains below , her skies above
And, best of all - her Hurling Men !
Chorus - Hurrah ! Hurrah ! the stout Camán .
 58

Be Men To -Day.
MEED not the cringing traitors' jeer,
M Heed not the despot's darkling frown ;
But press ye on — the goal is near,
Tho' Saxon bandogs hound ye down.
Heed not the worthless guilty crew
Who fain would block your onward way ;
To Ireland's glorious Cause be true
For Ireland's sake be Men to - day.
By Heaven's decree - by Right Divine
This Irish land is yours alone ;
Will ye give up to foreign swine
Without a fight what is your own ?
Will ye allow an alien race
Tofilch your sacred rights away ,
And wipe out every noble trace
Of manhood from your land to -day ?
What matter tho' a craven few
Grasp England's bloodstained treacherous hand,
Will ye be serfs and helots, too,
And wear the servile slaveling's brand ?
What matter tho' the faithless fly
Where dark Missouri's waters play,
Will ye, too, seek a foreign sky
And leave your land -a wreck - to -day ?
No ! spurn the false, alluring smiles
As ye would spurn a poisoned bowl !
They've tried their mean, unmanly wiles
On every race from Pole to Pole.
By ruffian hand they slew the men
They feared to meet in war's array ;
Their plans are now as they were then,
But spurn them and be Men to-day.
Tho' dastards don the cursed red
And swear to serve the robber brood
Who oft' our Sagarts' life -blood shed,
Who plundered shrine and sacred rood !
Tho' Irish hirelings still are found
To wade through blood in England's pay,
Stand firmly ye on Ireland's ground,
And for her sake be Men to-day.
 59

Look, gaze upon that smiling lawn,

Those towering hills that round ye rise,
Shall they be yours, or shall a spawn
Of foreign mongrels grasp the prize ?
Shall ye the glorious past forget,
And those who sleep in Irish clay ?
No ! surely, no ! there must be yet
In Ireland steadfast Men to-day.
Then, O, arise in Freedom's name !
The time is past for men to sleep ;
Come, fan into resistless flame
The fires that smoulder low and deep.
No craven cant, no slavish mien,
No faltering steps, no weak delay,
For Ireland's vales and hills of green
ARISE, AWAKE , BE MEN TO-DAY !

Young Ireland's Cailíní.

( Air- " The Jolly Ploughman , ” or “ The Rapparees ” ).

HOUGH weaklings pause, and slavelings wail,

And say that hope has flown,
There's courage still in Clann na nGaedeal
To win and hold their own .
And foremost in the fight we wage
'Gainst all the foes that be,
To raise again ár dtírin féin
Are Ireland's Cailíní !
Her comely Cailini !
To raise again an otirin féin
We've Ireland's Cailini .
They're here to fight the Saxon mind,
Its power to bend and break ;
With heart and hand and brain combined ,
To toil for Ireland's sake.
And what care we the wail of slaves,
The hate of Seagáinin Buide !
When in the fray we find to-day
Young Ireland's Cailíní !
 60

Her queenly Cailíní !

When in the fray we find to - day
Young Ireland's Cailíní .

A quenchless love for Ireland's past

Is shrined in every breast,
As warm , where'er their lives be cast ,
In North, or South , or West ;
Or where the towering Eastern hills
Look o'er the Irish Sea,
Their hearts are true to Róisín Dúð
Young Ireland's Cailíni !
Her brave, bright Cailíní !
Their hearts are true to Róisín Dúo
Young Ireland's Cailíní,

Though some to seek the stranger's gold

Across the ocean go,
Where joys are few , where hearts are cold,
To earn a wage of woe.
O, we have hope for Ireland yet,
When by her side we see,
To love her still, through good and ill ,
Her faithful Cailíní !
Her peerless Cailíní !
Whate'er befall, God guard them all,
Young Ireland's Cailíní !

Prince Ping - Pong .

An Address delivered at a recent Conference of the

Seóinín Maids of Eireann.

is hard to speak, to raise aloft our wail of lamentation ,

For he is gone whose power was great, whose smile
was bright and bland,
The Prince - elect of the royal house of high -cla -as Imitation,
The hope, the light , the idol, of the Seóinín race and land.
 61

Tho' hunted down and tracked to death, by vulgar, base

Gaeilgeoirí,
Who spared him not when he was weak, and they were
fierce and strong ;
His brief, but glorious life shall be a theme for song and
story,
And none shall ever equal him , our dawling Prince
Ping -Pong.
Oh , when we pawned our hockey - sticks, to win his tender
glances,
And when we ran to wait on him at every beck and call,
When he was seen at all our shows, bazaars, At-Homes, and
dances ,
We little thought his light would fade, his gilded throne
would fall.

