Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2016 https://archive.org/details/balladhistoryofiOOmach SHRINE OF ST. PATRICK’S BELL A BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND ARRANGED AND ANNOTATED BY REV. JOHN MACHALE 1906 UNIVERSE PUBLISHING COMPANY CLEVELAND ®OSTON COLLEGE LIBRARY CHESTNUT HILL, MASS. TR.8 8 fcO LIST OF BALLADS Erin Dr. Drennan The Celts T. D. M’Gee Song of Innisfail T. Moore Peccatum Peccavit Aubrey De Vere Deirdre’s Lament for the Sons of Usnacfi Samuel Ferguson The Death of King Connor Mac Nessa. . .Sullivan The Burial of King Cormac. . . .Samuel Ferguson The Expedition and Death of King Dathy James C. Mangan A Legend of St. Patrick T. D. M’Gee St. Patrick and the Bard Aubrey De Vere The Pillar Towers of Ireland. . . .D. F. McCarthy St. Brigid of the Legends Aubrey De Vere St. Brigid of the Convents Aubrey De Vere St. Columbkille’s Farewell to the Isle of Arran, on Setting Sail for Iona Aubrey De Vere Prince Alfrid’s Itinerary Through Ireland James C. Mangan The “Wisdom-Sellers” Before Charlemagne T. D. M’Gee .King Brian Before the Battle Wm. Kenealy War Song T. Moore The Geraldines Thomas Davis Statute of Kilkenny Aubrey De Vere Battle of Credan Edward Walsh The Battle of Lough Swilly .Anon Holy Cross Abbey D. Simmons The Life and Death of Art Mac Murrogh William P. Mulchinock The Siege of Maynooth James C. Mangan The O’Neill Anon The Battle of Beal-an-Atha-Buidh. ..Dr. Drennan Page 7 9 11 12 i3 16 21 26 29 32 35 39 40 4 1 43 46 50 54 56 60 61 64 74 76 79 84 88 LIST OF BALLADS The Muster of the North C. Gavan Duffy Lament for the Death of Eoghan Ruadh O’Neill Thomas Davis The Battle of the Boyne Colonel Blacker The Battle of Limerick Thomas Davis A Ballad of Sarsfield Aubrey De Vere The Blacksmith of Limerick R. D. Joyce A Ballad of Athlone Aubrey De Vere The Treaty Stone of Limerick Anon A Song of the Brigade Aubrey De Vere The Wild Geese Dr. Drennan Lament Over the Ruins of the Abbey Timoleague Samuel Ferguson The Penal Time John O’Hagan The Four Masters T. D. M’Gee The Irish Rapparees C. G. Duffy The Surprise of Cremona Thomas Davis Fontenoy Thomas Davis The Dungannon Convention Thomas Davis The Volunteers Anon Rory of the Hills Charles Kickham The Croppy Boy Carroll Malone The Memory of the Dead J. K. Ingram Emmet’s Death Anon She is Far From the Land Thomas Moore Lament for Grattan Thomas Moore Darrynane D. F. McCarthy Thomas Davis Samuel Ferguson Father Mathew ‘ Anon The Famine Year Lady Wilde The Celtic Tongue Rev. M. Mullen The Irish Emigrant’s Mother. . . .D. F. McCarthy The Soggarth Aroon John Banim The Old Church at Lismore. . .Ellen M. Downing The Ancient Race Rev, M, F. Tormey Page 91 96 99 103 106 107 hi 113 116 116 118 122 128 131 134 136 140 142 145 148 150 151 152 154 156 159 162 164 167 171 177 179 182 FOREWORD It seems to be a truism that people of Irish race and name should have a sympathy with and some knowl- edge of the history of their ancestral land — of its glories and joys and sorrows: and I put forth this unpretentious little book in the hope that it may stimu- late an interest in a history which is well worth know- ing. Besides, the ballads being all of good literary quality, and suitable therefore for reading and declama- tion exercises, even apart from their historical worth, are calculated to help in the formation of a literary style and the cultivation of a literary taste. I might easily have made the book much larger than it is; but I have striven purposely to keep.it within a fixed limit. As to the selection of ballads, I have chosen those which most appealed to myself from the material at my disposal. This little book makes no pretension to be in any strict sense a history of Ireland. It is simply a pre- sentation in poetical form of some main incidents of Irish history arranged in chronological sequence. But I think it is perhaps the best way to impress upon youthful minds the main features of a history which in detail has always appeared to me difficult; perhaps because when I first began to make its acquaintance, the text-book that was put into my hands was over- crowded with names and incidents. That seems to be a defect of most so-called popular histories of Ire- land ; the one exception being Sullivan's Story of Ire- land , which is written in a fascinating style. Although it touches only the main points, it extends to some 600 solid pages, which in itself is enough to deter a timid reader from undertaking its perusal. It seems to me that a well-written ballad giving a vivid de- scription of some thrilling incident impresses itself upon the mind much as a picture does ; and as anyone studying, say, the pictorial representation of the Sta- tions of the Cross cannot help realizing the sufferings of Our Lord in His Passion and Death, or any one studying, say, the famous series of the French artist Le Sueur on the life of St. Bruno cannot help being familiar with the main features of that holy man's life; so any one reading carefully these ballad poems, can- not but have a good general idea of the course of Irish history. John Mac Hale. A Ballad History of Ireland We are told in the history of ancient Greece that the Spartans, being at war with the Messenians and not having of their own a capable general, asked the Athenians to lend them the services of a commander. The Athenians agreed to help them, but to the great disgust of the Spartans sent a lame poet named Tyrtaeus. He, however, by his battle songs so aroused the martial ardour of his soldiers that they carried all before them. And indeed, from the rude war song of the savage to the most perfect of national anthems, there is something in song that goes down to the very depths of our nature and stirs up the most ardent en- thusiasm. If you have ever heard the Marseillaise, or the Wacht am Rhein, or the Rantz des Vaches, or God Save Ireland, or the Star Spangled Banner sung by a multitude to whom the sentiment appealed, you can realize the wonderful power of music and song over the minds and hearts of men. The canny old Scotchman, Fletcher, of Saltoun, knew this truth so well that he gave utterance to the aphor- ism : “Give me the making of a nation's songs and I care not who makes her laws." If every nation has its bards and chroniclers, there is no nation in which the bard held higher place than Ireland, and in which the tones of the harp and the fiery words of song narrated the great doings of the past and spurred men on to emulate the glorious deeds of their ancestry. The bard, after the chieftain, was 6 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND held in highest esteem ; the Arch-bard Dubtach was the most influential convert of St. Patrick at Tara; and when in after days the bardic order had fallen into dis- repute and was about to be disbanded forever, St. Columba, of Iona, who was a poet himself, was so per- suaded of its usefulness that he pleaded successfully at the Synod of Drumceat for its preservation. When the Anglo-Normans, who invaded Ireland under Earl Strongbow in the reign of Henry II., of England, be- came in time more Irish than the Irish themselves, each great chieftain had his bard as in the olden times ; and when all that was Irish was banned by penal laws, still the wandering poet or harper was a most welcome visitor to the impoverished homes of gentle and simple. No wonder, then, that when the era of penal law was passing away the sweet voice of the singer was again everywhere heard, oftentimes in the grand old tongue of the Celt, but still more frequently in the tongue of the stranger which, during the centuries of conflict, had fastened itself upon Erin for weal or for woe. The history of Ireland is a wonderful blending of lights and shadows, of glories and sorrows, of battles lost and battles won, of great works achieved and great afflictions borne for God, for country and for fellow men. Not a phase of this history but has been lov- ingly depicted by the modern bard; and the object of this ballad history is to stimulate interest in the his- tory of what for many of us is our ancestral land, by putting before us in ringing verse a glowing picture of many chief events of by-gone days in a fairly chronological order, and so giving in a most pleasing BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 7 way a good idea of the course of Irish history. I may add that by a ballad I mean a short narrative poem made to be either recited or sung. And, first, as to the geographical position of Ireland, you all know that it lies to the west of Great Britain, on the highway from Europe to America. It is a very beautiful island with glorious hills and delightful val- leys, and owing to the constant moisture the grass of Ireland is always so green that the country is fre- quently and very justly called the Emerald Island. It lies between 51 and 56 degrees north latitude, and 5 and 1 1 degrees west longitude, and comprises about 32,500 square miles. Heremon, who was the high king and ruled from Tara in Meath, divided the rest of Ireland into Ulster in the north, Connaught in the west, Mun- ster in the south and Leinster in the east, and appointed kings for each province. ERIN. When Erin first rose from the dark swelling flood, God bless'd the green island, and saw it was good ; The em’rald of Europe, it sparkled and shone, In the ring of the world, the most precious stone. In her sun, in her soil, in her station thrice blest, With her back towards Britain, her face to the West Erin stands proudly insular, on her steep shore, And strikes her high harp 'mid the ocean's deep roar, But when its soft tones seem to mourn and to weep, The dark chain of silence is thrown o'er the deep ; At the thought of the past the tears gush from her eyes, And the pulse of her heart makes her white bosom rise. 8 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND O ! sons of green Erin, lament o’er the time, When religion was war, and our country a crime, When man, in God’s image, inverted his plan, And moulded his God in the image of man. When the int’rest of state wrought the general woe, The stranger a friend, and the native a foe ; While the mother rejoic’d o’er her children oppressed, And clasp’d the invader more close to her breast. When with pale for the body and pale for the soul, Church and state joined in compact to conquer the whole ; And as Shannon was stained with Milesian blood Ey’d each other askance and pronounced it was good. By the groans that ascend from your forefather’s grave, *" For their country thus left to the brute and the slave, Drive the Demon of Bigotry home to his den, And where Britain made brutes now let Erin make men. Let my sons like the leaves of the shamrock unite, A partition of sects from one foot-stalk of right, Give each his full share of the earth and the sky, Nor fatten the slave where the serpent would die. Alas ! for poor Erin that some are still seen, Who would dye the grass red from their hatred to green ; Yet, oh! when you’re up and they’re down, let them live, Then yield them that mercy which they would not give. Arm of Erin be strong ! but be gentle as brave ! And uplifted to strike, be still ready to save! Let no feeling of vengeance presume to defile The cause of, or men of, the Emerald Isle. The cause it is good, and the men they are true, And the green shall outlive both the Orange and Blue ! BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 9 And the triumphs of Erin her daughters shall share, With the full swelling chest, and the fair flowing hair. Their bosom heaves high for the worthy and brave; But no coward shall rest in that soft-swelling wave ; Men of Erin ! awake, and make haste to the blest, Rise — Arch of the Ocean, and Queen of the West! — Dr. Drennan. There is much of fanciful legend mixed up with the story of the original settlement of Ireland, although there is no nation of modern times whose authentic records reach so far back into the past. Partholanians, Nemedians, Firbolgs, Tuatha-de-Danaans and Mile- sians are said to have contributed in succession to the population of Ireland. The people of Ireland are in the main of Celtic blood, akin to the French, Spaniards, Welsh and Scotch. They are called Milesians from Milesius, supposed to have been king of a portion of the present Spain, whose wife, Queen Scota, came to Ireland with her sons, the chief of whom were Heber, Heremon and Amergin, who was a poet. The Celts and their advent to Ireland are thus described: THE CELTS. Long, long ago, beyond the misty space Of twice a thousand years, In Erin old, there dwelt a mighty race, Taller than Roman spears; Like oaks and towers they had a giant grace, Were fleet as deers, With winds and waves they made their ’biding place, These western shepherd seers. 10 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND Their Ocean-God was Man-a-nan, M’lir, Whose angry lips, In their white foam, full often would inter Whole fleets of ships ; Cromah, their Day-God, and their Thunderer Made morning and eclipse ; Bride was their queen of song, and unto her They prayed with fire-touched lips. Great were their deeds, their passions, and their sports : With clay and stone They piled on strath and shore those mystic forts, Not yet o’erthrown ; On cairn-crown’d hills they held their council-courts ; While youths alone, With giant dogs, explored the elk resorts, And brought them down. Of these was Fin, the father of the Bard, Whose ancient song Over the clamour of all change is heard, Sweet-voic’d and strong. Fin once o’ertook Grania the golden-hair ’d, The fleet and young; From her the lovely, and from him the fear’d, The primal poet sprung. Ossian, two thousand years of mist and change Surround thy name — Thy Fenian heroes now no longer range The hills of fame. The very name of Fin and Gaul sound strange— Yet thine the same — By miscalled lake and desecrated grange — Remains, and shall remain. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND n The Druid’s altar and the Druid’s creed We scarce can trace. There is not left an undisputed deed Of all your race. Save your majestic song, which hath their speed, And strength and grace ; In that sole song, they live and love, and bleed — It bears them on thro’ space. Oh, inspired giant ; shall we e’er behold, In our time, One fit to speak your spirit on the wold, Or seize your rhyme ? One pupil of the past, as mighty soul’d As in the prime, Were the fond, fair, and beautiful, and bold — They, of your song sublime! — r. D. M’Gee . SONG OF INNISFAIL. They came from a land beyond the sea, And now o’er the western main Set sail, in their good ships, gallantly, From the sunny land of Spain. “Oh, where’s the Isle we’ve seen in dreams. Our destin’d home or grave?” Thus sung they as, by the morning’s beams, They swept the Atlantic wave. And, lo, where afar o’er ocean shines A sparkle of radiant green, As though in that deep lay emerald mines, Whose light through the wave was seen, “ ’Tis Innisfail — ’tis Innisfail !” Rings o’er the echoing sea; 12 BALLAD HISTORY OB IRELAND While bending to heaven the warriors hail That home of the brave and free. Then turn’d they unto the Eastern wave, Where now their Day-God’s eye A look of such sunny omen gave As light’d up sea and sky, Nor frown was seen through sky or sea, Nor tear o’er leaf or sod, When first on their Isle of Destiny Our great forefathers trod. — T. Moore. As Romulus and Remus quarreled fatally over the founding of Rome, so did the sons of Scota over the division of Ireland. Heber fell in battle, slain by the sword of Heremon. PECCATUM PECCAVIT. Where is thy brother ? Heremon, speak ! Heber, the son of Milesius, where? The orphans’ wail and their mother’s shriek Forever they ring upon Banba’s * air ! And whose, oh, whose was the sword, Heremon, That smote Amergin, thy brother and bard? ’Twas the Fate of thy house or a mocking Demon That raised thy hand o’er his forehead scarr’d ! Woe, woe to Banba! That blood of brothers Wells up from her bosom renew’d each year; ’Twas hers the shriek — that desolate mother’s: — ’Twas Banba wept o’er that first red bier! The priest has warn’d, and the bard lamented : But warning and wailing her sons despised ; The head was sage, and the heart half-sainted ; But the sword-hand was evermore unbaptized ! — Aubrey De V ere. * Name for Ireland. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 13 Connor Mac Nessa, a scion of Milesian stock, ruled over the kingdom of Ulster in the days of our Blessed Lord. He is celebrated in Irish history for his con- nection with the sad fate of the children of Usnach, which is the theme of one of the most romantic and saddest of Irish legends. A beautiful girl, named Deirdre, whose birth, it was said, portended great in- jury to Ulster, was kept in strict seclusion by King Connor, who intended her as his own bride. The first man she ever saw was a noble and handsome youth named Naisi. Love, ill-fated, sprang up between them. With his two brothers they fled to Scotland and were happy for a time, but were lured back to Ireland by King Connor and Naisi and his brothers were foully murdered by the forces of the King after a heroic de- fence by their friends. The following ballad is the lament of the widowed Deirdre for her husband and his brothers, the ill-fated sons of Usnach : DEIRDRE’S LAMENT FOR THE SONS OF USNACH. The lions of the hill are gone And I am left alone — alone; Dig the grave both wide and deep, For I am sick, and fain would sleep ! The falcons of the wood are flown, And I am left alone : — alone ; Dig the grave both deep and wide, And let us slumber side by side. The dragons of the rock are sleeping, Sleep that wakes not for our weeping; 14 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND Dig the grave, and make it ready; Lay me on my true love’s body. Lay their spears and bucklers bright By the warriors’ sides aright; Many a day the three before me On their linked bucklers bore me. Lay upon the low grave floor, ’Neath each head, the blue claymore; Many a time the noble three Redden’d these blue blades for me. Lay the collars, as is meet, Of their greyhounds at their feet ; Many a time for me have they Brought the tall red deer to bay. In the falcon’s jesses throw Hook and arrow, line and bow ; Never again by stream or plain Shall the gentle woodsmen go. Sweet companions ye were ever — Harsh to me, your sister, never ; Woods and wilds and misty valleys Were, with you, as good’s a palace. Oh ! to hear my true love singing, Sweet as sound of trumpets ringing; Like the sway of ocean swelling Roll’d his deep voice round our dwelling. Oh ! to hear the echoes pealing Round our green and fairy sheeling, When the three, with soaring chorus, Pass’d the silent skylark o’er us. