Category Archives: Other

Am I Remembered in Erin? by Thomas D’Arcy McGee

Am I remembered in Erin?
I charge you, speak me true!
Has my name a sound – a meaning,
In the scenes my boyhood knew?
Does the heart of the Mother ever
Recall her exile’s name?
For to be forgot in Erin,
And on earth, were all the same.

Oh, Mother! Mother Erin!
Many sons your age hath seen –
Many gifted constant lovers
Since your mantle first was green;
Then how in may I hope to cherish
The dream that I could be
In your crowded memory number’d
With that palm-crowned company?

Yet faint and far, my Mother!
As the hope shines on my sight,
I cannot choose but watch it
Till my eyes have lost their light;
For never among your brightest
And never among your best,
Was heart more true to Erin
Than beats within my breast.

Written by Thomas D’Arcy McGee.

Jean le Rat

TILL eighteen seventy-seven or eight-
I’m never exact as regards a date-
A cobbler sat on his bench all day,
And rapped, and cobbled, and stitched away
At the foot of the old West Gate,
In state–

Poor waxy Jean le Rat!

His eye was bright with the light of fight,
As he welted and heeled from morn till night,
And almost the only words he’d say
Were “Garratt-ow-dat” as he hammered away
At the foot of the old West Gate,
till late –

Laconic Jean le Rat.

Now school-boys might, when the days were bright,
And summer’s exams not quite in sight,
Have kinder been to poor old Jack,
As he waxed wax-end or drove a tack,
As he sat at the old West Gate,
Irate-

Forgive us, Jean le Rat!

But Jean Ie Rat was a testy cuss,
And he told us to go be blowed, or wuss.
As he drove a peg, or drank a few
With Con Soho and a friend or two,
At the foot of the old West Gate,
Elate

At times was Jean le Rat.

But when one day in his cellar he lay,
Where the sun endeavoured his swiftest ray,
He turned up his eyes to the distant skies.
“I’ve stuck to my last,” to Heaven he cries,
And then, at the old West Gate,
Kind fate l

Took poor old Jean le Rat.

Likewise, if we, when our task is done,
When the field is fought and the fight is won,
With poor old Jack as humbly cry,
“Twas ours to work, ’tis ours to die,”
In trust at the Golden Gate
We’ll wait

Along with Jean le Rat.

Written by C. J. Boland.

Lament of the Irish Maiden

On Carrigdhoun the heath is brown,
The clouds are dark o’er Ardnalee,
And many a stream comes rushing down
To swell the angry Ownabwee ;
The moaing blast is sweeping fast
Through many a leafless tree,
And I’m alone, for he is gone,
My hawk has flown, ochone, machree!

The heath was green on Carrigdhoun,
Bright shone the sun on Ardnalee,
The dark green trees bent trembling down
To kiss the slumbering Ownabwee;
That happy day, ’twas but last May,
‘Tis like a dream to me,
When Donnell swore, ay, o’er and o’er,
We’d part no more, astor machree!

Soft April showers and bright May flowers
Will bring the summer back again,
But will they bring me back the hours
I spent with my brave Donnell then?
‘Tis but a chance, for he’s gone to France,
To wear the fleur-de-lys;
But I’ll follow you my Donnell Dhu,
For still I’m true to you, machree.

Lament of the Irish Maiden by Denny Lane.

Kearney’s Queue

AT the Main Guard there’s a dram-shop
And a woollen-draper’s too,
Whilst overhead there stands a dumb clock,
All since Kearney lost his queue.

Round by Tommy Murphy’s brewery,
Where old Kearney lost his queue,
Rig a dig a dig dum, dig dum dairee,
Rig a dig dum dig dum dee.

Kearney’s maid went to the market
To get some meat to make a stew,
She spied a pigtail in a basket,
And cried out, That’s the master’s queue.

Round by Tommy Murphy’s brewery,
Where old Kearney lost his queue,
Rig a dig a dig dum, dig dum dairee,
Rig a dig dum dig dum dee.

The Whisky Club went round the town
To see, and try what they could do
To raise the wind and get near blind,
Looking for Mick Kearney’s queue.

Round by Tommy Murphy’s brewery,
Where old Kearney lost his queue,
Rig a dig a dig dum, dig dum dairee,
Rig a dig dum dig dum dee.

The Club went then to Billy Stiff’s (1) shop,
His window and his wares to view;
In vain they searched but couldn’t find out
Any trace of Kearney’s queue.

Round by Tommy Murphy’s brewery,
Where old Kearney lost his queue,
Rig a dig a dig dum, dig dum dairee,
Rig a dig dum dig dum dee.

(1) Stiff, called Stiffe, was then a barber at Clonmel.

Billy Stiff went to Major Chaytor
To complain the motley crew;
The Mayor, he said he’d send James White
And Allen in search of Kearney’s queue.

Round by Tommy Murphy’s brewery,
Where old Kearney lost his queue,
Rig a dig a dig dum, dig dum dairee,
Rig a dig dum dig dum dee.