O, when he came amongst us first, we kissed him and

caressed him,
Along his path , where'er he went, the brightest flowers
we laid ;
In every classy tint and shade, with loving hands we
dressed him ,
He was indeed the Fairy Prince of every Seóinín Maid .
His name was music to our ears, we loved to hear it spoken,
It mingled with our waking thoughts and with our dreams
by night,
And over every Seóinin heart it held a charm unbroken ,
And over every Seóinin home it shed a dazzling light.
We talked of him , we sang of him, we fondled, and we
feted him,
We thought of nothing else but him , by morning , night,
and noon .
To every joy of tony , toffy, classy life we treated him ,
For sake of him we jilted golf, and turned away the coon.
Alas ! alas ! one dismal day , we saw the clouds appearing,
When came that nasty Gaelic tribe, to tear him from
our arms ,
From dawn till dark, on every side , we heard their voices
jeering,
Reviling him , our dawling Prince, and scoffing at his
charms.
 62

We heard them cry : ' Tá spiorad na Gaedilge beo, ar

fud na tíre,
Tå scannrad ar na Seóinínið, tá Golf a' dul ar gcúl,
Déid Ping - Pong mard sul a ofad , in ár dtirin dútċas
éire,
'Tá Clann -na-nGaedeal ag eirge suas, ' tá an obair
ceart ar siuval. '

We saw him fade before our eyes, our noses red with
weeping,
While base Gaedilgeoiri leered at him , and cried ' go
otéid tú slán ,'
And still his wailing in our ears , a ceaseless din is keeping,
‘ O, why was I not called Camóg, or even plain Caman ? '
And then one day, while scoffers laughed in joy and
jubilation,
He closed his eyes, and softly murmured “ Good - bye,
Dolly Grey ,"
And the Prince-elect of the royal house of high-class
Imitation,
Receded from the Seóinín land, and wandered far away.

A Mother's Lament .
After '98 .
(Air- " The Croppy Boy .” )

Guacaill mo įroide, on the mountain side,

A You are lying to -night --but not alone,
For round you are gathered the men who died
And left us lonely, ocón , ocón !
Your father fell at our cabin door,
I fled in fear from the brutal Yeos ;
And you were gone with the rest, a stór,
Where Eire called you to meet her foes.
And you fought - they told me-as heroes fight,
Who feel and know that their Cause is just ;
And many a Sasanach pale with fright,
You paid full well for his greed and lust.
 63

Sleep well , you're weary , a múirnin o ,

Your young heart's blood has not flowed in vain ;
The high and haughty shall yet be low ,
The land you loved shall be free again .
a Buaćaill mo choide, when I hear them tell ,
Of Yeomen routed and battles won ;
When tears are shed for the ones who fell,
'Tis I will be proud of my noble son.

The Awakening of Banba.

Scene—A Room in a Peasant's Cottage.

Time-Present Day .

Enter, Sean -Bean .

Sean -Bean :
WANDERED down thro ' the glen to- day and my heart was
sad and sore,
It was filled with sorrow and racked with grief for the
times that will come no more ;
'Tis foolish I know to be mourning so , but I cannot check the
tears
That will fall like rain when my thoughts again go back over
all the years
Over all the paths that the Gael have trod in their flight to a
lowly state,
Where they, the children of men free -born , on masters , like
slavelings, wait ;
Where all they do is an empty mock , degrading and mean and
base,
Where they cringe and whine and lick the feet of a soulless
and alien race.

They curse their lot, but they eat the crumbs that fall from the
conqueror's board ,
While away in the lonely halls of the Past the treasures they've
lost are stored ;
And they make no effort to bring them forth , they but weep
and kiss their chains,
They toil in the bogs while the stranger thrives at ease on the
rich green plains ;
 64
Or they fly like birds from the sportsman's gun and rush over
land and sea
Away from the home for whose sake men died in the effort to
make her free;
she sits by the dark sea, sad and lone, and silently sees
And th
em go ,
With wethe rusty chains on her weary limbs that weaker and
aker grow .

They have lost their games, they have lost their songs, every
link they've burst in twain
That would bind them fast to a noble past and help them to
rise again ;
Their hearts are cold as the driven snow , their spirits are racked
and torn
On the sluggish tide of the Saxon Mind like helpless waifs
they're borne ;
They have lost the path their fathers trod, and in fear they
stu mble on ;
The power to do, and dare, and think , and to speak like Men
is gone !
O, woe for the day that they flung away their Language pure
and grand
For the tongue that brought them the barren mind , and has
left them the feeble hand !
In that fatal hour their souls went forth , and now they are cold
and dead
O, a Banba, a Banba, mo Bron ! mo drón ! 'tis no wonder
you droop your head.
Enter, Cailín óg.
Cailín óg :
Mother, I heard you weeping as I came to the door just now ;
And the tear is upon your burning cheek and the frown is upon
your brow ;
And I heard you speak of Banda , too-of her children base
and cold
But all are not dead, nor all have not gone to the quest for the
tempter, Gold .
There are many , I know , who have turned away–who are slaves
in their native land
But she still can count on the faithful heart and the strong
and generous hand !
 65

She is notdead - she has never died-she has only slept awhile,
And her heart is throbbing with joy to-day and bright is her
beaming smile ;
And she'll yet be free as the rushing sea that washes her sunlit
shore !
Oh, mother, there's hope for our Banba yet — her sorrows are
nearly o'er.
Sean -Bean :