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 15 Echo, now sleep, morn and even — Lark alone enchant the heaven! — Ardan's lips are scant of breath, Neesa's tongue is cold in death. Stag, exult on glen and mountain — Salmon, leap from loch to fountain — Heron, in the free air warm ye — Usnach's sons no more will harm ye ! Erin's stay no more you are, Rulers of the ridge of war ; Never more 'twill be your fate To keep the beam of battle straight! Woe to me ! by fraud and wrong, Traitors false and tyrants strong, Fell Clan Usnach, bought and sold, For Barach's feast and Connor's gold. Woe to Eman, roof and wall ! — Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall ! — Tenfold woe and black dishonor To the foul and false Clan Connor! Dig the grave both wide and deep, Sick I am, and fain would sleep ! Dig the grave and make it ready, Lay me on my true love's body. — Samuel Ferguson. But Connor Mac Nessa has a better fame, which is also the subject of one of the old Irish bardic legends. On the day of the Crucifixion of Our Lord, the awful darkness, the disturbance of the elements, the walking 16 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND of the dead, were not confined to Jerusalem. Accord- ing to the legend, Ireland had similar conditions and King Connor was seriously disturbed. He consulted his Druid as to the reason and he was told of the life and death of our Saviour. Connor was so angry at the ingratitude and perversity of the Jews that he worked himself into a frenzy; the excitement forced the brain-ball that for years had been lodged in his head from its place and Connor fell down to die. The following ballad by T. D. Sullivan tells the thrilling tale : THE DEATH OF KING CONNOR MAC NESSA. ’Twas a day full of sorrow for Ulster when Connor Mac Nessa went forth To punish the clansmen of Connaught who dared to take spoil from the North; For his men brought him back from the battle scarce better than one that was dead, With the brain-ball of Mesgedra buried two-thirds of its depth in his head. His royal physician bent o’er him, great Fingen who often before Staunched the war-battered bodies of heroes and built them for battle once more, And he looked at the wound of the monarch, and heark’d to his low-breathed sighs, And he said, “In the day when that missile is loosed from his forehead he dies. “Yet long midst the people who love him King Connor Mac Nessa may reign, If always the high pulse of passion be kept from his heart and his brain ; BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 17 And for this I lay down his restrictions : no more from this day shall his place Be with armies, in battles, or hostings, or leading the van of the chase ; At night, when the banquet is flashing, his measure of wine must be small, And take care that the bright eyes of woman be kept from his sight above all ; For if heart-thrilling joyance or anger awhile o’er his being have power, The ball will start forth from his forehead, and surely he dies in that hour.” O ! woe for the valiant King Connor, struck down from the summit of life. While glory unclouded shone round him, and regal enjoyment was rife — Shut out from his toils and his duties, condemned to ignoble repose, No longer to friends a true helper, no longer a scourge to his foes ! He, the strong-handed smiter of champions, the piercer of armor and shields. The foremost in earth-shaking onsets, the last out of blood-sodden fields — The mildest, the kindest, the gayest, when revels ran high in his hall — Oh, well might his true-hearted people feel gloomy and sad for his fall! The princes, the chieftains, the nobles, who met to consult at his board. Whispered low when their talk was of combats, and wielding the spear and the sword; The bards from their harps feared to waken the full- pealing sweetness of song, 18 BALLAD HISTORY OR IRELAND To give homage to valor or beauty, or praise to the wise and the strong; The flash of no joy-giving story made cheers or gay laughter resound, Amidst silence constrained and unwonted the seldom- filled wine cup went round; And, sadder to all who remembered the glories and joys that had been, x he heart-swaying presence of women not once shed its light on the scene. He knew it, he felt it, and sorrow sunk daily more deep in his heart; He wearied of doleful inaction, from all his loved labors apart. He sat at his door in the sunlight, sore grieving and weeping to see The life and the motion around him, and nothing so stricken as he. Above him the eagle went wheeling, before him the deer galloped by, And the quick-legged rabbits went skipping from green glades and burrows a-nigh. The song-birds sang out from the copses, the bees passed on musical wing, And all things were happy and busy, save Connor Mac Nessa the King! So years passed over, when, sitting midst silence like that of a tomb, A terror crept through him as sudden the moonlight was blackened with gloom. One red flare of lightning blazed brightly, illuming the landscape around, One thunder peal roared through the mountains, and rumbled and crashed underground; BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 19 He heard the rocks bursting- asunder, the trees tearing up by the roots, And loud through the horrid confusion the howling of terrified brutes, From the halls of his tottering palace came screamings of terror and pain, And he saw crowding thickly around him the ghosts of the foes he had slain ! And as soon as the sudden commotion that shuddered through nature had ceased. The king sent for Barach, his druid, and said: “Tell me, truly, O priest, What magical arts have created this scene of wild horror and dread? What has blotted the blue sky above us, and shaken the earth that we tread? Are the gods that we worship offended ? what crime or what wrong has been done? Has the fault been committed in Erin, and how may their favor be won? What rites may avail to appease them? what gifts on their altars should smoke? Only say, and the offering demanded we lay by your consecrate oak!” “O King,” said the white-bearded druid, “the truth unto me has been shown. There lives but one God, the Eternal ; far up in high Heaven is His throne. He looked upon men with compassion, and sent from His kingdom of light. His son, in the shape of a mortal, to teach them and guide them aright. Near the time of your birth, O King Connor, the Sav- iour of mankind was born, 20 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND And since then in a kingdom far eastward He taught, toiled and prayed, till this morn, Then wicked men seized Him, fast bound Him with nails to a cross, lanced His side. And that moment of gloom and confusion was earth’s cry of dread when He died. “O King, He was gracious and gentle, His heart was all pity and love, And for men He was ever beseeching the grace oc His Father above; He helped them, He healed them, He blessed them, He labored that all might attain To the true God’s high kingdom of glory, where never comes sorrow or pain ; But they rose in their pride and their folly, their hearts filled with merciless rage, That only the sight of His life-blood fast poured from His heart coyld assuage ; Yet while on the cross-beam uplifted, His body racked, tortured, and riven. He prayed — not for justice or vengeance, but asked that His foes be forgiven.” With a bound from his seat rose King Connor, the red flush of rage on his face. Fast he ran through the hall for his weapons, and snatching his sword from its place, He rushed to the woods, striking wildly at boughs that dropped down with each blow. And he cried : “Were I midst the vile rabble, I’d cleave them to earth even so ! With the strokes of a high king of Erin, the swirls of my keen-tempered sword, I would save from their horrible fury that mild and that merciful Lord!” BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 21 His frame shook and heaved with emotion ; the brain- ball leaped forth from his head, And commending his soul to that Saviour, King Con- nor Mac Nessa fell dead. — T. D. Sullivan . Perhaps the most famous of the Milesian Kings was Cormac Mac Art — warrior, law-giver and scholar. Living in the third century of our era, he had, it is said, learned something of Christian faith, and when dying gave orders that he should not be buried with his pagan ancestors and with pagan rites in the old graveyard at Brugh, but at a place called Ross-na-ree. His will was carried out by a wonderful interposition of Providence, despite the efforts of chieftains and clansmen to the contrary. THE BURIAL OF KING CORMAC. “Crom Cruach and his sub-gods twelve/' Said Cormac, “are but carven treene ; The axe that made them, haft or helve, Had worthier of our worship been. “But he who made the tree to grow, And hid in earth the iron-stone, And made the man with mind to know The axe's use, is God alone." Anon to priests of Crom was brought — Where, girded in their service dread, They minister'd on red Moy Slaught — Word of the words King Cormac said. 22 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND They loosed their curse against the king ; They cursed him in his flesh and bones ; And daily in their mystic ring They turn’d the maledictive stones. Till, where at meat the monarch sate, Amid the revel and the wine, He choked upon the food he ate, At Sletty, southward of the Boyne. High vaunted then the priestly throng, And far and wide they noised abroad With trump and loud liturgic song The praise of their avenging God. But ere the voice was wholly spent That priest and prince should still obey, To awed attendants o’er him bent Great Cormac gather’d breath to say, — “Spread not the beds of Brugh for me — When restless death-bed’s use is done ; But bury me at Ross-na-ree And face me to the rising sun. “For all the kings who lie in Brugh Put trust in gods of wood and stone ; And ’twas at Ross that first I knew One, Unseen, who is God alone. “His glory lightens from the east; His message soon shall reach our shore ; And idol-god, and cursing priest Shall plague us from Moy Slaught no more.” BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 23 Dead Cormac on his bier they laid: — “He reigned a king for forty years, And shame it were,” his captains said, “He lay not with his royal peers. “His grandsire, Hundred-Battle, sleeps Serene in Brugh ; and, all around, Dead kings in stone sepulchral keeps Protect the sacred burial-ground. “What though a dying man should rave Of changes o'er the eastern sea? In Brugh of Boyne shall be his grave, And not in noteless Ross-na-ree.” Then northward forth they bore the bier, And down from Sletty side they drew, With horseman and with charioteer, To cross the fords of Boyne to Brugh. There came a breath of finer air That touched the Boyne with ruffling winds, It stirr’d him in his sedgy lair And in his mossy moorland springs. And as the burial train came down With dirge and savage dolorous shows, Across their pathway, broad and brown The deep, full-hearted river rose; From bank to bank through all his fords, 'Neath blackening squalls he s well'd and boiled; And thrice the wondering gentile lords Essay'd to cross, and thrice recoil'd. 24 BALLAD HISTORY OR IRELAND Then forth stepp’d gray-hair’d warriors four: They said, “Through angrier floods than these, On linked shields once our king we bore From Dread-Spear and the hosts of Deece.” “And long as loyal will holds good, And limbs respond with helpful thews, Nor flood, nor fiend within the flood, Shall bar him of his burial dues.” With slanted necks they stoop’d to lift ; They heaved him up to neck and chin ; And, pair and pair, with footsteps swift, Lock’d arm and shoulder, bore him in. ’Twas brave to see them leave the shore; To mark the deep’ning surges rise, And fall subdued in foam before The tension of their striding thighs. ’Twas brave, when now a spear-cast out, Breast-high the battling surges ran; For weight was great, and limbs were stout, And loyal man put trust in man. But ere they reach’d the middle deep, Nor steadying weight of clay they bore, Nor strain of sinewy limbs could keep Their feet beneath the swerving four. And now they slide and now they swim, And now, amid the blackening squall, Gray locks afloat, with clutchings grim, They plunge around the floating pall. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 25 While, as a youth with practised spear Through jostling crowds bears off the ring, Boyne from their shoulders caught the bier And proudly bore away the king. At morning, on the grassy marge Of Ross-na-ree, the corpse was found, And shepherds at their early charge Entomb’d it in the peaceful ground. A tranquil spot; a hopeful sound Comes from the ever-youthful stream, And still on daisied mead and mound The dawn delays with tenderer beam. Round Cormac Spring renews her buds ; In march perpetual by his side, Down come the earth-fresh April floods, And up the sea-fresh salmon glide; And life and time rejoicing run From age to age their wonted way; But still he waits the risen Sun, For still ’tis only dawning Day. — Samuel Ferguson. The warrior Kings of Ireland were not always satis- fied with the opportunities for the exercise of valor or heroism that fell to them within the compass of Ire- land. Many a raid did they make into neighboring countries, penetrating even through Gaul to Switzer- land and Italy in search of adventure and plunder. The last King of Pagan Ireland was Dathy, who, with his 26 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND army, penetrated as far as the Alps and was there killed by a lightning flash in the year of our Lord 428. THE EXPEDITION AND DEATH OF KING DATHY. (from the: irish.) King Dathy assembled his Druids and sages, And thus he spake them — “Druids and sages! What of King Dathy ? What is revealed in Destiny’s pages Of him or his? Hath he Aught for the Future to dread or to dree? Good to rejoice in, or evil to flee? Is he the foe of the Gall — Fitted to conquer, or fated to fall?” And Beirdra, the Druid, made answer as thus : — A priest of a hundred years was he — “Dathy ! thy fate is not hidden from us ! Hear it through me! Thou shalt work thine own will ! Thou shalt slay — thou shalt prey — And be conqueror still ! “Thee the earth shall not harm ! Thee we charter and charm From all evil and ill! Thee the laurel shall crown ! Thee the wave shall not drown! Thee the chain shall not bind ! Thee the spear shall not find ! Thee the sword shall not slay ! Thee the shaft shall not pierce! V Thou, therefore, be fearless and fierce, BOSTON COLLEGE LIBRARY CHESTNUT HILL, MASS, BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND And sail with thy warriors away To the lands of the Gall, There to slaughter and sway, And be -victor o'er all !” So Dathy he sailed away, away, Over the deep resounding sea, Sailed with his hosts in armour grey Over the deep resounding sea, Many a night and many a day, And many an islet conquered he — He and his hosts in armour grey. And the billow drowned him not. And the blue spear found him not, And a fetter bound him not, And the red sword slew him not, And the swift shaft" knew him not, And the foe o’erthrew him not. Till one bright morn, at the base Of the Alps, in rich Ausonia’s regions, His men stood marshalled face to face With the mighty Roman legions. Noble foes! Christian and Heathen stood there among those, Resolute all to overcome. Or die for the Eagles of Ancient Rome ! When behold! from a temple anear Came forth an aged priest-like man, Of a countenance meek and clear. Who, turning to Eire’s Ceann, Spake him as thus, “King Dathy ! hear ! Thee would I warn ! Retreat! retire! repent in time The invader’s crime. Or better for thee thou hadst never been born !” 28 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND But Dathy replied, “False Nazarene! Dost thou, then, menace Dathy, thou? And dreamest thou that he will bow To one unknown, to one so mean, So powerless as a priest must be? He scorns alike thy threats and thee! On ! on ! my men, to victory !” And, with loud shouts for Eire's King, The Irish rush to meet the foe, And falchions clash and bucklers ring, — When, lo ! Lo, a mighty earthquake’s shock! And the cleft plains reel and rock ; Clouds of darkness pall the skies ; Thunder clashes, Lightning flashes. And in an instant Dathy lies On the earth a mass of blackened ashes ! Then mournfully, and dolefully, The Irish warriors sailed away Over the deep resounding sea, Till, wearily and mournfully, They anchored in Eblana’s Bay. Thus the Seanachies and Sages Tell this tale of long-gone ages. — James Clarence Mangan. - The Irish historian, Haverty, tells us that it was in such a descent, by probably the last of Dathy’s pre- decessors, Niall of the Nine Hostages, upon Armoric Gaul, that “the blessed youth, Patrick, son of Calphurn, was, together with his sisters, Darerca and Lupita, first carried among other captives to Ireland.” Sold as a BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 29 slave to Milcho, he spent seven years as a herdsman in Antrim. Returning' to Gaul he fitted himself for the sacred ministry and then received from Pope Celestine a commission to return and preach the faith to the Irish. His success was marvelous, miraculous ; the entire nation was converted and became a model of sanctity and a school of learning. The years of his bondage, his escape and his clerical training form the subject of a ballad by T. D. Magee, and his meeting with King Laeghaire and his nobles at Tara and the inception of his work as Ireland’s Apostle are described by Aubrey de Vere. A LEGEND OF ST. PATRICK. Seven weary years in bondage the young Saint Patrick pass’d, Till the sudden hope came to him to break his bonds at last; On the Antrim hills reposing with the North star overhead As the grey dawn was disclosing, “I trust in God,” he said — “My sheep will find a shepherd and my master find a slave, But my mother has no other hope but me this side the grave.” Then girding close his mantle, and grasping fast his wand, He sought the open ocean through by-ways of the land. The berries from the hedges on his solitary way, And the cresses from the waters were his only food by day. 3 o BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND The cold stone was his pillow, and the hard heath was his bed, Till looking from Benbulben, he saw the sea outspread. He saw that ancient Ocean, unfathomed and unbound, That breaks on Erin’s beaches with so sorrowful a sound. There lay a ship at Sligo bound up the Median sea, ‘‘God save you, master mariner, will you give berth to me? I have no gold to pay thee, but Christ will pay thee yet.” Loud laughed that foolish mariner, “Nay, Nay, He might forget!” “Forget! oh, not a favor done to the humblest one Of all his human kindred, can ’scape th’ Eternal Son !” In vain the Christian pleaded, the willing sail was spread, His voice no more was heeded than the seabirds over- head — And as the vision faded, the ship against the sky, On the briny rocks the captive prayed to God to let him die. / But God, whose ear is open to catch the sparrow’s fall, At the sobbing of his servant frowned along the waters all — The billows rose in wonder and smote the churlish crew, And around the ship the thunder like battle-arrows flew ; The screaming sea-fowl’s clangor, in Kish-corran’s in- ner caves, Was hushed before the anger of the tempest-trodden waves. BALLAD HISTORY OR IRELAND 31 Like an eagle-hunted gannet, the ship drove back amain, To where the Christian captive sat in solitude and pain — “Come in,” they cried, “oh Christian, we need your company, For it was sure your angry God that met us out at sea.” Then smiled the gentle heavens, and doffed their sable veil, Then sank to rest the breakers and died away the gale. So sitting by the Pilot the happy captive kept On his rosary a reckoning, while the seamen sung or slept. Before the winds propitious past Achill, south by Ara, The good ship gliding left behind Hiar-Connaught like an arrow — From the southern brow of Erin they shoot the shore of Gaul, And in holy Tours, Saint Patrick findeth freedom, friends, and all. In holy Tours he findeth home and altars, friends and all; There matins hail the morning, sweet bells to vespers call ; There’s no lord to make him tremble, no magician to endure, Nor need he to dissemble in the pious streets of Tours ; But ever, as he rises with the morning’s early light, And still erewhile he sleepeth, when the north star shines at night ; When he sees the angry Ocean by the tyrant tempest trod, He murmurs in devotion — “Fear nothing! Trust to God !” — r. D. M’Gee. 32 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND ST. PATRICK AND THE BARD. * The land is sad, and dark our days ; Sing us a song of the days that were : Then sang the bard in his Order’s praise This song of the chief bard of King Laeghaire, The King is wroth with a greater wrath Than the wrath of Nial or the wrath of Conn; From his heart to his brow the blood makes path, And hangs there, a red cloud, beneath his crown. Is there any who knows not, from south to north, That Laeghaire tomorrow his birthday keeps? No fire may be lit upon hill or hearth Till the King’s strong fire in its kingly mirth Leaps upward from Tara’s palace steeps! Yet Patrick has lighted his paschal fire At Slane, — it is Holy Saturday, — And bless’d his font ’mid the chanting choir ! From hill to hill the flame makes way ; While the King looks on it, his eyes with ire Flash red, like Mars, under tresses gray. The great King’s captains with drawn swords rose ; To avenge their Lord and the state they swore; The Druids rose and their garments tore; “The strangers to us and our gods are foes !” Then the King to Patrick a herald sent, Who said, “Come up at noon, and show Who lit thy fire, and with what intent? These things the great King Laeghaire would know. * A. D. 433. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 33 But Laeghaire conceal'd twelve men in the way, Who swore by the sun the saint to slay. When the waters of Boyne began to bask, And the fields to flash, in the rising sun, The Apostle Evangelist kept his Pasch, And Erin her grace baptismal won ; Her birthday it was ; — his font the rock, He bless'd the land, and he bless'd his flock. Then forth to Tara he fared full lowly; The Staff of Jesus was in his hand; Eight priests paced after him chanting slowly, Printing their steps on the dewy land ; It was the Resurrection morn ; The lark sang loud o'er the springing corn ; The dove was heard, and the hunter's horn. The murderers stood close by on the way ; Yet they saw nought save the lambs at play. A trouble lurk'd in the King’s strong eye When the guests that he counted for dead drew nigh. He sat in state at his palace gate ; His chiefs and his nobles were ranged around; The Druids like ravens smelt some far fate; Their eyes were gloomily bent on the ground. Then spake Laeghaire: “He comes — beware! Let none salute him, or rise from his chair !" Like some still vision men see by night, Mitred, with eyes of serene command, Saint Patrick moved onward in ghostly white ; The staff of Jesus was in his hand. His priests paced after him unafraid, And the boy, Benignus, more like a maid, Like a maid just wedded he walk'd and smiled, To Christ new-plighted, that priestly child. 34 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND They enter'd the circle; their hymn they ceased; The Druids their eyes bent earthward still ; On Patrick's brow the glory increased, As a sunrise brightening some breathless hill. The warriors sat silent; strange awe they felt; — The chief bard, Dubtach, * rose up and knelt ! Then Patrick discoursed of the things to be When time gives way to eternity, Of kingdoms that cease, which are dreams not things. And the Kingdom built by the King of kings. Of Him he spake who reigns from the Cross; Of the death which is life, and the life which is loss ; And how all things were made by the Infant Lord, And the small hand the Magian kings adored. His voice sounded on like a throbbing flood That swells all night from some far-off wood, And when it was ended— that wondrous strain — Invisible myriads breathed low, “Amen!” While he spake, men say that the refluent tide On the shore beside Colpa ceased to sink ; And they said the white deer by Mulla's side O'er the green marge bending forebore to drink; That the Brandon eagle forgot to soar ; That no leaf stirr'd in the wood by Lee. — Such stupor hung the island o'er, For none might guess when the end would be. Then whisper'd the King to a chief close by, “It were better for me to believe than die!” Yet the King believed not; but ordinance gave That whoso would might believe that word ; So the meek believed, and the wise, and brave, And Mary's Son as their God adored. * Pronounced Duach. m A PILLAR TOWER— BELL-HOUSE OF ARDMORE BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 35 Ethnea and Fethlimea, his daughters twain, That day were in baptism born again ; And the Druids, because they could answer nought, Bow’d down to the faith the stranger brought. That day upon Erin God pour’d His spirit — Yet none like the chief of the bards had merit, Dubtach! — He rose and believed the first, Ere the great light yet on the rest had burst. It was thus that Erin, then blind but strong, To Christ through her chief bard paid homage due ; And this was a sign that in Erin song Should from first to last to the cross be true. — Aubrey de Vere . Everywhere that St. Patrick went on his missionary tour through Ireland he caused churches to be erected. The remains of many of them are visible to this day, silent witnesses of the conversion of Ireland to the faith of Jesus Christ. Attached to many of these churches are Round Towers — about seventy in all — conspicuous at once by their shape and their wonder- ful preservation. They are a standing puzzle to anti- quarians, but owing to their invariable proximity to ruined fanes it seems certain that they were used, if not built, in some way for ecclesiatical purposes. At any rate they are a perennial monument to the skill of their builders and they come down to us at least from the earliest Christian ages. THE PILLAR TOWERS OF IRELAND. The pillar towers of Ireland, how wonderful they stand By the lakes and rushing rivers through the valleys of our land; 36 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND In mystic file, through the isle, they lift their heads sublime, These grey old pillar temples — these conquerors of time! Beside these grey old pillars, how perishing and weak The Roman's arch of triumph, and the temple of the Greek, And the gold domes of Byzantium, and the pointed Gothic spires, All are gone, one by one, but the temples of our sires ! The column, with its capital, is level with the dust, And the proud halls of the mighty and the calm homes of the just; For the proudest works of man, as certainly, but slower, Pass like the grass at the sharp scythe of the mower ! But the grass grows again when in majesty and mirth, On the wing of the spring comes the goddess of the earth ; But for man in this world no springtime e're returns To the labours of his hands or the ashes of his urns ! Two favorites hath Time — the pyramids of Nile, And the old mystic temples of our own dear isle ; As the breeze o'er the seas, where the halcyon has its nest, Thus time o'er Egypt's tombs and the temples of the west! The names of their founders have vanished in the gloom, Like the dry branch in the fire or the body in the tomb; BALLAD HISTORY OB IRELAND 37 But to-day, in the ray, their shadows still they cast — These temples of forgotten gods — these relics of the past! Around these walls have wandered the Briton and the Dane — The captives of Armorica, the cavaliers of Spain — Phoenician and Milesian, and the plundering Norman Peers — And the swordsmen of brave Brian, and the chiefs of later years ! How many different rites have these grey old temples known ? To the mind what dreams are written in these chron- icles of stone! What terror and what error, what gleams of love and truth, Have flashed from these walls since the world was in its youth? Here blazed the sacred fire, and when the sun was gone, As a star from afar to a traveler it shone; And the warm blood of the victim have these grey old temples drunk, And the death song of the Druid and the matin of the Monk. Here was placed the holy chalice that held the sacred wine, And the gold cross from the altar, and the relics from the shrine. And the mitre shining brighter with its diamonds than the east, And the crozier of the Pontiff, and the vestments of the priest ! 38 BALLAD HISTORY OL IRELAND Where blazed the sacred fire, rang out the vesper bell, — Where the fugitive found shelter, became the her- mit's cell; And hope hung out its symbol to the innocent and good, For the Cross o’er the moss of the pointed summit stood ! There may it stand for ever, while this symbol doth impart To the mind one glorious vision, or one proud throb to the heart; While the breast needeth rest may these grey old temples last. Bright prophets of the future, as preachers of the past! — D. F. McCarthy . The most extraordinary feature of the mission of St. Patrick, after his phenomenal success, was the num- ber of men and women conspicuous for holiness of life who took up his work, established monasteries or schools, gathered numberless disciples about them and trained them to secular knowledge as well as in the science of the saints. Most prominent of those days were Saints Bridget and Columbkille — the former the spiritual mother of Irish women, the latter, the most famous of Ireland’s missionaries as well as the greatest of her monastic founders. The fame of St. Bridget* is chanted under two aspects by De Vere, who also renders the farewell song of St. Columbkillef to the * Born about A. D. 455. Died A. D. 525. f Born A. D. 521. Died A. D. 597. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 39 bleak Isle of Arran that He loved so well. St. Columb- kille was the founder of Iona and the apostle of Scot- land. ST. BRIGID OF THE LEGENDS. A soft child-saint she moved, foot-bare, Amid the kine sweet-breathing, With boughs, the insect tribe to scare, Their horned foreheads wreathing. Slowly on her their dark eyes grave They rolled in sleepy pleasure, Like things by music charmed, and gave Their milk in twofold measure. That hour there paused a beggar clan Through sultry fields on-faring; “Come drink/’ she cried, “from pail and pan !”■ — That small hand was unsparing. In wrath her mother near them drew ; — • The pails that late held nothing, Like fountains tapped foamed up anew, And buzzed with milk floods frothing ! O Saint, the favorite of the poor, The afflicted, weak and weary ! Like Mary’s was the face she bore ; Men called her “Erin’s Mary.” In triple vision God to her Revealed her country’s story; She saw the advancing tempests blur, Then blot, its morning glory. 40 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND Kildare of Oaks ! thy quenchless Faith, Her gift it was ; she taught it ! The shroud Saint Patrick wore in death, ’Twas she, ’twas she that wrought it! Thus sang they on the sunburnt land Among the stacks of barley; And singing, smiled, by breezes fanned From Erin’s dream-land early. — Aubrey de V ere. ST. BRIGID OF THE CONVENTS. She looked not on the face of man ; Nor husband hers, nor brother; But where she passed the children ran And hailed that maid their mother ! In haste she flies soft mead and grove, For virtue’s region hilly; They called her, ’mid the birds, the Dove, Amid the flowers, the Lily. In woods of Oriel-Leinster’s vales — Her convent homes she planted; And Erin’s cloistered nightingales Their nocturnes darkling chaunted. By many a Scottish moorland wide, By many an English river, Men loved of old their “good Saint Bride But Erin loves forever! A sword went forth ; thy fanes they burn’d ! Sweet Saint, no angers fret thee ! — There are that ne’er thy grace have spurned, There are that ne’er forgot thee ! BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 41 Thus sang they while the autumnal glade Exchanged green leaf for golden ; And later griefs were lighter made By thoughts of glories olden. — Aubrey de Vere . ST. COLUMBKILLE'S FAREWELL TO THE ISLE OF ARRAN, ON SETTING SAIL FOR IONA. (from the; GAELIC.) Farewell to Arran Isle, farewell, I steer for Hy ; my heart is sore ; — The breakers burst, the billows swell 'Twixt Arran Isle and Alba's shore. Thus spake the Son of God, “Depart!” 0 Arran Isle, God's will be done! By angels throng'd this hour thou art; 1 sit within my bark alone. O Modan, well for thee the while! Fair falls thy lot, and well art thou! Thy seat is set in Arran Isle; Eastward to Alba turns my prow. O Arran, Sun of all the West! My heart is thine! As sweet to close Our dying eyes in thee, as rest Where Peter and where Paul repose ! O Arran, Sun of all the West! My heart in thee its grave hath found; He walks in regions of the blest The man that hears thy church bells' sound ! 42 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND O Arran blest, O Arran blest! Accursed the man that loves not thee ! The dead man cradled in thy breast — No demon scares him; well is he. Each Sunday Gabriel from on high (For so did Christ our Lord ordain) Thy masses comes to sanctify. With fifty angels in his train. Each Monday Michael issues forth To bless anew each sacred fane ; Each Tuesday cometh Raphael To bless pure hearth and golden grain. Each Wednesday cometh Uriel, Each Thursday Sariel, fresh from God; Each Friday cometh Ramael To bless thy stones and bless thy sod. Each Saturday comes Mary, Comes Babe on arm, 'mid heavenly hosts! O Arran, near to heaven is he That hears God's angels bless thy coasts! — Aubrey de V ere. The monastic schools established in Ireland soon won for themselves a world-wide fame. The students in many of the more famous were numbered by the thousand. On account of the break-up of the Roman empire owing to the successive invasions of conquer- ing barbarians, literary pursuits were at a very low ebb on the continent of Europe. Very many students came from the different countries of Europe to Ireland BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 43 to take advantage of the opportunities offered there. They were warmly welcomed and received abundant hospitality as well as opportunities of advancing them- selves in sacred and secular learning. The following ballad represents the ideas of the Anglo-Saxon prince, Alfrid, who himself was a beneficiary of the Irish schools : PRINCE ALFRID’S ITINERARY THROUGH IRELAND. * (from The: IRISH.) I found in Innisfail the fair, In Ireland, while in exile there, Women of worth, both grave and gay men, Many clerics and many laymen. I travelled its fruitful provinces round, And in every one of the five I found, Alike in church and in palace hall, Abundant food and apparel for all. Gold and silver I found, and money, Plenty of wheat and plenty of honey; I found God’s people rich in pity, Found many a feast and many a city. I also found in Armagh, the splendid, Meekness, wisdom, and prudence blended, Fasting, as Christ hath recommended. And noble councillors untranscended. I found in each great church moreo’er, Whether on island or on shore. Piety, learning, fond affection, Holy welcome and kind protection. * About A. D. 684. 44 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND I found the good lay monks and brothers Ever beseeching help for others, And in their keeping the holy word Pure as it came from Jesus the Lord. I found in Munster unfettered of any, Kings, and queens, and poets a many — Poets well skilled in music and measure, Prosperous doings, mirth and pleasure. I found in Connaught the just, redundance Of riches, milk in lavish abundance; Hospitality, vigor, fame, In Cruachan’s land of heroic name. I found in the country of Conall the glorious, Bravest heroes, ever victorious ; Fair-complexioned men and warlike, Ireland’s lights, the high, the starlike ! I found in Ulster from hill to glen, Hardy warriors, resolute men; Beauty that bloomed when youth was gone, And strength transmitted from sire to son. I found in the noble district of Boyle (MS. here illegible.) Brehons, Erenachs, weapons bright, And horsemen bold and sudden in fight. I found in Leinster the smooth and sleek, From Dublin to Slewmargy’s peak; Flourishing pastures, valour, health, Long-living worthies, commerce, wealth. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 45 I found besides, from Ara to Glea, In the broad rich country of Ossorie, Sweet fruits, good laws for all and each, Great chess-players, men of truthful speech. I found in Meath's fair principality, Virtue, vigor, and hospitality; Candor, joyfulness, bravery, purity, Ireland’s bulwark and security. I found strict morals in age and youth, I found historians recording truth; The things I sing of in verse unsmooth, I found them all — I have written sooth. — /. C. Mangan. But the Irish monks were not merely great students — they were also great missionaries. As I have al- ready said, St. Columbkille was the Apostle of Scot- land ; St. Columbanus was a famous missionary in France and Italy, and founder of the monasteries of Luxeuil, in France, and Bobbio, in Italy; St. Aidan, founder of Lindisfarne, in England ; in fact Montalem- bert tells us in his great work, “The Monks of the West,” that the Irish missionaries converted most of England, and that St. Augustine and his Roman monks only converted one kingdom of the Saxon Heptarchy. The entire continent of Europe bears evi- dent marks of the Irish missionary invasion, for we are told by Father Thebaud that “the Irish monks held from the sixth to the ninth century thirteen Irish mon- asteries in Scotland, seven in France, twelve in Ar- 46 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND moric Gaul, seven in Lotharingia, eleven in Burgundy, nine in Belgium, ten in Alsatia, Helvetia and Suevia, besides several in Thuringia and on the left of the Rhine.” We are also told by other writers that “one hundred and fifty-five Irish saints are venerated in the churches of Germany, forty-five in Gaul, thirty in Belgium, thirteen in Italy and eight in Scandinavia.” The following ballad commemorates an incident that took place in the days of Charlemagne, when two Irish monks attracted attention to themselves in the market- place of Paris by offering wisdom for sale. One of them, Clement, became founder of the University of Paris ; the other, Albin, of that of Pavia, in Italy. In the following ballad the story is supposed to be told by a monk of St. Gall’s to King Charles, surnamed the Fat — a grandson of Charlemagne : THE “WISDOM-SELLERS” BEFORE CHARLE- MAGNE. * “Grandson of Charlemagne ! to tell Of exiled Learning’s late return, A task more grateful never fell To one still drinking at her urn ; Of Force, O King, Too many sing, Lauding mere sanguinary strength ; But Wisdom’s praise Our favored days Have asked to hear at length. When he, whose sword and name you bear Reigned unopposed throughout the West, * A. D. 781. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 47 And none would dream, or dreaming dare, Reject his high behest — He found no peace, nor near, nor far, No spell to stay his swaying mind ; For Glory, like the sailor’s star, Still left her votary far behind ; The wreck of Roman art remained, Casting dark lines of destiny ; The very roads they went proclaimed The modern man’s degen’racy ; Our Charles wept like Philip’s son, Thinking Time’s noblest wreaths were won. “One morn upon his throne of state, Crown’d and sad the Conqueror sate. 'What stirs without, my chiefs ?’ said he, 'Do all things rest on land and sea ? Has France slept late, or has she lost The love of being tempest tost?’ Spake an old soldier of his wars, One who had fought in Lombardy, Whose breast, beside, bore Saxon scars, — The Soldier-Emperor’s friend was he! 'O, Carl, strange news your steward bears Of merchants in the mart, who tell, Standing amidst the mingled wares That they bring wisdom here to sell ; Tall men though strange they seem to be, And somewhere from ayont the sea.’ Quoth Charles : '’Twere rare merchandise That purchased could make Paris wise. Fetch me those wisdom-sellers, hither — We fain would know their whence and whither.’ ” “Of air erect, and full of grace, With bearded lip and arrow eye, 48 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND And signs no presence could efface Of learning’s meek nobility, The men appeared : Carl’s lion front Was lifted as each bowed his head, With words more gentle than his wont, To the two strangers thus he said — 'Merchants, what is the tale I hear? That in the market-place you offer Wisdom for sale? Is wisdom dear— Is’t in the compass of our coffer?’ "In accents such as seldom broke The silence there, Albinus spoke: — 'O, Carl, illustrious Emperor, We are but strangers on your shore, From Erin’s Isle, where every glen Is crowded with the sons of song, And every port with learned men, We, venturing without the throng — (And longing, not the least, to see The person of your majesty, Whose fame has reached the ends of ocean), Forsook our native Isle, to bear The lamps of wisdom everywhere, Our Heavenly Master’s work to do — And first we come, O King, to you ; On Cormac’s Cromleach you have gazed, And seen the prone strength of the past ; You saw the piles the Caesars raised: Saw Art his Empire-cause outlast ; All scenes of war, all pomps of peace, Armies and harvests in array — Your longing soul from sights like these To time and Art oft turns away.’ “ 'Great hosts are bristling over earth, Like grain in harvest — till anon, BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 49 A wintry campaign, or a dearth Of valour, and your hosts are gone. The soldier's pride is for a season, His day leads to a silent night, But sov'reign Power, inspired by reason, Creates a world of life and light; We've rifled the departed ages, And bring their grave-gifts here today; We sell the secrets of the sages — The code of Calvary and Sinai. To Wisdom, King f we set no measure ; For Wisdom's price — there is but one — To value it above all treasure And spend it freely when 'tis won. By every peaceful Gaelic river The Bookmen have a free abode, They celebrate each princely giver And teach the arts of Man and God. All that we ask for all we bring Is eager pupils round our cell, And your protection, mighty King! While in the realms of France we dwell/ “Grandson of Carl! I need no more, The rest throughout the earth is known How learning lost to us before Spread like a sun around his throne. Till now in Saxon forests dim New neophytes their love-lights trim — How even my own Alpine heights Are luminous through studious nights, How Pavia's learned half regain The glory of the Roman name — How mind with mind and soul with soul Press onward to the ancient goal — How faith herself smiles on the chase SO BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND Of Chimera and Reason's race — How Wisdom-Sellers one may meet In every ship and every street — Of how our Irish masters rest In graves watched by the grateful West — How more than war or sanguine strength Of wisdom's praise, Our favoured days, Have asked to hear at length." — T. D . McGee . For about three centuries Ireland enjoyed her fame as the Insula Doctorum et Sanctorum — the Isle of scholars and of saints. Towards the end of the eighth century her glory began to wane. The Danes ap- peared upon her horizon; they plundered the schools and churches, butchered many of the religious of both sexes and harassed the country at large. At last, on Good Friday, A. D. 1014, after more than two hun- dred years of varied fortunes, the forces of the Danes were pitted in a death struggle against the flower of Irish chivalry united under the Irish High-King Brian Boru. The battle took place at Clontarf, near Dublin, and the power of the Danes in Ireland was forever broken. Brian himself, his son and his grandson, were slain. KING BRIAN BEFORE THE BATTLE* Stand ye now for Erin's glory! Stand ye now for Erin's cause ! Long ye've groaned beneath the rigour of the North- men's savage laws. * A. D. 1014. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 51 What though brothers league against us? What though myriads be the foe ? Victory will be more honored in the myriads’ over- throw. Proud Connacians ! oft we’ve wrangled, in our petty feuds of yore; Now we fight against the robber Dane, upon our native shore ; May our hearts unite in friendship, as our blood in one red tide, While we crush their mail-clad legions, and annihilate their pride! Brave Eugenians ! Erin triumphs in the sight she sees today — Desmond’s homesteads all deserted for the muster and the fray! Cluan’s vale and Galtee’s summit send their bravest and their best — May such hearts be theirs forever, for the Freedom of the West! Chiefs and Kerne of Dalcassia ! Brothers of my past career, Oft we’ve trodden on the pirate-flag that flaunts before us here, You remember Iniscattery, how we hounded on the foe, As the torrent of the mountain burst upon the plain below ! They have razed our proudest castles — spoiled the Temples of the Lord — Burnt to dust the sacred relics — put the peaceful to the sword — 52 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND Desecrated all things holy — as they soon may do again. If their power today we smite not — if today we be not men ! Slaughtered pilgrims is the story at St. Kevin’s rocky cell, And on the southern sea-shore, at the Helig’s holy well; E’en the anchorets are hunted, poor and peaceful though they be, And not one of them left living, in their caves beside the sea ! Think of all your murder’d chieftains — all your rifled homes and shrines — Then rush down, with whetted vengeance, like fierce wolves upon their lines! Think of Bangor — think of Mayo — and Senanus’ holy tomb — Think of all your past endurance — what may be your future doom ! On this day the God-man suffered — look upon the sacred sign- — May we conquer ’neath its shadow, as of old did Con- stantine ! May the heathen tribes of Odin fade before it like a dream, And the triumph of this glorious day in future annals gleam ! God of Heaven, bless our banner — nerve our sinews for the strife ! Fight we now for all that’s holy — for our altars, land, and life — BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 53 For red vengeance on the spoiler, whom the blazing temples trace — For the honour of our maidens, and the glory of our race! Should I fall before the foeman, ’tis the death I seek today ; Should ten thousand daggers pierce me, bear my body not away, Till this day of days be over — till the field is fought and won — Then the Holy Mass be chaunted, and the funeral rites be done. Curses darker than Ben Heder light upon the craven slave Who prefers the life of traitor to the glory of the grave ! Freedom’s guerdon now awaits you, or a destiny of chains — Trample down the dark oppressor while one spark of life remains ! Think not now of coward mercy — Heaven’s curse is on their blood! Spare them not, though myriad corses float upon the purple flood! By the memory of great Dathi, and the valiant chiefs of yore, This day we’ll scourge the viper brood for ever from our shore! Men of Erin! men of Erin! grasp the battle-axe and spear ! Chase these Northern wolves before you like a herd of frightened deer ! 54 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND Burst their ranks, like bolts from heaven! Down on the heathen crew, Por the glory of the Crucified and Erin’s glory too! — W illiam Kenealy. In the preceding ballad King Brian makes touching allusion to the internal strifes of the Irish. Each chief- tain had his feud with some neighboring chief and in- ternecine war was the sad and only too frequent con- sequence. At the time of the battle of Clontarf, the MacGillapatrick’s of Ossory were in feud with the Dalcassians; and as a contingent of the latter were wearily making their way homeward after the great victory, and carefully caring for their wounded, they were set upon by their enemies. The wounded Dal- cassians were supported by stakes to which they were tied, and bravely they helped to withstand the hostile assault. One is glad to read that the treacherous MacGillapatricks were completely beaten back. WAR SONG. Remember the glories of Brian the Brave, Though the days of the hero are o’er; Though lost to Mononia, and cold in the grave, He returns to Kinkora no more ! The star of the field, which so often has pour’d Its beam on the battle, is set; But enough of its glory remains on each sword To light us to victory yet ! Mononia! when nature embellished the tint Of thy fields and thy mountains so fair, BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 55 Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print The footsteps of slavery there? No, freedom! whose smile we shall never resign, Go, tell our invaders, the Danes, ’Tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine, Than to sleep but a moment in chains ! Forget not our wounded companions, who stood In the day of distress by our side; While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood, They stirr’d not, but conquered and died! The sun that now blesses our arms with his light, Saw them fall upon Ossory’s plain! Oh let him not blush, when he leaves us tonight, To find that they fell there in vain ! — Thomas Moore. For about 150 years after the battle of Clontarf Ire- land had peace. But the Normans, who in the pre- ceding century had conquered England, were, in the year 1168, brought into Ireland by Dermot McMor- rougli, who had been driven out of Ireland on account of a grievous wrong committed by him. Their leader was Richard De Clare, Earl of Pembroke, commonly called Strongbow, and as he and his followers were well skilled in the art of war they soon obtained a hold upon Ireland which they never afterwards lost. They adopted the Irish language and customs to a great ex- tent and, as the saying was, became more Irish than the Irish themselves. One of the most famous of 56 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND these Norman-Irish families was that of Fitzgerald, or the Geraldines, as they are frequently called. THE GERALDINES. The Geraldines ! the Geraldines ! — ’tis full a thousand years Since, ’mid the Tuscan vineyards, bright flashed their battle spears When Capet seized the crown of France, their iron shields were known, And their sabre-dint struck terror on the banks of the Garonne : Across the downs of Hastings they spurred hard by William’s side. And the gray sands of Palestine with Moslem blood they dyed ; — But never then, nor thence, till now, have falsehood or disgrace Been seen to soil Fitzgerald’s plume, or mantle in his face. The Geraldines! the Geraldines! — ’tis true, in Strong- bow’s van By lawless force, as conquerors, their Irish reign began ; And oh ! through many a dark campaign they proved their prowess stern, In Leinster’s plains, and Munster’s vales, on king, and chief, and kerne: But noble was the cheer within the halls so rudely won, And generous was the steel-gloved hand that had such slaughter done; How gay their laugh, how proud their mien ! you’d ask no herald’s sign BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 57 Among a thousand you had known the princely Ger- aldine. These Geraldines ! these Geraldines ! — not long our air they breathed ; Not long they fed on venison, in Irish water seethed ; Not often had their children been by Irish mothers nursed, When from their full and genial hearts an Irish feeling burst ! The English monarchs strove in vain, by law, and force, and bribe, To win from Irish thoughts and ways this “more than Irish” tribe; For still they clung to fosterage, to breitheamh, cloak, and bard : What king dare say to Geraldine, “Your Irish wife discard ?” Ye Geraldines ! ye Geraldines ! how royally ye reigned O’er Desmond broad, and rich Kildare, and English arts disdained: Your sword made knights, your banner waved, free was your bugle call By Gleann’s green slopes, and Daingean’s tide, from Bearbha’s* banks to Eochaill.** What gorgeous shrines, what breitheamh lore, what minstrel feasts there were In and around Magh Nuadhaid’sf keep, and palace- filled Adare! But not for rite or feast ye stayed, when friend or kin were pressed And foeman fled, when “Crom Abu” bespoke your lance at rest. Ye Geraldines ! ye Geraldines ! — since Silken Thomas flung * Pronounced Barrow. ** Youghal. f Pronounced Ma-noo-ad. 58 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND King Henry’s sword on council board, the English thanes among, Ye never ceased to battle brave against the English sway, Though axe and brand and treachery your proudest cut away. Of Desmond’s blood, through woman’s veins passed on th’ exhausted tide His title lives — a Saxon churl usurps the lion’s hide : And though Kildare tower haughtily, there’s ruin at the root, Else why, since Edward fell to earth, had such a tree no fruit? True Geraldine! brave Geraldine! — as torrents mould the earth, You channelled deep old Ireland’s heart by constancy and worth : When Ginckle leaguered Limerick, the Irish soldiers gazed To see if in the setting sun dead Desmond’s banner blazed ! And still it is the peasant’s hope upon the Cuirreach’s mere, “They live who’ll see ten thousand men with good Lord Edward here” — So let them dream till brighter days, when, not by Edward’s shade, But by some leader true as he, their lines shall be ar- rayed ! These Geraldines ! these Geraldines ! — rain wears away the rock. And time may wear away the tribe that stood the bat- tle’s shock, BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 59 But, ever, sure, while one is left of all that honored race, I11 front of Ireland's chivalry is that Fitzgerald's place: And, though the last were dead and gone, how many a field and town From Thomas Court to Abbey feile, would cherish their renown, And men would say of valor's rise, or ancient power's decline, “ 'Twill never soar, it never shone, as did the Gerald- ine." The Geraldines! the Geraldines! — and are there any fears Within the sons of conquerors for full a thousand years ? Can treason spring from out a soil bedewed with martyr's blood? — Or has that grown a purling brook, which long rushed down a flood? — By Desmond swept with sword and fire, — by clan and keep laid low, — By Silken Thomas and his kin, — by sainted Edward! No! The forms of centuries rise up, and in the Irish line Command their son to take the post that fits the Ger- aldine ! — Thomas Davis . To prevent the Normans from inter-marriage with the Irish and the adoption of the Irish language and customs in their daily intercourse, a famous statute was passed in the year 1367, known to history 6o BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND as the Statute of Kilkenny. It entirely failed to attain its purpose. THE STATUTE OF KILKENNY. Of old ye warr’d on men : today On women and on babes ye war; The Noble's child his head must lay Beneath the peasants' roof no more! I saw in sleep the Infant's hand, His foster-brother's fiercely grasp ; His warm arm, lithe as willow wand, Twines me each day with closer clasp! Oh, infant smiler! grief beguiler! Between the oppressor and the oppress'd. Oh, soft, unconscious reconciler, Smile on ! through thee the land is bless’d. Through thee, the puissant love the poor; His conqueror's hope the vanquish'd shares ; For thy sake by a lowly door The clan-made vassal stops and stares. Our vales are healthy. On thy cheek There dawns, each day, a livelier red: Smile on! Before another week Thy feet our earthen floor will tread ! Thy foster-brothers twain for thee, Would face the wolves on snowy fell: Smile on! the Irish enemy Will fence their Norman nursling well. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 61 The nursling as the child is dear; — Thy mother loves not like thy nurse ! That babbling Mandate steps not near Thy cot but o’er her bleeding corse ! — Aubrey de Vere. Many a fierce encounter took place between the Nor- man barons trying to extend English domination in Ireland and the Irish chieftains fighting for their homes and possessions. One of the most famous of these battles was fought A. D. 1257 at Credankille, in Sligo, between Godfrey O’Donnell, of Tyrconnell, and his Irish clansmen and Maurice Fitzgerald and his mail-clad Anglo-Normans. The leaders met in single combat and were both carried from the field severely wounded: but the Irish were victors. Fitzgerald af- terwards retired to a Franciscan monastery and died in the habit of religion ; the fate of O’Donnell we shall see anon. BATTLE OF C REDAN.* From the glens of his fathers O’Donnell comes forth, With all Cinel-Conaill, fierce septs of the North — O’Boyle and O’Daly, O’Dugan, and they That own, by the wild waves, O’Doherty’s sway. Clan Connor, brave sons of the diadem’d Niall, Has pour’d the tall clansmen from mountain and vale — M’Sweeney’s sharp axes, to battle oft bore, Flash bright in the sun-light by high Dunamore. * A D 1257. 62 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND Through Innis-MacDurin, through Derry’s dark brakes, Glentoucher of tempests, Sleibhsnacht of the lakes, Bundoran of dark spells, Loch-Swilly’s rich glen, The red deer rush wild at the war-shout of men ! O! why through Tir-Conaill, from Cuil-dubh’s dark steep, To Samer’s green border the fierce masses sweep, Living torrents o’er-leaping their own river shore, In the red sea of battle to mingle their roar? Stretch thy vision far southward, and seek for reply Where the blaze of the hamlets glares red on the sky — Where the shrieks of the hopeless rise high to their God, Where the foot of the Sassenach spoiler has trod. Sweeping on like a tempest, the Gall-Oglach stern Contends for the van with the swift-footed kern — There’s blood for that burning, and joy for that wail — The avenger is hot on the spoiler’s red trail ! The Saxon hath gathered on Credran’s far heights, His groves of long lances, the flower of his knights — His awful cross-bowman, whose long iron hail Finds, through Cota and Sciath, the bare heart of the Gael! The long lance is brittle — the mailed ranks reel Where the Gall-Oglach’s axe hews the harness of steel, And truer to its aim in the breast of a foeman, Is the pike of a kern than the shaft of a bowman. One prayer to St. Columb — the battle-steel clashes — The tide of fierce conflict tumultuously dashes; BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 63 Surging onward, high-heaving its billow of blood, While war-shout and death-groan swell high o’er the flood! As meet the wild billows the deep centr’d rock, Met glorious Clan Conell the fierce Saxon’s shock ; As the wrath of the clouds flash’d the axe of Clan Conell, Till the Saxon lay strewn ’neath the might of O’Don- nell! One warrior alone holds the wide bloody field, With barbed black charger and long lance and shield — Grim, savage, and gory he meets their advance, His broad shield up-lifting and couching his lance. Then forth to the van of that fierce rushing throng Rode a chieftain of tall spear and battle-axe strong, His bracca,* and geochal,** and cochal’sf red fold, And war-horse’s housing, were radiant in gold! Say who is this chief spurring forth to the fray, The wave of whose spear holds yon armed array? And he who stands scorning the thousands that sweep, An army of wolves over shepherdless sheep? The shield of the nation, brave Geoffrey O’Donnell Clan Fodhla’s firm prop is the proud race of Conell, And Maurice Fitzgerald, the scorner of danger, The scourge of the Gael, and the strength of the stranger. The launch’d spear hath torn through target and mail — The couch’d lance hath borne to his crupper the Gael — The steeds driven backwards all helplessly reel; But the lance that lies broken hath blood on its steel ! * Leggings. ** Tunic, f Cloak. 