The Club went then to Mr. Butler’s,
A conscientious man ’tis true,
They would not hang a man but one,
And that the one who stole Mick Kearney’s queue.

Round by Tommy Murphy’s brewery,
Where old Kearney lost his queue,
Rig a dig a dig dum, dig dum dairee,
Rig a dig dum dig dum dee.

The Club men then went down the quay
The gas house chimney for to view,
And saw Mick Kearney under the bridge, sir,
Seeking for his lovely queue.

Round by Tommy Murphy’s brewery,
Where old Kearney lost his queue,
Rig a dig a dig dum, dig dum dairee,
Rig a dig dum dig dum dee.

Great news, my boys, to cheer us all,
I now transmit to you,
For coming home is the great Glengall
To seek for Kearney’s queue.

Round by Tommy Murphy’s brewery,
Where old Kearney lost his queue,

Rig a dig a dig dum, dig dum dairee,
Rig a dig dum dig dum dee.

Aby Grubb he built a new house,
Henry Pedder built one too,
Grier and Murghy built a brewery
All since Kearney lost his queue

Round by Tommy Murphy’s brewery,
Where old Kearney lost his queue,
Rig a dig a dig dum, dig dum dairee,
Rig a dig dum dig dum dee.

Anthony Whitton’s as yellow as bacon,
Tommy Taylor says, This will not do,
And Billy Oakley stopped his preaching
Since old Kearney lost his queue.

Round by Tommy Murphy’s brewery,
Where old Kearney lost his queue,
Rig a dig a dig dum, dig dum dairee,
Rig a dig dum dig dum dee.

The Dead Antiquary O’Donovan by Thomas D’Arcy McGee

He toiled to make our story stand,
As from Time’s reverent, runic hand –
It came, undecked
By fancies false; erect, alone,
the monumental arctic stone
Of ages wrecked.

Truth was his solitary test,
His star, his chart, his east, his west ;
Nor is there aught
In text, in ocean, or in mine,
Of greater worth, or more divine
Than this he sought.

With gentle hand he rectified
The errors of old bardic pride,
And set aright
The story of our devious past,
And left it, as it now must last,
Full in the light.

The Dead Antiquary O’Donovan by Thomas D’Arcy McGee.

Saoirse

Raghaidh mé síos i measc na ndaoine
De shiúl mo chos
Is raghaidh mé. síos anocht.

Raghaidh mé síos ag lorg daoirse
Ón mbinibshaoirse
Tá ag liú anseo:

Is ceanglód an chonairt smaointe
Tá ag, drannadh im thimpeall
San uaigneas:

Is loirgeod an teampall rialta
Bhionn lán de dhaoine
Ag am fé leith:

Is loirgeod comhluadar daoine
Nár chleacht riamh saoirse,
Ná uaigneas:
Is éistfead leis na scillingsmaointe,
A malartaítear
Mar airgead:

Is bhféarfad gean mo chroí do dhaoine
Nár samhlaidh riamh leo
Ach macsmaointe.

Ó fanfad libh de ló is d’oiche,
Is beidh mé íseal,
Is beidh mé dílis,
D’bhur snabsmaointe.

Mar do chuala iad ag fás im intinn,
Ag fás gan chuimse,
Gan mheasarthacht.

Is do thugas gean mo chroí go fíochmhar
Don rud tá srianta,
Don gach macrud:

Don smacht, don reacht, don teampall daoineach,
Don bhfocal bocht coitianta
Don am fé leith:

Don ab, don chlog, don seirbhiseach
Don chomparáid fhaitíosach,
Don bheaguchtach:

Don luch, don tomhas, don dreancaid bhideach,
Don chaibidil, don líne
Don aibítir:

Don mhórgacht imeachta is tíochta,
Don chearrbhachas istoíche,
Don bheannachtain:

Don bhfeirmeoir ag tomhas na gaoithe
Sa bhfómhar is é ag cuirnhneamh
Ar pháirc eornan:

Don chomhthuiscint, don chomh-sheanchuimhne,
Do chomhiompar comhdhaoine,
Don chomh-mhacrud

Is bheirim fuath anois is choíche
Do imeachtaí na saoirse,
Don neamhspleáchas.

Is atuirseach an intinn
A thit in iomar doimhin na saoirse,
Ní mhaireann cnoc dar chruthaigh Dia ann,
Ach cnoic theibi, sainchnoic shamhlaíochta.
Is bíonn gach cnoc díobh lán de mhianta
Ag dreapadóireacht gan chomhlíonadh,
Nil teora leis an saoirse
Ná le cnoca na samhlaíochta,
Ná níl teora leis na mianta,
Ná faoiseamh
Le fail.

Written by Seán O’Riordáin.

