political party. O'Hagan wrote, 'Beloved and honoured,' as his friend With a sphere Of proud exertion widening near, In manhood's power and might arrayed, Not dying, as he yearned to die, How strange to man are God's decrees! Davis's prose writings were edited in 1845 by C. G. Duffy, and in 1889 an enlarged edition was brought out by Walter Scott, London. His poems have been collected and edited by T. Wallis, with an excellent introduction (James Duffy, Dublin). His Life has been written by Sir Charles Gavan Duffy (Kegan Paul). CELTS AND SAXONS WE hate the Saxon and the Dane, We hate the Norman men We cursed their greed for blood and gain, We curse them now again. Yet start not, Irish-born man! If you're to Ireland true, We heed not blood, nor creed, nor clan We have no curse for you. We have no curse for you or yours, To stand by you against all foes, Howe'er or whence they come, What matter that at different shrines What matter that at different times Our fathers won this sod? In fortune and in name we're bound As Nubian rocks and Ethiop sand, Yet joined their wisdom and their fame To build a nation from. Here came the brown Phoenician, And the Firbolg and the Cyniry, And oh it were a gallant deed As, filled by many a rivulet, The stately Shannon flows. Nor would we wreak our ancient feud On Belgian or on Dane, Nor visit in a hostile mood The hearths of Gaul or Spain; But long as on our country lies And God's revenge invoke. We do not hate, we never cursed, If you're to Ireland true, We heed not race, nor creed, nor clan We've hearts and hands for you. 1 LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF EOGHAN RUADH O'NEILL 1 Time.-November 10, 1649. Scene. -Ormond's Camp, County Waterford. Speakers. A veteran of Eoghan O'Neill's clan, and one of the horsemen, just arrived with an account of his death. 'DID they dare-did they dare, to slay Owen Roe O'Neill?' 'Yes, they slew with poison him they feared to meet with steel.' * May God wither up their hearts! May their blood cease to flow! May they walk in living death who poisoned Owen Roe! 'Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter words.' 'Wail, wail ye for the Mighty One! Wail, wail, ye for the Dead! 'Sagest in the council was he, kindest in the hall: Commonly called Owen Roe O'Neill. The Life of this great general and noble Irishman has been admirably written for the New Irish Library' by Mr. J. F. Taylor, Q.C. (Fisher Unwin). 2 This is an anachronism. Poison was freely employed against the Irish in Elizabethan but not in Cromwellian times. Yet the suspicion lives among the people even to the present day--witness the street-ballad By Memory Inspired,' Book I. Clough Oughter. 'O'Farrell and Clanrickarde, Preston and Red Hugh, 'Wail, wail him through the island! Weep, weep for our pride! 'We thought you would not die-we were sure you would not go, 'Soft as woman's was your voice, O'Neill! Bright was your eye. This was the last poem written by Thomas Davis. As a specimen of his power in a narrative poem it seems far superior to his perhaps better-known ballad on Fontenoy. Miss Mitford in her MEMOIRS wrote of it: Not only is it full of spirit and melody. but the artistic merit is so great. There is no careless line or a word out of place; and how the epithets paint-" fibrous sod," "heavy balm," "shearing sword"!' THE summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's hundred isles; Baltimore is a small seaport in the barony of Carbery, in South Munster. It grew up round a ' astle of O'Driscoll's, and was, after his ruin, colonised by the English. On June 20, 1631, the crew of two Algerine galleys landed in the dead of the night, sacked the town, and bore off into slavery all who were not too old or too young or too fierce for their purpose. The pirates were steered up the intricate channel by one Hackett, a Dungarvan fisherman, whom they had taken at sea for the purpose. Two years after he was convicted and executed for the crime. Baltimore never recovered this. To the artist, the antiquary, and the naturalist, its neighbourhood is most interesting. (See THE ANCIENT AND PRESent State of THE COUNTY AND CITY OF CORK, by Charles Smith, M.D.) Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird; A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there; The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm. So still the night, these two long barques round Dunashad that glide Must trust their oars-methinks not few-against the ebbing tide. Oh! some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore! All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street, dame And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleaming sabre's fall, Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing sword; Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gored; Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand-babes clutching wild; Then fled the maiden, moaning faint, and nestled with the child. But see, yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed with splashing heel, While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steel-Though virtue sink and courage fail, and misers yield their store, There's one hearth well avengéd in the sack of Baltimore ! |