64 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND And now, fierce O’Donnell, thy battle-axe wield — The broad-sword is shiver’d, and cloven the shield, The keen steel sweeps grinding through proud crest and crown — Clan-Fodhla hath triumph’d — the Saxon is down! — Edward Walsh . One great trouble with Ireland in her contest with the Anglo-Normans, as previously with the Danes, was that the Irish chieftains were perpetually at feud with each other. It was this unfortunate weakness that enabled the Anglo-Normans to establish themselves in Ireland. The fierce warriors before whom the Anglo- Saxons went down forever in one day at the battle of Hastings took centuries to subdue Ireland’s warlike sons. They could never have succeeded if the Irish chieftains had foregone their rivalries and presented a united front to the common foe. The O’Neills and O’Donnells, though sprung from the same stock, were bitter rivals, and when Godfrey O’Donnell lay wound- ed after his glorious victory at Credran Kille, O’Neill strove to take advantage of his weakness, as the fol- lowing vigorous ballad relates: THE BATTLE OF LOUGH SWILLY.* All worn, and wan, and sore with wounds, from Cre- dran’s bloody fray In Donegal, for twelve long months, the proud O’Don- nell lay; Around his couch, in bitter grief, his trusty clansmen wait, And silent watch, with aching hearts, his faint and feeble state. * A. D. 1258. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 65 Full sad it was, that gallant chief thus stricken down to see. The wise in hall, the brave in field, the fearless and the free; Tyrowen’s scourge, Tyrconnell’s pride, now as an in- fant weak. And wrung with pain his manly form, all sunk his pallid cheek. His war-shield hangs above him there, his sword is by his bed ; And at the foot his henchman sits, — his bard is by its head ; And on his clairseach wakes at times a soft and sooth- ing strain, And sings the songs of other days to lull his master’s pain. A light wind touched his banner there, and waved it to and fro, And on his couch he raised him up all wearily and slow ; “Oh, bear me forth,” the chieftain said, “and let me view once more, The rustling woods of Gartan side, Lough Betagh’s gentle shore. t “Methinks, upon this burning brow, right pleasant ’twere to feel The fresh breeze from the waters sweep, and o’er it cooling steal ; And see the stag upon the hills, the white clouds drift- ing by, And feel, upon my wasted cheek, God’s sunshine ere I die.” 66 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND It was a summer’s evening, a glorious eve in June, When bright the sun look’d back on hills, all purple in their bloom ; And blue the lake, and fair the sky when down his gillies bore Their wounded chief, on litter soft, to Betagh’s pleas- ant shore. He looked upon the hills and lake — he gazed upon the sky; The very harebell at his foot had beauty for his eye; And o’er his brow, and features pale, a quiet calmness crept, And, leaning back, he closed his eyes, all tranquilly, and slept. But soon his slumber passed away, and suddenly he woke, And thus, with kindling eye and cheek, the wounded warrior spoke : “A war-steed’s tramp is on the heath, and onward cometh fast, And, by the Rood ! a trumpet sounds ! — Hark, ’tis the Red Hand’s blast.” Nor hoof nor horn his vassals heard, nor echo, from the hill ; The lake was calm, the wood was hush’d, and all around was still ; But soon a Kerne all breathless ran and told a stranger train Across the heath was spurring fast, and then in sight it came. “Now, bring me quick my father’s sword,” the noble chieftain said; “My mantle o’er my shoulders fling — place helmet on my head, BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 67 And raise me to my feet, for ne'er shall clansman of my foe Go boasting tell in far Tyrone he saw O'Donnell low!" They brought him there his father's sword, all goodly to behold, His mantle o'er his shoulders cast — its clasp was twisted gold — And on his brow a helmet placed, and then, tho' pale his face, Yet circled by his chiefs he look'd the Monarch of his Race ! And thither came the messenger, O'Niall's henchman he, And proudly o'er the heath he stept, with bearing bold and free, His left hand grasps a sheathed sword — then spake O'Donnell brief, “ Stranger, you come from Clannaboy — what tidings from your chief?" FYTTE II. ‘'High Chief of Donegal" — 'twas thus the clansman back did say — “O'Niall sends you greeting fair, as lord a vassal may, And bids you render homage due, as did your sires before, And unto him this tribute pay ere thrice three days are o'er: "A hundred hawks from out your woods, all trained their prey to get; A hundred steeds from off your hills uncrossed by rider yet; 68 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND A hundred kine from off your plains, the best your land doth know; A hundred hounds from out your halls, to hunt the stag and roe. ,, “Nor hawk, nor hound, nor steed, nor steer, O’Niall gets from me; Nor homage yield, nor tribute send — no vassal clan are we! And be he Lord of Clannaboy, and Chieftain at Tyrone, Yet I am Prince in Donegal — let each man hold his own. “We tread our hills as freeborn men! nor Lord, nor Ruler, know. We bend the knee to God alone — go tell your chieftain so. Mac Carthan’s rocks are hard to climb; Lough Swil- ly’s sides are steep, And what our fathers gave to us, our good right hands shall keep!” The clansman heard in silent rage, then proud his sword he drew, And boldly at O’Donneirs foot the scabbard down he threw ; And waved in air the blade aloft, and blew a trumpet blast — Then folded stern his mantle wide, and o'er the hills he passed. When out of sight, O'Donnell sank, all worn and weak with pain, And from his wounded side, alas, the blood gush’d forth amain; BALLAD HISTORY OE IRELAND 69 But still unquenched his spirit burned, as brightly as of old. And thus he to his vassals spake, in accents calm and bold: “Go, call around Tyrconnell’s chiefs, my warriors tried and true; Send fast a friend to Donal More, a scout to Lisnahue ; Light balefires quick on Easker’s towers, that all the land may know O’Donnell needeth help and haste, to meet his haughty foe. “Oh, could I but my people head, or wield once more a spear, Saint Angus! but we’d hunt their hosts like herds of fallow deer. But vain the wish, since I am -now a faint and failing man. Yet, ye shall bear me to the field, in centre of my clan! “Right in the midst, and lest, perchance, upon the march I die, In my coffin ye shall place me, uncovered let me lie ; And swear ye now, my body cold shall never rest in clay, Until you drive from Donegal O’Niall’s host away.” Then sad and stern, with hand on skian, that solemn oath they swore, And in his coffin placed their chief, and on a litter bore; Tho’ ebbing fast his life-throbs came, yet dauntless in his mood, He marshall’d well Tyrconnell’s chiefs, like leader wise and good. 70 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND FYTTE III. Lough S willy’s sides are thick with spears — O’Niall’s host is there. And proud and gay their battle sheen, their banners flout the air; And haughtily a challenge bold their trumpet bloweth free, When winding down the heath-clad hills, O’Donnell’s band they see. No answer back those warriors gave, but sternly on they stept, And in their centre, curtained black, a litter close is kept, And all their host it guideth fair, as did in Galilee Proud Judah’s tribes the Ark of God, when crossing Egypt’s sea. “What pageant trick is this I see?” O’Niall sternly said ; “Do shaven priests, with stole and pall, Tyrconnell’s rebels head? Then shall they learn how scant I prize such mean and pompous show, O’Hanlon ! you have steeds and men, and yonder is the foe.” Then reined that chief his panting steed, his sword above him flash’d, And “Forward! sons of Coll,” he cried, and o’er the heath he dash’d; And like a rock that thunders down some dried-up torrent’s bed, Clan Hanlon’s horsemen bounded on, young Redmond at their head! BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 71 But M’Sweeney met them in the midst, and check’d their fierce career — M’Sweeney, chief of Fanid broad, with many a moun- tain spear, And he slew their gallant leader, and clove both crest and shield, And wide Clan Hanlon’s horsemen bold are scatter’d thro’ the field! Then rush’d like fire Clan Rory’s race, with shouts that rend the skies, And stricken by M’Gennis stern, the stout M’Sweeney dies; But from the hills O’Cahan bursts, with chiefs of In- nishowen, And falls the Tanist of Iveagh, for O’Niall and Ty- rone ! Then rose the roar of battle loud, as clan met clan in fight, And axe and skian grew red with blood, a sad and woful sight; Yet, in the midst o’er all, unmoved, that litter black is seen, Like some dark rock that lifts its head, o’er ocean’s war serene! Yet once, when blenching back fierce Bryan’s charge before, Tyrconnell waver’d in its ranks, and all was nearly o’er, Aside those curtains wide were flung, and plainly to the view, Each host beheld O’Donnell there, all pale and wan in hue. 72 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND And to his tribes he stretch'd his hands, and pointed to the foe, And with a shout they rally round, and on Clan Hugh they go ; And back they beat their horsemen fierce, and in a column deep, With O'Donnell in their foremost rank, in one fierce charge they sweep. And on that host a panic came — a panic and a fear — And then their hearts wax faint and low — their hands drop sword and spear; And stricken by the ghastly sight, despite their leaders high, They shrink before O’Donnell's face, and turn their steeds and fly! In vain O'Niall dash’d along, with banner in his hand, And for the honour of Tyrone, he bade them turn and stand ; In wild affright his squadrons flee, as ebbs the tide away, Tho' the north wind strives to check it, in Dundrum's rocky bay ! Lough S willy’s banks are thick with spears ! — O’Niall’s host is there. But rent and tost like tempest-clouds, Clan Donnell in the rere, Lough Swilly's waves are red with blood, as madly in its tide, O'Niall's horsemen wildly plunge, to reach the other side! And broken is Tyro wen's pride, and vanquish'd Clan- naboy, BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 73 And there is wailing thro’ the land, from Ban to Aughnacloy ; The Red Hand’s crest is bent in grief, upon its shield a stain. For its stoutest clans are broken — its bravest chiefs are slain. But proud and high Tyrconnell shouts; but blending on the gale, Upon the ear ascendeth now a sad and sullen wail ; For on that field, as back they bore, from chasing of the foe, The spirit of O’Donnell fled — oh, woe for Ulster, woe ! Yet died he there all gloriously — a victor in the fight — A Chieftain at his people’s head, a warrior in his might, They dug him there a fitting grave, upon that field of pride — And a lofty cairn raised above, by fair Lough Swilly’s side. Every one who has ever been in Ireland knows that it is, so to say, covered with glorious monastic ruins. The Danes destroyed many of the churches and mon- asteries that had come down from the earlier ages. When their power was broken and Ireland had re- covered somewhat from their ravages, churches and monasteries began to spring up once more. Some of the most famous of the churches whose ruins still remain date from this period, such as Mellifont, Cong, Knockmoy, Holy-cross and others. The Anglo-Nor- mans, being religiously disposed like the Irish, built 74 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND and endowed many others. The following ballad tells the tale of this phase of Ireland’s history. Holy-cross Abbey was founded A. D. 1181 by Donald O’Brien, King of Limerick and North Munster, for the Cister- tians, an order which had been introduced into Ireland a short time before by St. Malachi : HOLY-CROSS ABBEY. "From the high sunny headlands of Bere in the west, To the bowers that by Shannon’s blue waters are blest, I am master unquestion’d and absolute,” said The lord of broad Munster — King Donald the Red. "And now that my scepter’s no longer the sword, In the wealthiest vale my dominions afford, I will build me a temple of praise to that Power Who buckler’d my breast in the battle’s dread hour.” He spoke — it was done — and with pomp such as glows Round a sunrise in summer that Abbey arose. There sculpture her miracles lavish’d around, Until stone spoke a worship diviner than sound. There from matins to midnight the censers were sway- ing, And from matins to midnight the people were praying ; As a thousand Cistertians incessantly raised Hosannas round shrines that with jeweU’ry blazed; While the palmer from Syria — the pilgrim from Spain, Brought their offerings alike to the far-honour’d fane ; And, in time, when the wearied O’Brien laid down At the feet of Death’s Angel his cares and his crown, Beside the high altar a canopied tomb Shed above his remains its magnificent gloom, And in Holy-cross Abbey High Masses were said, Through the lapse of long ages, for Donald the Red. CHALICE OF ARDAGH BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 75 In the days of my musings, I wander’d alone, To this fane that had flourish’d ere Norman was known ; And its drear desolation was saddening to see, For its towers were an emblem, O Erin, of thee ! All was glory in ruins — below and above — From the traceried turret that shelter’d the dove, To the cloisters dim stretching in distance away, Where the fox skulked at twilight in quest of his prey. Here, soar’d the vast chancel superbly alone, While pillar and pinnacle moulder’d around — There, the choir’s richest fretwork in dust overthrown, With corbel and chapiter cumber’d the ground. O’er the porphyry shrine of the Founder all riven, No lamps glimmer’d now but the cressets of heaven — From the tombs of crusader, and abbot, and saint, Emblazonry, scroll, and escutcheon were rent; While usurping their banners’ high places, o’er all, The Ivy — dark mourner — suspended her pall. With deeper emotions the spirit would thrill, In beholding wherever the winter and rain Swept the dust from the relics it cover’d — that still Some hand had religiously glean’d them again. Then I turn’d from the scene, as I mournfully said — “God’s rest to the soul of King Donald the Red.” — D. Simmons . One of the most famous soldiers that Ireland has ever produced and certainly the foremost figure in the wars of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, was Art Mac Murrogh, a member of the same family as Der- mot Mac Murrogh, who had induced the Anglo-Nor- mans to invade Ireland. He was a brilliant strategist, 76 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND as well as a dashing leader, and he succeeded in rescu- ing many fortified places from the hands of the in- vaders and in very much circumscribing their power. His influence and his power were so great that King Richard II. of England found it necessary more than once to go to Ireland in person so as to animate his troops by his presence. But he could not prevail against the stalwart Irish chieftain of whom D’Arcy McGee writes: “In the Irish history of the Middle Ages — from Brian's era to Hugh O’Neill’s — he has no equal for prudence, foresight, perseverance, valor and success.” He died at New Ross in Wexford, A. D. 14 1 7, aged about sixty years. THE LIFE AND DEATH OF ART MAC MURROGH. When Dynasts and Tanists, arrayed on the heather For Erin, and vengeance took counsel together, Whose foot than the red deer’s was freer and lighter? Whose eye than the eagle’s was keener and brighter? Whose voice than the peal of the thunder was louder ? Whose bearing than that of a monarch’s was prouder ? Whose plume was the haughtiest, air-borne, flying? Whose sword flashed the brightest o’er dead and o’er dying ? Though Saxons in herds should his person environ, Whose grasp on- the war-horse was rigid as iron? Whose heart beat the lightest in trial and danger ? Whose hate was the blackest for Saxon and stranger ? Oh, whose but MacMurrogh’s, the pride of his sire- land, The sword and the buckler, the war-god of Ireland; The Pale’s-men and Saxons like rabbits would burrow In fastness and fortress, with fear of MacMurrogh! BALLAD HISTORY OK IRELAND 77 When Kileas was chaunting where red wine was flow- ing— When eyes sparkled brightly on cheeks hotly glow- ing— Whom first did they laud, and to whom first give honour ? The Calnach, O’Nolan, O’Brien, or O’Connor? — Oh! who but MacMurrogh, the chieftain so glorious, O’er Norman and Saxon forever victorious. At the gates of the Pale, on the banks of King’s River, Of glory and fame he made hand-maids forever. When Ormond fled fast to the Pale, for a haven, Leaving Mortimer’s corpse to the wolf and the raven, The castle of Wexford he gave to the burning, Their ramparts and bulwarks in dust overturning, At Athcroe, the ford of the blood-tarnish’d water, Lord Thomas of England got pale for the slaughter ; By Butler and Perrers the tale was out-spoken Of all that Art did when his vengeance was woken. The swords of the foemen he heap’d up to heaven, Their owners lying near them, by thousands, un- shriven — E’en Richard of England confess’d him his master When blow follow’d blow, and disaster, disaster. From forest and fastness, from hill-top and valley, How bravely he’d dash— oh, how wildly he’d sally ! ’Till Saxon blood flow’d like a stream from its foun- tain, Then hie him again to his haunts in the mountain ; Oh ! many the hearts, neither fickle nor hollow, Would leave kine to starve, and untill’d leave the furrow, When raised was your proud flag, thou dauntless Mac- Murrogh. 78 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND As strong as an oak, and as tall as a cedar — By birthright a Monarch, by nature a Leader — On self and his own gallant hosting reliant, Of Richard and all his mailed nobles defiant — Of large heart and loving, the foremost to rally Around him the septs of the mountain and valley ; O’Brien, and MacDavid, O’Toole, and O’Connor, All loved of green Ireland, all spotless of honour — Through gloom, and , through danger would follow, and find him And peal in the fierce fight their war-cries behind him. Ah ! woe for the day, when the hand of Death found him, N With his Maidens and Kerns, and Fileas around him. With weeping and wailing, in sad Ross MacBruin, The Bards and the Brehons foretold the land’s ruin ; The folds of the flag of false Ormond were given With joy to the free air, and breezes of heaven; The heart of the Calvach with anguish was laden, O’Toole of Imayle, wept aloud like a maiden, O’Nolan, O’Brien, and MacDavid, in sorrow, Looked down on their hostings, and thought on the morrow. The sable-cowl’d friars the death mass were singing — The maidens in anguish, their white hands were wring- ing, By river, by lake, in each valley and high-land, The Death Caoine was raised for the pride of the island — The kine roam’d at large, and untill’d lay the furrow, When death struck the haughty, and mighty MacMur- rogh. — William Pembroke Mulchinock , I BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 79 One of the most cherished social institutions of the Irish was that of fosterage. By this is meant that the child of a chieftain was given over to be suckled by some young woman of lower rank. It formed a link sometimes even stronger than blood between the noble child and the family of its foster parents, and par- ticularly the child whose natural rights it was per- mitted to share. This Irish custom was one of those adopted by the Anglo-Norman lords. When Silken Thomas, the tenth Earl of Kildare, rose in rebellion against Henry VIII. of England, he committed the command of his great Castle of Maynooth to his fos- ter brother, Christopher Parez. He was not a man animated by the true spirit of fosterage and so he entered into negotiations with the English commander for the betrayal of his trust, with what result to him- self the following ballad tells. The rebellion of Silken Thomas originated in a mistaken rumor that Gerald, his father, the ninth Earl, had been murdered by Henry in prison. The rebellion ended in disaster and Thomas and his five uncles were executed at Tyburn A. D. 1537. THE SIEGE OF MAYNOOTH.