'Tis easy, child, to be talking so when the heart is young and

bright,
And fraught with joy like a summer morn that scorns the
shades of night.
You know not yet what your land has lost ; some day you will
know too well,
When a rude false world shall with taunt and sneer make the
heart in your bosom swell
With anger and shame for the lowly name that your Banba
is forced to wear
Ah ! the day is past of the stalwart arms and the hearts that
would do and dare !
When you call her a Nation you only jest — a Nation, with
alien speech,
And all that would merit that noble name for ever beyond her
reach !
Language and manners and customs gone, and the games that
were once her pride
No longer honoured, no longer played, but scorned, unknown,
decried !

From frozen lips you will hear “ Good -day " instead of the
kindly prayers
That used to rise from their hearts to God when the Tongue
of the Gael was theirs ;
And where is the Céilíd with all its charms ? 'tis only a
passing dream
A shadowy vision of happier days that is mirrored in Memory's
stream !
And where is the hurling that used to be ? No longer the
stout caman
Is held in the grasp of health and strength on mountainside
and lawn ;
 66

And where are the customs quaint and old ? Need I say that
they all are gone !
But the Saxon tongue, and the Saxon songs, and the Saxon
mind live on !
mo léun, mo léun , for the brighter days that never again
shall dawn !
Oh , weep with me for our fallen Queen , weep, weep, a leino
Báin .
Cailín óg :
Mother, spare your tears of sorrow , do not weep for Banda's
sake ;
Long has been her night of waiting, but her sons are now awake,
And her daughters, too, have hearkened to their loving mother's
call
One by one , to - day — for ever — from her limbs the shackles fall.
Hear the story, 'tis a grand one, it will fill your heart with pride,
It will show that Banda's spirit, often crushed , has never died :
When her soul seemed gone for ever, when she seemed for ever
lost,
Like a wreck upon the ocean , bentand broken, tempest -tossed ;
From the heedless sleeping millions, rose a few with hearts of
gold ,
And with plans that seemed but madness to upraise her as ofold ;
Toiled they on, when toil seemed fruitless, never faltering never
tired,
Every heart a fount of courage, every soul by love inspired ;
After years of patient labour others came and joined them , too,
And there marched a noble army where before had toiled the
few .

Sneer and scoff and coldness met ther , but their hearts knew
nought of fear,
And the fruits of all their patience, all their labours, now are
here.
For the Tongue so long derided, trampled down, and crushed
with scorn,
Throbs to - day with life and vigour like a spirit newly -born.
'Tis driving out the Saxon mind , with all its evil train,
Sending hope and courage bounding thro ' each Irish breast
again ;
It is raised for Right and Justice like a bright avenging sword,
And is sweeping on undaunted to where Banda's wealth is stored .
 67

And before its onward striding, trembling fões in terror flee;

By its side stands every factor that would make a nation free,
And those treasures, long unheeded, it shall once again restore
All the glory of past ages, all the long-forgotten lore
Native song and native music, nativemanners, customs, games
All that we have lost or shattered, all a suffering motherclaims !
Even now that mighty storehouse, treasure-filled, is open wide ;
Even now from out its portals long -forgotten mortals glide,
Bearing riches for our Banda - riches meet for any queen
Mother, she will be the fairest that the earth has ever seen !
She has scholars great and learned, she has toilers many a one,
She has warriors, if she needs them, who would make the Saxon
run :

Soon she'll count a host of hurlers from the Lagan to the Lee
Who would sweep the power of Britain o'er her borders to the
sea,
Mother gráo geal ! cease thy mourning, Banba's children
do not sleep,
They have wakened - they are toiling—and a sacred vigil keep :
They will kneel no more as suppliants, they will be no longer
slaves
They will weep no more like children over noble-memoried
graves ;
For they stand on Freedom's highway : “ ALL FOR Banda !”
is their cry ;
They have left the night behind them—and the dawn is in the
sky !
Sean -Bean :

Glóir do dia for that same story !

A thousand blessings be on His Name
Who is giving us back our country's glory,
Her old-time power and her old-time fame !
O, my heart is throbbing with new -found gladness,
And joy that I thought it would never know
Gone is the weary, unceasing sadness
That it felt for the Queen who had fallen low :
God guard you, a Leino, from every harm,
For the tale you've told of the land awake
And may He strengthen each heart and arm
That would toil and strive for our Banba's sake.
 68

cailín óg :
And Mother , Gráo geal, as with you so is it with our Queen
Her blood runs high with new -found life, her heart has lost its
caoin ;
Tho' cravens fly, or kneel as slaves, the true will still fight on
Till they have found the Wealth they've lost, till Freedom's
goal is won.
Come, clasp my hand, let Youth and Age to-day united stand
To raise once more in pride and strength, our queen, our love,
our Land !

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22.1987
23720.1.26
The voice of Banba ;
003567613
Widener Library

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