Liberty by Seán O’Riordáin

I will go down amongst the people
on foot
and I will go down tonight

I will go down seeking bondage
from the venom liberty
that howls here:

and I will tie the pack of thoughts
that snarl around me
in the solitude:

And I will seek an ordered temple
where people congregate
at a set time;

And I will seek out people
who never practised liberty
or solitude:

And I will listen to the shilling thoughts
that are exchanged
like money:

And I will give the love of my heart to people
who never imagined
other than second hand.

Oh, I will remain with you day and night,
And I will be lowly
And I will be faithful
to your stub-thoughts.

Because I heard them grow in my mind,
grow without control,
without moderation.

And I gave them my heart’s love fiercely
to the thing that is bridled,
to every copied thing:

To discipline, to law, to the peopled temple,
To the poor and commonplace word,
to the set time:

To the abbott, the bell, the servant,
to the hesitant comparison,
to cowardice:

To the mouse, to measurement, to the tiny flea,
to the chapter and the line
of the alphabet:

To the majesty of going and coming,
to gambling at night,
to salutations:

To the farmer measuring the wind
in the autumn as he thinks
of a field of barley:

To co-understanding, to co-tradition
to co-behaviour of co-people,
to the co-copied thing.

And I bestow my hatred now and forever
on the doings of liberty
on independence

Weary is the mind
that has fallen in the deep trough of liberty,
no hill erected by God exists there,
only abstract hills, the particular hills of the imagination,
and each hill is full of desires
climbing, unfulfilled,
liberty is without limit,
so are the hills of the imagination
the desires are unlimited,
and there exists
no release.

Written by Seán O’Riordáin.

Remembrance by Emily Bronte

Cold in the earth – and the deep snow above thee,
Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!
Have I forgot, my only love, to love thee,
Severed at last by Time’s all-severing wave?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover
Over the mountains, on that northern shore,
Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover
Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?

Cold in the earth-and fifteen wild Decembers,
From these brown hills, have melted into spring,
Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers
After such years of change and suffering!

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,
While the world’s tide is bearing me along;
Other desires and other hopes beset me,
Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong.

No later light has lighted up my heaven,
No second morn has ever shone for me;
All my life’s bliss from thy dear life was given,
All my life’s bliss is in the grave with thee.

But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,
And even Despair was powerless to destroy;
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
Strengthened and fed without the aid of joy.
Then did I check the tears of useless passion

Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten,
Down to that tomb already more than mine.

‘And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,
Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain;
Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish
How could I seek the empty world again?

Remembrance by Emily Bronte.

The Irish Widow’s Message to Her Son in America

“Remember, Denis, all I bade you say,
Tell him we’re well and happy, thank the Lord!
But of all our troubles since he went away,
You’ll mind, avic, and never say a word, –
Of cares and troubles sure we’ve had all our share,
The finest summer isn’t always fair.

“Tell him the spotted heifer calved in May, –
She died, poor thing, but that you needn’t mind –
Now how the constant rain destroyed the hay;
But tell him, God to us was always kind,
And when the fever spread the country o’er.
His mercy kept the sickness from the door.

“Be sure you tell him how the neighbours came
And cut the corn and stored it in the barn;
‘Twould be as well to mention them by name –
Pat Murphy, Ned McCabe, and James McCarn,
And big Tim Daly from behind the hill –
But say, agra, Oh, say, I miss him still!

“They came with ready hands our toil to share –
‘Twas then I missed him most my own right hand!
I felt, although kind hearts were round me there,
The kindest heart beat in a foreign land.
Strong arm! Brave heart! Oh, severed far from me
By many a weary mile of shore and sea!

“You’ll tell him she was with us (he’ll know who),
Mavourneen! Hasn’t she winsome eyes?
The darkest, deepest, brightest, bonniest blue
That ever shone, except in summer skies;
And such black hair! – it is the blackest hair
That ever rippled o’er a neck so fair.

“tell him that Pincher fretted many a day –
Ah, poor old fellow, he had like to die!
Crouched by the roadside, how he watched the way,
And sniffed the travellers as they passed him by.
Hail, rain and sunshine, sure, ’twas all the same,
he listened for the foot that never came.

“Tell him the house is lonesome-like and cold,
The fire itself seems robbed of half its light;
but maybe ’tis my eyes are growing old,
And things grow dim before my failing sight;
For all that, tell him, ’twas myself that spun
The shirts you bring, and stitched them every one.

“Give him my blessing : morning, noon and night,
Tell him my prayers are offered for his good,
That he may keep his maker still in sight,
And firmly stand as his brave fathers stood,
True to his name, his country and his God,
Faithful at home and steadfast still abroad.

Ode: We Are the Music Makers by Arthur O’Shaughnessy

We are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams;
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems

With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world’s great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire’s glory.
One man with a dream of pleasure
Shall go forth and conquer a crown,
And three with a new song’s measure
Can trample and empire down.

We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth,
Built Ninevah with our sighing,
And Bable itself with our mirth;
And o’erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world’s worth;
For each age is a dream that it dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.

Ode: We Are the Music Makers by Arthur O’Shaughnessy.