* Crom, Crom-aboo ! The Geraldine rebels from proud Maynooth, And with him are leagued four hundred, the flower of Leinster’s youth. * A. D. 1535. 8o BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND Take heart once more, O Erin ! The great God gives thee hope; And thro' the mists of Time and Woe thy true Life’s portals ope! Earl Thomas of the Silken Robes ! — here doubtless burns thy soul ! Thou beamest here a Living Sun, round which thy planets roll! O! would the Eternal Powers above that this were only so! Then had our land, now scorned and banned, been saved a world of woe ! No more! — no more! — it maddeneth so! — But ram- part, keep, and tower, At least are still — long may they be — a part of Ire- land’s power! But — who looks ’mid his warriors from the walls, as gleams a pearl ’Mid meaner stones? ’Tis Parez — foster-brother of the Earl. Enough ! — we shall hear more of him ! Amid the hundred shafts Which campward towards the Saxon host the wind upbears and wafts, One strikes the earth at Talbot’s feet, with somewhat white — a scroll — Impaled upon its barb — O! how exults the leader’s soul ! He grasps it — reads — “Now, by St. George, the day at last is ours ! Before tomorrow’s sun arise we hold yon haughty towers ! BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 81 The craven traitor ! — but, his well ! — he shall receive his hire, And somewhat more to boot, God wot, than perchance he may desire!” Alas! alas; — his all too true! A thousand marks of gold In Parez’ hands, and Leinster's bands are basely bought and sold! Earl Thomas loses fair Maynooth and a hundred of his clan — But, worse! he loses half his hopes, for he loses trust in Man ! The morn is up ; the gates lie wide ; the foe pour in amain. O ! Parez, pride thee in thy plot, and hug thy golden chain ! There are cries of rage from battlements, and mellays beneath in court. But Leinster’s Brave, ere moon blaze high, shall mourn in donjon fort! “Ho! Master Parez! thou?” So spake in the hall the Saxon chief — “How hast thou proved this tentless loon ? But, come, we will stanch thy grief! Count these broad pieces over well !” He flung a purse on the ground, Which in wrathful silence Parez grasped, ’mid the gaze of all around. “So! — right?” “Yes, right, Sir John! Enough! I now depart for home!” “Home, sayest thou, Master Parez? Yes, and by my Halidome, 82 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND Mayest reach that sooner than thou dreamest. But before we part I would a brief, blunt parle with thee. Nay, man, why dost thou start ?” “A sudden spasm, Sir John.” “Ay, ay! those sudden spasms will shock, As when, thou knowest, a traitor lays his head upon the block !” “Sir John!” — “Hush, man, and answer me! Till then thou art in bale — Till then mine enemy and thrall!” The fallen chief turned pale. “Say, have I kept good faith with thee?” “Thou hast — good faith and true!” “I owe thee nought, then?” “Nought, Sir John; the gold lies here to view.” “Thou art the Earl’s own foster-brother?” “Yes, and bosom-friend !” “What?” “Nay, Sir John, I need those pieces, and — ” “ — Come, there’s an end!” “The Earl heaped favours on thee?” “Never King heaped more on Lord!” “He loved thee? honoured thee?” “I was his heart, his arm, his sword !” “He trusted thee?” “Even as he trusted his own lofty soul !” “And thou betrayedst him ? Base wretch ! thou know- est the traitor’s goal! “Ho! Provost-Marshal, hither! Take this losel cai- tiff hence — I mark, methinks, a scaffold under yonder stone de- fence. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 83 Off with his head! By Heaven, the blood within me boils and seethes To look on him! So vile a knave pollutes the air he breathes !” 'Twas but four days thereafter, of a stormy evening late, When a horseman reared his charger in before the castled gate, And gazing upwards, he descried, by the light the pale moon shed, Impaled upon an iron stake, a well known gory head ! “So, Parez! thou hast met thy meed!” he said and turned away — “And was it a foe that thus avenged me on that fatal day? Now, by my troth, albeit I hate the Saxon and his land, I could, methinks, for one brief moment press the Tal- bot's hand !” — /. C. Mangan. The era of religious persecution commenced for Ireland, as for England, when Henry VIII. threw off allegiance to Rome and substituted himself for the Pope as the head of the Church in those kingdoms, — a pretension which the Irish particularly did not choose to admit. It became more acute under Edward VI. and Queen Elizabeth. One way of weaning the Irish nobility from the faith and from their national al- legiance was to seize the persons of noble children, take them to England and educate them at court in English ideas and the new religion and then send them 84 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND back to Ireland to do England’s work. Hugh O’Neill, the famous Irish chieftain, who caused so much trouble to Elizabeth in her later years, was brought up in this way; but when sent back to Ireland as the Earl of Tyrone, he entered into himself and resumed the style and religion of his forefathers. His medita- tions on the subject are thus portrayed for us: THE O’NEILL. * “Can aught of glory or renown To thee from Saxon titles spring? Thy name a kingdom and a crown, Tir-owen’s chieftain, Ulster’s king!” These were the sounds that on the ear Of Tir-owen’s startled Earl arose, That blanch’d his alter’d cheek with fear, And from his pillow chas’d repose. In vain was closed his weary eye, In vain his prayer for peaceful sleep, Still from a viewless spirit nigh, Broke forth in accents loud and deep : “Can aught of glory or renown, To thee from Saxon titles spring? Thy name a kingdom and a crown, Tir-owen’s chieftain, Ulster’s king! “Oft did thy eager youthful ear, Bend to the tale of Thomond’s shame, And in thy pride of blood didst swear To hold with life thy glorious name! * Born 1540. Died 1616. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 85 “Yet thou didst leave thy native land, For honours on a foreign shore, And for submission’s purchas’d brand, Barter’d the name thy fathers bore! “Where are those fathers’ glories gone? The pride of ages that have been ! While tamely bows their traitor son, The vassal of a Saxon Queen; “While still within a dungeon’s walls, Ardmira’s fetter’d prince reclines, While Imayle for her chieftain calls, Who in a distant prison pines; “While from that corse, yet reeking warm, O’er his own fields the life-streams flow, Well mayst thou start! that mangled form Once was thy friend, Mac Mahon Roe. “Forget’st thou that a vessel came To Cineal’s strand, in gaudy pride, Fraught with each store of valued name, That nature gave or art supplied; “No voice to bid the youth beware, Of banquets by the Saxon spread; He tasted, and the treacherous snare Clos’d o’er the young O’Donnell’s head. “Hopeless, desponding, still he lies, No aid his griefs to soothe or end; And oft in vain his languid eyes Turn bright’ning on his father’s friend ; “Who was that friend? — a chief of power, The guardian of a kingdom’s weal, 86 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND Tir-owen’s pride, and Ulster’s flower, A prince, a hero, The O’Neill! “He at whose war-horn’s potent blast, Twice twenty chiefs in battle tried, Unsheath’d the sword in war-like haste, And ranged their thousands on his side. “But now, he dreads the paths to tread, That lead to honours, power, and fame; And stands, each nobler feeling dead, Nameless, who own’d a monarch’s name. “Shall Ardmir’s prince forever groan, And Imayle’s chief still fetter’d lie? None for Mac Mahon’s blood atone? Nought cheer O’Donnell’s languid eye? “To thee they turn, on thee they rest; Release the chain’d, revenge the dead, Or soon the halls thy sires possest, Shall echo to a stranger’s tread! “And in the sacred chair of stone, The base Ne Gaveloc shalt thou see Receive the name, the power, the throne That once was dear as life to thee! “Arise! for on his native plains His father’s warriors marshall’d round, — O’Donnell, freed from Saxon chains, Shall soon the signal trumpet sound. “And soon, thy sacred cause to air, The brave O’Cahan, at thy call, Shall brandish high the flaming blade, That filled the grasp of Cuie-na-gall ; BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 87 “Resume thy name, in arms arise, Tear from thy breast the Saxon star, And let the coming midnight skies Be crimson’d with thy fires of war ! “And bid around the echoing land The war-horn raise thy vassal powers; And, once again, the Bloody Hand Wave on Dungannon’s royal towers !” — Anon. Hugh O’Neill, the subject of the preceding ballad, was at first inclined, as the ballad indicates, to favor the English side and bring his countrymen to an under- standing with Queen Elizabeth. But at last his bet- ter instincts, Catholic and national, prevailed, and he became the leader of the native Irish, and when op- portunity arose assumed the Irish title — O’Neill. A contemporary and friend, as well as a most dashing soldier was Hugh O’Donnell, of Tyrconnell, who, hav- ing escaped from Dublin Castle, whither he had been brought as a prisoner, became a most active and faithful ally of Hugh O’Neill. The following ballad describes the battle of Beal-An-Atha-Buidh (Beal-an- aw-bwee) or the battle of the Yellow Ford, at which O’Neill had supreme command and O’Donnell was his chief and most efficient lieutenant. The ballad empha- sizes the difference in arms, discipline and food be- tween the two armies ; but the headlong valour of the Irish, fighting for homes and altars, prevailed. The battle was fought on the 14th of August, 1598. After 88 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND varied fortunes, O’Neill died in Rome, a pensioner of the Pope, and is buried in the Church of St. Peter, in Montorio. Hugh O’Donnell died in Spain on the ioth of September, 1602, in the very prime of manhood, and is buried at Valladolid. THE BATTLE OF BEAL-AN-ATHA-BUIDH.* By O’Neill close beleaguer’d, the spirits might droop Of the Saxon — three hundred shut up in their coop, Till Bagenal drew forth his Toledo, and swore, On the sword’s of a soldier to succour Portmore. His veteran troops, in the foreign wars tried — Their features how bronz’d, and how haughty their stride — Stept steadily on! it was thrilling to see That thunder-cloud brooding o’er Beal-An-Atha- Buidh. The flash of their armour, inlaid with fine gold,— Gleaming match locks and cannons that mutteringly roll’d — With the tramp and the clank of those stern cuiras- siers, Dyed in blood of the Flemish and French cavaliers. And are the mere Irish, with pikes and with darts, — With but glibb-cover’d heads, and but rib-guarded hearts — Half-naked, half-fed, with few muskets, no guns — The battle to dare against England’s stout sons ? Poor Bonnochts, and wild Gallow-glasses, and Kern — Let them war with rude brambles, sharp furze, and dry fern; * A. D. 1598. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 89 Wirrastrue for their wives — for their babes ochanie, If they wait for the Saxon at Beal-An-Atha-Buidh. Yet O’Neill standeth firm — few and brief his com- mands — “Ye have hearts in your bosoms, and pikes in your hands ; Try how far ye can push them, my children, at once ; Fag-a-Bealach ! — and down with horse, foot, and great guns. “They have gold and gay arms — they have biscuit and bread ; Now, sons of my soul, we’ll be found and be fed;” And he clutch’d his claymore, and — “Look yonder,” laughed he, “What a grand commissariat for Beal-An-Atha- Buidh.” Near the chief, a grim tyke, an O’Shanaghan stood, His nostril dilated seemed snuffing for blood; Rough and ready to spring, like the wiry wolf-hound Of Ierne, who, tossing his pike, with a bound, Cried, “My hand to the Sassanach ! ne’er may I hurl Another to earth if I call him a churl! He finds me in clothing, in booty, in bread — My chief, won’t O’Shanaghan give him a bed?” “Land of Owen, aboo!” and the Irish rush’d on — The foe fir’d but one volley — their gunners are gone; Before the bare bosoms the steel-coats have fled, Or, despite casque or corslet, lie dying and dead. And brave Harry Bagenal, he fell while he fought With many gay gallants — they slept as men ought ; 90 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND Their faces to Heaven — there were others, alack! By pikes overtaken, and taken aback. And my Irish got clothing, coin, colours, great store, Arms, forage, and provender — plunder go leor! They munch'd the white manchets — they champ'd the brown chine, Fiulleluah ! for that day, how the natives did dine ! The Chieftain looked on, when O'Shanaghan rose, And cried, /'Hearken O'Neill; I've a health to pro- pose: 'To our Sassanach hosts V” and all quaffed in huge glee. With Cead mile failte go, Beal-An-Atha-Buidh ! — William Drennan. In the year 1642, on the 24th day of October, the Confederation of Kilkenny was formed. It was a union of the Catholics of Ireland, Norman and Irish, to oppose the English Puritans, and while maintain- ing their right to an Irish Parliament and the free exercise of their religion, to proclaim allegiance to Charles I., King of England, who was then engaged in a life-or-death struggle with his enemies. To aid the Irish Catholics with money, arms and advice, Pope Innocent X. sent John Baptist Rinuccini, Bishop of Fermo in Italy. He stood staunchly for Catholic rights and was supported faithfully by Owen Roe O'Neill, the native Irish leader, and generally by the Irish — while the Anglo-Normans, or rather Norman- Irish element, were willing to make a treaty and ac- BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 91 cept terms that were not satisfactory to Rinuccini or the native Irish leaders. The following ballad repre- sents the sentiment of an Irish Ulster chieftain of this period — utterly opposed to any counsels of prud- ence — and bitterly distrustful of the Norman Irish. The Confederation of Kilkenny ended in disaster ; Owen Roe died, Rinuccini sailed back to Italy, and Cromwell, having no worthy soldier pitted against him, over-ran the country and left behind him traces that remain to this day. THE MUSTER OF THE NORTH. Joy! joy! the day is come at last, the day of hope and pride, And see! our crackling bonfires light old Banna’s joyful tide. And gladsome bell, and bugle horn, from Inbhar’s captured towers, Hark ! how they tell the Saxon swine, this land is ours, is ours ! Glory to God! my eyes have seen the ransomed fields of Down, My ears have drunk the joyful news, “Stout Phelim hath its own.” Oh ! may they see and hear no more, oh ! may they rot to clay, When they forget to triumph in the conquests of today. Now, now we’ll teach the shameless Scot to purge his thievish maw. Now, now the courts may fall to pray, for justice is the law, 92 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND Now shall the Undertaker square for once his loose accounts, We'll strike, brave boys, a fair result, from all his false amounts. Come, trample down their robber rule, and smite its venal spawn, Their foreign laws, their foreign Church, their ermine and their lawn, With all the specious fry of fraud that robb'd us of our own ; And plant our ancient laws again, beneath our lineal throne. Our standard flies o'er fifty towers, o'er twice ten thousand men; Down have we plucked the pirate Red, never to rise again ; The Green alone shall stream above our native field and flood — The spotless Green, save where its folds are gemmed with Saxon blood! Pity ! no, no ; you dare not, Priest — not you, our Father, dare Preach to us now that Godless creed — the murderer's blood to spare; To spare his blood, while tombless still our slaughtered kin implore “Graves and revenge" from Gobbin-Cliffs and Car- rick's bloody shore! Pity! could we “forget- forgive" if we were clods of clay Our martyred priests, our banished chiefs, our race in dark decay? BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 93 And worse than all, you know it, priest — the daughters of our land, With wrongs we blushed to name until the sword was in our hand! Pity! well if you needs must whine, let pity have its way. Pity for all our comrades true, far from our side to- day; The prison-bound who rot in chains, the faithful dead who poured Their blood ’neath Temple’s lawless axe or Parsons’ ruffian sword. They smote us with the swearer’s oath, and with the murderer’s knife. We in the open field will fight, fairly for land and life; But, by the Dead and all their wrongs, and by our hopes today, One of us twain shall fight their last, or be it we or they. They bann’d our faith, they bann’d our lives, they trod us into earth. Until our very patience stirred their bitter hearts to mirth ; Even this great flame that wraps them now, not we but they have bred; Yes, this is their own work, and now, their work be on their head. Nay, Father, tell us not of help from Leinster’s Nor- man Peers, If that we shape our holy cause to match their selfish fears — 94 BALLAD HISTORY OR IRELAND Helpless and hopeless be their cause, who brook a vain delay, Our ship is launched, our flag's afloat, whether they come or stay. Let Silken Howth and savage Slane still kiss their tyrant's rod, And pale Dunsany still prefer his Master to his God ; Little we heed their fathers’ sons, the Marchmen of the Pale, If Irish hearts and Irish hands have Spanish blades and mail. Then let them stay to bow and fawn, or fight with cunning words; I fear me more their courtly arts than England's hire- ling swords; Natheless their creed they hate us still, as the despoiler hates. Could they love us and love their prey — our kinsmen's lost estates! Our rude array's a jagged rock to smash the spoiler's power, Or need we aid. His aid we have who doomed this gracious hour; Of yore He led His Hebrew host to peace through strife and pain, And us He leads the self-same path, the self-same goal to gain. s Down from the sacred hills whereon a Saint com- muned with God, Up from the vale where Bagnall's blood manured the reeking sod, BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 95 Out from the stately woods of Truagh, M’Kenna’s plundered home, Like Malin’s waves, as fierce and fast, our faithful clansmen come. Then, brethren, on! — O’Neill's dear shade would frown to see you pause — Our banished Hugh, our martyred Hugh, lie’s watch- ing o’er your cause — His gen’rous error lost the land — he deem’d the Nor- man true, Oh, forward! friends, it must not lose the land again in you ! — C. G avail Duffy. Owen Roe O’Neill, nephew of Hugh O’Neill, was, as I have already insinuated, from the military stand- point, the brain and the strong right arm of the Con- federation of Kilkenny. O11 the 6th of June, 1646, he engaged General Monro and his army in battle, and though commanding an inferior force, by sheer gener- alship won a signal victory. Rinnucini sent the glad tidings to Rome, and the Pope, to show his apprecia- tion, sent to Owen Roe from Rome the sword of his uncle Hugh, which had been treasured there. Not- withstanding the dissensions that arose between Nor- man and native Irish, Owen kept his army in the field in good fighting condition and was actually on the march from the north of Ireland to the relief of Wex- ford, when he fell ill of gout. For some days he was carried on a litter at the head of his army. But at last he took shelter at Clough-Oughter Castle and 96 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND there on the 6th day of November, 1649, he died, be- ing at the time about fifty )^ears of age. The rumor spread abroad that he had been poisoned and the fol- lowing aims to express at once the fury and the con- sternation and grief of the Irish clansmen at the treacherous taking-off of their beloved leader: LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF EOGHAN RUADH O’NEILL. * “Did they dare, did they dare, to slay Eoghan Ruadh 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 Eoghan Ruadh ! “Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bit- ter words.” “From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to mea- sure swords; But the weapon of the Sassanach met him on his way, And he died at Cloch Uachtar, upon St. Leonard’s Day.” “Wail, wail, ye for the Mighty One! Wail, wail ye for the dead; Quench the hearth, and hold the breath, with ashes strew the head. How tenderly we loved him! How deeply we de- plore ! Holy Saviour ! but to think we shall never see him more ! * A. D. 1649. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 97 “Sagest in the council was he, kindest in the hall ; Sure we never won a battle — 'twas Eoghan won them all. Had he lived — had he lived — our dear country had been free; But he's dead, but he's dead, and 'tis slaves we'll ever be. “O'Farrell and Clanrickarde, Preston and Red Hugh, Audley and McMahon — ye are valiant, wise and true ; But — what, what are ye all to our darling who is gone? The rudder of our ship was he, our castle's corner- stone ! “Wail, wail him through the Island! Weep, weep for our pride! Would that on the battlefield, our gallant chief had died ! Weep the Victor of Beann-bhorbh — weep him, young men and old ; Weep for him, ye women, your Beautiful lies cold ! “We thought you would not die, we were sure you would not go And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow. Sheep without a shepherd when the snow shuts out the sky — Oh! why did you leave us, Eoghan? why did you die? “Soft as woman's was your voice, O’Neill; bright was your eye; Oh! why did you leave us, Eoghan, why did you die? Your troubles are all over, you're at rest with God on high; But we're slaves, and we're orphans, Eoghan! — why did you die?" — Thomas Davis. 98 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND When James VI. of Scotland became King of Eng- land as James I., the Irish people, not without some show of reason, expected that the son of the perse- cuted and martyred Mary, Queen of Scots, would show favor to the Irish Catholics. They were, how- ever, soon undeceived, and the first wholesale confisca- tion of Irish land took place during his reign and at his suggestion. Scotch and English Protestants were introduced into Ulster as settlers and the rents went to certain London companies. This is what is known as the Plantation of Ulster. After the death of Crom- well the Stuarts were restored to the English throne in the person of Charles II. He was succeeded by his brother, James II., in some respects* a brave, but headstrong and incompetent man, who, however, being a Catholic himself, was decidedly favorable to Catho- lic interests both in England and Ireland. When William of Orange, his son-in-law, was called to the English throne, the Irish espoused the cause of James. When his cause was lost in England, he crossed over to Ireland and gathered about him a fine army, but of course without the equipment that William’s army could command. A great battle was fought at the River Boyne, which resulted in the defeat of the Irish forces, owing largely to the poor judgment of King James. When James was turning his rein in flight, Sarsfield, the commander of the Irish Horse, is said to have^ exclaimed in bitterness : “Change kings, and we will fight it over again,” and even English and Orange authorities think he was right in his estimate BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 99 of things. The following ballad is written from the Orange standpoint; but there is a sympathetic allu- sion to the heart-wrung cry of the Irish leader. The Battle of the Boyne, remains, however, a landmark, as it were, in Irish history. It was fought on July 1, 1690. THE BATTLE OF THE BOYNE. It was upon a summer’s morn, unclouded rose the sun, And lightly o’er the waving corn, their way the breezes won ; Sparkling beneath that orient beam, ’mid banks of verdure gay, Its eastward course a silver stream held smilingly away. A kingly host upon its side a monarch camp’d around. Its southern upland far and wide their white pavilions crowned ; Not long that sky unclouded show’d, nor long beneath the ray That gentle stream in silver flowed, to meet the new- born day. Through yonder fairy-haunted glen, from out that dark ravine, Is heard the tread of marching men, the gleam of arms is seen; And splashing forth in bright array along yon verdant banks, All eager for the coming fray, are rang’d the martial ranks, ioo BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND Peals the loud gun — its thunders boom the echoing vales along, While curtain’d in its sulph’rous gloom moves on the gallant throng; And foot and horse in mingled mass, regardless all of life, With furious ardour onward pass to join the deadly strife. Nor strange that with such ardent flame each glowing heart beats high, Their battle word is William’s name, and “Death or Liberty!” Then, Oldbridge, then thy peaceful bowers with sounds unwonted rang, And, Tredagh, ’mid thy distant towers, was heard the mighty clang. The silver stream is crimson’d wide, and clogg’d with many a corse, As floating down its gentle tide come mingled man and horse. Now fiercer grows the battle rage, the guarded stream is cross’d, And furious, hand to hand engage each bold contend- ing host. He falls — the veteran hero* falls, renowned along the Rhine- — And he,** whose name, while Derry’s walls endure, shall brightly shine. Oh! would to heav’n that churchman bold, his arms with triumph blest, The soldier spirit had controll’d that fir’d his pious breast. * Duke Schomberg. ** Walker — a preacher. BALLAD HISTORY OR IRELAND ioi And he* the chief of yonder brave and persecuted band, Who foremost rush’d amid the wave, and gain’d the hostile strand; He bleeds, brave Caillemotte — he bleeds — ’tis clos’d, his bright career, Yet still that band to glorious deeds his dying accents cheer. And now that well contested strand successive col- umns gain, While backward James’s yielding band are borne across the plain. In vain the sword Green Erin draws, and life away doth fling — Oh ! worthy of a better cause and of a bolder king. In vain thy bearing bold is shown upon that blood- stain’d ground ; Thy tow’ring hopes are overthrown, thy choicest fall around. Nor, shamed, abandon thou the fray, nor blush, though conquer’d there, A power against thee fights today no mortal arm may dare. Nay, look not to that distant height in hope of com- ing aid — The dastard thence has ta’en his flight, and left thee all betray’d. Hurrah! Hurrah! the victor shout is heard on high Donore ; Down Platten’s vale, in hurried rout, thy shatter’d masses pour. * Caillemotte — a Huguenot. 102 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND But many a gallant spirit there retreats across the plain. Who, change but kings, would gladly dare that battle- field again. Enough ! enough ! the victor cries ; your fierce pursuit forbear, Let grateful prayer to heaven arise and vanquished freemen spare. Hurrah! hurrah! for liberty, for her the sword we drew, And dared the battle, while on high our Orange ban- ners flew; Woe worth the hour — woe worth the state, when men shall cease to join, With grateful hearts to celebrate the glories of the Boyne. — Colonel Blacker . After the Battle of the Boyne James fled to France, and the Irish soldiers fell back upon Limerick City, determined to continue the struggle in their own interest. They were accompanied by the French regi- ments sent over by King Louis of France, which had been with them at the Boyne but for some reason had taken little part in the fight. When the French officers examined the defences of Limerick they were unwill- ing to take shelter behind them. Lauzun, their chief engineer, declared they could be battered down with roasted apples. The French retired to Galway to take shipping for France, all but one stout-hearted gentle- man, De Boisseleau, who volunteered to remain. When BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 103 King William and his army drew up at last before Limerick he expected that the capture of the city would occupy only a few days. He found, however, that no matter how weak the walls might be they were defended by stout hearts and willing hands. He sent to Waterford for a siege train of guns of greater calibre than any he had with him. Sarsfield heard of their coming and started out of Limerick by night to intercept them. With his horsemen he lay hidden all day among the hills of the County Clare, and at night rushed down upon the convoy and put them to the sword or to flight. He piled the guns together, filled them with powder and blew them up, and the noise of the explosion carried the first news of their destruc- tion to William's ears. He sent for a new train and continued the siege, but without result. When he succeeded at last in making a practical breach in the walls he found within the gap not merely the men, but the women of Limerick, determined at all cost to resist the invader and save their city. Their glorious valour was crowned for the time at least with complete success and William was forced to withdraw his army and ultimately to return to England, leaving the Irish unsubdued. The following three ballads have refer- ence to this thrilling event in Irish history : THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK.* Oh, hurrah ; for the men who when danger is nigh, Are found in the front, looking death in the eye. Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick’s wall, * A. D. 1690. io 4 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all. King William's men round Limerick lay, His cannon crashed from day to day, Till the southern wall was swept away, At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. 'Tis afternoon, yet hot the sun, When William fires the signal gun, And, like its flash, his columns run On the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. Yet, hurrah! for the men who when danger is nigh, Are found in the front looking death in the eye. Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick's wall, And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all. The breach gaped out two perches wide, The fosse is filled, the batteries plied ; Can the Irishmen that onset bide At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas? Across the ditch the columns dash, Their bayonets o'er the rubbish flash, When sudden comes a rending crash From the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. Then, hurrah ! for the men who, when danger is nigh, Are found in the front, looking death in the eye. Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick's wall, And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all. The bullets rain in pelting shower, And rocks and beams from wall and tower ; The Englishmen are glad to cower At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. But rallied soon, again they pressed, Their bayonets pierced full many a breast, Till they bravely won the breach's crest At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 105 Yet, hurrah! for the men who, when danger is nigh, Are found in the front, looking death in the eye. Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick’s wall, And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all. Then fiercer grew the Irish yell, And madly on the foe they fell, Till the breach grew like the jaws of hell — Not the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. The women fought before the men, Each man became a match for ten, So back they pushed the villains then, From the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. Then, hurrah ! for the men who, when danger is nigh, Are found in the front, looking death in the eye. Hurrah! for the men who kept Limerick’s wall, And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all. But Brandenburgh the ditch has crost, And gained our flank at little cost. The bastion’s gone — the town is lost ; Oh ! poor city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. When, sudden, Sarsfield springs the mine, Like rockets rise the Germans fine, And come down dead ’mid smoke and shine, At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. So, hurrah! for the men who, when danger is nigh, Are found in the front, looking death in the eye. Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick’s wall, And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all. Out, with a roar, the Irish sprung, And back the beaten English flung, Till William fled, his lords among, From the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. ’Twas thus was fought that glorious fight, io6 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND By Irishmen, for Ireland’s right — May all such days have such a night As the battle of Luimneach linn-ghlas. — Thomas Davis. A BALLAD OF SARSFIELD; OR, THE BURST- ING OF THE GUNS. * Sarsfield went out the Dutch to rout, And to take and break their cannon; To Mass went he at half-past three, And at four he crossed the Shannon. Tirconnel slept. In dream his thoughts Of fields of victory ran on; And the chieftain of Thomond in Limerick’s towers Slept well by the banks of Shannon. He rode ten miles and he cross’d the ford, And couch’d in the wood and waited ; Till, left and right, on march’d in sight That host which the true man hated. “Charge !” Sarsfield cried ; and the green hill-side As they charged replied in thunder ; They rode o’er the plain and they rode o’er the slain, And the rebel rout lay under ! He burn’d the gear the knaves held dear, — For his king he fought, not plunder; With powder he cramm’d the guns, and ramm’d Their mouths the red soil under. The spark flash’d out — like a nation’s shout, The sound into heaven ascended ; * A. D. 1690. BALLAD HISTORY OR IRELAND 107 The hosts of the sky made to each reply, And the thunders twain were blended ! Sarsfield went out the Dutch to rout, And to take and break their cannon, — A century after, Sarsfield’s laughter Was echo’d from Dungannon. — Aubrey de V ere. THE BLACKSMITH OF LIMERICK. He grasped his ponderous hammer, he could not stand it more, To hear the bombshells bursting, and thundering bat- tle’s roar; He said, “The breach they’re mounting, the Dutch- man’s murdering crew — I’ll try my hammer on their heads, and see what that can do ! “Now, swarthy Ned and Moran, make up that iron well, ’Tis Sarsfield’s horse that wants the shoes, so mind not shot or shell.” “Ah, sure,” cried both, “the horse can wait — for Sars- field’s on the wall, And where you go, we’ll follow, with you to stand or fall !” The blacksmith raised his hammer, and rushed into the street, His ’prentice boys behind him, the ruthless foe to meet — High on the breach of Limerick, with dauntless hearts they stood, Where bombshells burst, and shot fell thick, and redly ran the blood. io8 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND “Now look you, brown-haired Moran, and mark you, swarthy Ned, This day we’ll prove the thickness of many a Dutch- man’s head! Hurrah ! upon their bloody path they’re mounting gal- lantly ; And now the first that tops the breach, leave him to this and me!” The first that gained the rampart, he was a captain brave, — * A captain of the grenadiers, with blood-stained dirk and glaive; He pointed, and he parried, but it was all in vain, For fast through skull and helmet the hammer found his brain! The next that topped the rampart, he was a colonel bold, Bright, through the dust of battle, his helmet flashed with gold. “Gold is no match for iron,” the doughty blacksmith said, As with that ponderous hammer he cracked his foe- man’s head. “Hurrah for gallant Limerick!” black Ned and Moran cried, As on the Dutchmen’s leaden heads their hammers well they plied. A bombshell burst between them — one fell without a groan, One leaped into the lurid air, and down the breach was thrown. “Brave smith ! brave smith !” cried Sarsfield, “beware the treacherous mine! BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 109 Brave smith! brave smith! fall backward, or surely death is thine !” The smith sprang up the rampart, and leaped the blood- stained wall. As high into the shuddering air went foeman, breach, and all ! Up, like a red volcano, they thundered wild and high, — Spear, gun, and shattered standard, and foeman through the sky; And dark and bloody was the shower that round the blacksmith fell; — He thought upon his 'prentice boys — they were avenged well. On foeman and defenders a silence gathered down; 'Twas broken by a triumph-shout that shook the an- cient town, As out its heroes sallied, and bravely charged and slew, And taught King William and his men what Irish hearts could do ! Down rushed the swarthy blacksmith unto the river side ; He hammered on the foe's pontoon to sink it in the tide ; The timber it was tough and strong, it took no crack or strain; “Mavrone ! 'twon't break," the blacksmith roared ; “I'll try their heads again !” He rushed upon the flying ranks — his hammer ne'er was slack, For in through blood and bone it crashed, through hel- met and through jack; — no BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND He’s ta’en a Holland captain, beside the red pontoon, And “Wait you here,” he boldly cries; “I’ll send you back full soon ! “Dost see this gory hammer? It cracked some skulls today, And yours ’twill crack if you don’t stand and list to what I say: — Here ! take it to your cursed king, and tell him softly too, ’Twould be acquainted with his skull, if he were here, not you!” The blacksmith sought his smithy, and blew his bel- lows strong; He shod the steed of Sarsfield, but o’er it sang no song. “Ochone! my boys are dead,” he cried; “their loss I’ll long deplore, But comfort’s in my heart — their graves are red with foreign gore!” — R. D. Joyce. The town of Athlone, in the center of Ireland, was twice besieged during the course of the Williamite war — once before the first siege of Limerick and a second time after it. King William, disgusted by his failure at Limerick, had gone to England, whence he sent all necessary supplies to General Ginckle, his commander, in Ireland. The Irish also had received some neces- sary supplies from France and the services of a brave but vain and unfortunate general officer named St. Ruth. The English advanced upon Athlone, battered BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND m down the walls of the English side of the town, and would have forced their way to the Irish side in Con- naught if the heroic bravery of some companies of Irish soldiery had not withstood them. The two portions of the town were connected by a stone bridge over the Shannon. These companies held the English forces at bay in front while their comrades tore down the arches behind. When at last the bridge was destroyed they threw away their arms, leaped into the river and swam to safety. This was a glorious feat, but a still braver one was yet to come. The English managed to repair the bridge with planks, under cover of night and a heavy bombardment. Dismay took possession of the Irish when they discovered what had been done. But a gallant Irish soldier asked if there were ten men willing to die for Ireland. A hundred answered in reply. Sergeant Custume and his ten gallant com- rades dashed upon the bridge and set to work. A vol- ley laid them low. Eleven others took their places; another English volley, and nine more are lying dead ; but the work is done — Athlone for the time is saved. A romantic legend tells us how well Horatius and his comrades kept the bridge over the Tiber against Lars Porsena, “in the brave days of old,” but sober history tells us the story of Custume and his brave comrades. This incident is the subject of the following ballad: A BALLAD OF ATHLONE. * Does any man dream that a Gael can fear, Of a thousand deeds let him learn but one ! * A. D. 1691. 1 12 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND The Shannon swept onward, broad and clear, Between the Leaguers and worn Athlone. “Break down the bridge !” six warriors rushed Through the storm of shot and the storm of shell ; With late, but certain, victory flushed The grim Dutch gunners eyed them well. They wrenched at the planks ’mid a hail of fire ; They fell in death, their work half done ; The bridge stood fast; and nigh and nigher The foe swarmed darkly, densely on. “Oh, who for Erin will strike a stroke? Who hurl yon planks where the waters roar?” Six warriors forth from their comrades broke, And flung them upon that bridge once more. Again at the rocking planks they dashed ; And four dropped dead, and two remained ; The huge beams groaned, and the arch down crashed ; Two stalwart swimmers the margin gained. # St. Ruth in his stirrups stood up and cried, “I have seen no deed like that in France!” With a toss of his head Sarsfield replied, “They had luck, the dogs ! ’Twas a merry chance !” Oh ! many a year upon Shannon’s side They sang upon moor, and they sang upon heath, Of the twain that breasted that raging tide, And the ten that shook bloody hands with Death ! — Aubrey de V ere. BALLAD HISTORY OK IRELAND 113 St. Ruth, through over-confidence, at last lost Ath- lone, and afterwards the battle of Aughrim on the 12th of July, 1691. He died heading a charge for victory, and as no one knew his plans and Sarsfield had been posted at a distance and commanded not to move with- out distinct orders, there was no replacing him. The victory that had almost perched upon the Irish banners turned back affrighted and took refuge with the En- glish enemy. The Irish once more fell back upon Limerick. That fated city underwent another siege, this time, however, unsuccessfully, notwithstanding the bravery of citizens and soldiery. Sarsfield made a treaty with General Ginckle, but had hardly done so when he heard that a French fleet had arrived under the walls of Limerick. The Treaty Stone of Limerick is a perennial monument of Irish fidelity and English prevarication; for the treaty was broken before “the ink wherewith ’twas writ was dry.” THE TREATY STONE OF LIMERICK* The treaty stone of Limerick ! what mem’ries of the past Flash’d through my soul, when first on it mv eves I fondly cast! To see it proudly standing by the lordly Shannon’s flood, And think that there for centuries the grey old stone had stood! How breathless did I listen while my fancy heard it tell, * A. D. 1691. 1 14 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND Of all that, erst, ’micl strife and storm, the olden town befell ; Since proud Le Gros 1 bold kinsman crossed the azure stream alone, Till Chateau Renaud’s frigate weighed, besides the Treaty Stone. The Treaty Stone of Limerick! the monument un- built, Of Irish might, and Irish right — and Saxon shame and guilt — That saw the Prince of Orange the siege obliged to raise, And leave his wounded Brandenburghs to perish in the blaze, When the storied maids and matrons rushed fear- less on the foe, At the breach where fell their kinsmen, by the side of Boisseleau — That saw the vet’ran conqueror of Aughrim and Athlone Forced to comply with D’Usson’s terms — the aged Treaty Stone. The Treaty Stone of Limerick! the ancient city’s pride, That oft rang loud with clash of steel, and oft with blood was dyed ; That saw the hope of Lucan’s Earl — his own un- conquer’d band — With stern resolve, but broken hearts, around it take their stand, That saw him sign the treaty, and saw him sign in vain ; For shamefully ’twas broken, ere the Wild Geese reach’d the main, BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 115 That witnessed the departure and heard the wild Ochone, As Louis's ships dropp'd down the tide that washed the Treaty Stone. The Treaty Stone of Limerick ! — that oft, with magic charm, Lit up in wrath the Irish heart, and nerv’d the Irish arm. What hewed, in scores, at Fontenoy, King George’s cohorts down, But burning thoughts of thee, and home- — the treaty riven town ? And 0I1 ! how Sarsfield’s great heart throbb’d on Lan - den's bloody field, That fast for thee, for fatherland, his life stream he could yield. Thrice holier than the treasure robbed by England’s King from Scone, Is the glory of Old Limerick — the hallowed Treaty Stone ! — Anon. The Irish soldiers of Limerick were given their choice of transportation to France or service in the armies of King William. Of the 14,000 men who marched out of Limerick only one full regiment and a handful of individual soldiers volunteered for En- glish service. The vast majority chose exile rather than such a degradation. The Irish recruits were known afterwards as the “Wild Geese" and, as we shall see, they did most efficient service for the monarchs un- der whose banners they fought. The following ballads n6 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND represent — the one the manly grief of the exiled sol dier, the other the wail of Irish women over the de parture of their loved ones : A SONG OF THE BRIGADE * I snatched a stone from the bloodied brook And hurled it at my household door! No farewell of my love I took; I shall see my friends no more. * I dashed across the church-yard bound; I knelt not by my parents’ graves ; There rang from my heart a clarion’s sound That summoned me o’er the waves. No land to me can native be That strangers trample and tyrants stain: When the valleys I loved are cleansed and free They are mine, they are mine again ! Till then in sunshine and sunless weather, By Seine and Loire, and, the broad Garonne, My war-horse and I roam on together Wherever God wills. On! On! — Aubrey de V ere. THE WILD GEESE * How solemn sad by Shannon’s flood The blush of morning sun appears ! To men who gave for us their blood, Ah ! what can woman give but tears ? How still the field of battle lies ! No shouts upon the breeze are blown ! * A. D. 1691. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 117 We heard our dying country’s cries, We sit deserted and alone. Ogh hone, ogh hone, ogh hone, ogh hone, Ogh hone, etc. Ah! what can woman give but tears! Why thus collected on the strand Whom yet the God of mercy saves, Will ye forsake your native land? Will ye desert your brothers’ graves? Their graves give forth a fearful groan — Oh ! guard your orphans and your wives ; Like us make Erin’s cause your own, Like us for her yield up your lives. Ogh hone, ogh hon£, ogh hone, ogh hone, Ogh hone, etc. Like us for her yield up your lives. — Dr. Drennan . As has been already stated, the native Irish princes and the Anglo-Norman nobles built and endowed from their own resources many of the glorious monasteries whose majestic remains are to be found to this day everywhere throughout Ireland in the sad condition portrayed in the following lament. When Henry VIII., of England, fell out with the Pope because he would not declare null his marriage with Catharine of Arra- gon, and proclaimed himself head of the Church in England, he took occasion from the fact to' plunder the monasteries along with persecuting those who resisted his assumption of spiritual authority. His course of procedure was the same in Ireland ; men were harassed because of their fidelity to the Pope and the monas- 1 18 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND teries were plundered of their most precious posses- sions. What began in the days of Henry VIII. con- tinued under his successors until at last every mon- astic institution was as empty and desolate as that of Timoleague. Many of them are still perfect in out- line — but they all speak alike the faith of their foun- ders — the vandalism of their destroyers. LAMENT OVER THE RUINS OF THE ABBEY TIMOLEAGUE. (From the Irish.) Lone and weary as I wandered by the bleak shore of the sea, Meditating and reflecting on the world's hard des- tiny, Forth the moon and stars 'gan glimmer, in the quiet tide beneath, For on slumbering spring and blossom breathed not out of heaven a breath. On I went in sad dejection, careless where my foot- steps bore. Till a ruined church before me opened wide its an- cient door, — Till I stood before the portals, where of old were wont to be, For the blind, the halt, and leper, alms and hospi- tality. Still the ancient seat was standing, built against the buttress grey, Where the clergy used to welcome weary travellers on their way; BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 119 There I sat me down in sadness, ’neath my cheek I placed my hand, Till the tears fell hot and briny down upon the grassy land. There, I said in woeful sorrow, weeping bitterly the while, Was a time when joy and gladness reigned within this ruined pile ; — Was a time when bells were tinkling, clergy preach- ing peace abroad, Psalms a-singing, music ringing praises to the mighty God. Empty aisle, deserted chancel, tower tottering to 1 your fall, Many a storm since then has beaten on the grey head of your wall ! Many a bitter storm and tempest has your roof-tree turned away, Since you first were formed a temple to the Lord of night and day. Holy house of ivied gables, that were once the coun- try’s boast, Houseless now in weary wandering are your scat- tered, saintly host; Lone you are to-day, and dismal, — joyful psalms no more are heard, Where, within your choir, her vesper screeches the cat-headed bird. Ivy from your eaves is growing, nettles round your green hearthstone, Foxes howl where, in your corners, dropping waters make their moan. 120 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND Where the lark to early matins used your clergy forth to call, There, alas ! no tongue is stirring save the daws up- on the wall. Refectory cold and empty, dormitory bleak and bare! Where are now your pious uses, simple bed and fru- gal fare ? Gone your abbot, rule, and order, broken down your altar stones! Nought I see beneath your shelter, save a heap of clayey bones. Oh ! the hardship — oh ! the hatred, tyranny, and cruel war, Persecution and oppression that have left you as you are ! I myself once also prospered ; — mine is, too, an al- tered plight ; Trouble, care, and age have left me good for nought but grief to-night. Gone, my motion and my vigor — gone, the use of eye and ear; At my feet lie friends and children powerless and corrupting here ; Woe is written on my visage, in a nut my heart would lie— Death’s deliverance were welcome — Father, let the old man die. — Samuel Ferguson. The Penal times in their wider acceptation include the years from the perversion of Henry VIII. in the sixteenth century to the emancipation of Catholics in BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 121 the nineteenth century— a period of well nigh 300 years. In the more confined sense they commence with the surrender of Limerick and the departure of the Irish regiments for France. As Godkin, a Protestant historian, says : “There was established a code framed with the most diabolical ingenuity to extinguish natural affection — to foster perfidy and hypocrisy — to petrify conscience — to perpetuate brutal ignorance — to facili- tate the work of tyranny by rendering the vices of slavery inherent and natural in the Irish character/' The priest and schoolmaster were banned. No Cath- olic could be a member of Parliament or member of a learned profession, could be a juror or even a common soldier, could own a decent farm or inherit free-hold property, or even own a horse worth more than twenty- five dollars. The head of a priest and the head of a wolf were valued at the same price, and the meanest product of hatred — the priest hunter — was encouraged. Education was also peremptorily forbidden. “One sta- tute prohibited a Papist from instructing another; an- other prohibited a Protestant from instructing a Pap- ist ; a third provided that no Papist should be sent out of Ireland to receive instruction. If these three laws had been duly capped by a fourth ordering for execu- tion every Papist who neglected to provide a first-class education for his children, the whole edifice would have been beautifully complete and symmetrical." But the priest managed somehow to remain, so did the school- master, though the altar was often a rude rock, and the school a secluded corner under a hedge. So the faith 122 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND was kept alive and the light of knowledge was not com- pletely extinguished. The history of the world has nothing more cruel to show than the Penal laws. THE PENAL TIME. In that dark time of cruel wrong, when on our coun- try’s breast, A dreary load, a ruthless code, with wasting terrors press’d — Our gentry, stripp’d of land and clan, sent exiles o’er the main. To turn the scales on foreign fields for foreign mon- arch’s gain — Our people trod like vermin down, all fenceless flung to sate Extortion, lust and brutal whim, and rancorous bigot hate — Our priesthood tracked from cave to hut, like felons chased and lashed, And from their ministering hands the lifted chalice dashed ; In that black time of law-wrought crime, of stifling woe and thrall. There stood supreme one foul device, one engine worse than all : Him whom they wished to keep a slave, they sought to make a brute — They banned the light of heaven — they bade in- struction’s voice be mute. God's second priest, the Teacher — sent to feed men’s mind with lore — They marked a price upon his head, as on the priest’s before. Well, well they knew that never, face to face be- neath the sky, / BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 123 Could tyranny and knowledge meet, but one of them should die : That lettered slaves will link their might until their murmurs grow To that imperious thunder-peal which despots quail to know ; That men who learn will learn their strength, the weakness of their lords — Till all the bonds that gird them round are snapt like Samson's cords. This well they knew, and called the power of ignor- ance to aid : So might, they deemed, an abject race of soulless serfs be made — When Irish memories, hopes and thoughts, were withered, branch and stem — A race of abject, soulless serfs to hew and draw for them. Ah, God is good and nature strong — they let not thus decay The seeds that deep in Irish breasts of Irish feeling- lay; Still sun and rain made emerald green the loveliest fields on earth. And gave the type of deathless hope, the little Sham- rock, birth; Still faithful to the holy Church, her direst straits among, To one another faithful still, the priests and people clung, And Christ was worshipped, and received with trembling haste and fear, In field and shed, with ported scouts to warn of blood-hounds near ; 124 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND Still crouching ’neath the sheltering hedge, or stretched on mountain fern, The teacher and his pupils met, feloniously to learn ; Still round the peasant’s heart of hearts his darling music twined A fount of Irish sobs or smiles in every note en- shrined : And still beside the smouldering turf were fond tra- ditions told Of heavenly saints and princely chiefs — the power and faith of old. Deep lay the seeds, yet rankest weeds sprang mingled — could they fail? For what were freedom’s blessed worth, if slavery wrought not bale ? As thrall and want, and ignorance, still deep and deeper grew, What marvel weakness, gloom and strife fell dark amongst us too. And servile thoughts, that measure not the inborn wealth of man — And servile cringe, and subterfuge to ’scape our master’s ban ! — And drunkenness — our sense of woe a little while to steep — And aimless feud, and murderous plot — oh, one could pause and weep! ’Mid all the darkness, faith in Heaven still shone a saving ray, And Heaven o’er our redemption watched, and chose its own good day. Two men were sent us — one for years, with Titan strength of soul. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 125 To beard our foes, to peal our wrongs, to band us and control. The other at a later time, on gentler mission came, To make our noblest glory spring from out our sad- dest shame ! On all our wondrous, upward course hath Heaven its finger set, And we — but, oh, my countrymen, there's much be- fore us yet! How sorrowful the useless powers our glorious Island yields — Our countless havens desolate, our waste of barren fields, The all unused mechanic-might our rushing streams afford, The buried treasure of our mines, our sea's unvalued hoard ! But, oh, there is one piteous waste whence all the rest have grown, One worse neglect, the mind of man left desert and unsown. Send knowledge forth to scatter wide, and deep to cast its seeds, The nurse of energy and hope, of manly thoughts and deeds. Let it go forth: right soon will spring those forces in its train That vanquish Nature's stubborn strength, that rifle earth and main — Itself a nobler harvest far than Autumn tints with gold. 126 BALLAD HISTORY OE IRELAND A higher wealth, a surer gain, than wave and mine unfold ; Let it go forth unstained, and purged from pride's unholy leaven, With fearless forehead raised to man, bur humbly bent to Heaven. Deep let it sink in Irish hearts, the story of their Isle, And awaken thoughts of tenderest love, and burning love the while ; And press upon us, one by one, the fruits of English sway, And blend the wrongs of bygone times with this our fight to-day ; And show our father's constancy by truest instinct led, To loathe and battle with the power that on their substance fed; And let it place beside our own the world’s vast page, to tell That never lived the nation yet could rule another well. Thus, thus our cause shall gather strength, no feeling vague and blind, But stamped by passion on the heart, by reason on the mind. Let it go forth a mightier foe to England’s power than all The rifles of America — the armaments of Gaul ! It shall go forth, and woe to them that bar or thwart its way; ’Tis God’s own light — all heavenly bright — we care not who says nay ! — John O' Hagan. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 127 We must not imagine, however, that Ireland in the seventeenth century, notwithstanding all it had to un- dergo in the way of persecution and the repression of learning, was entirely devoid of scholarly men who have made their mark in the literary world. True, their education was not obtained in Ireland, but in the for- eign schools which were placed by friends of Ireland at the service of Irish youth, chiefly at Louvain, in Belgium, Valladolid and Salamanca, in Spain, and var- ious parts of France. Florence Conroy, Archbishop of Tuam, a man of considerable theological and literary attainments; Dr. Geoffrey Keating, author of a well known History of Ireland; Luke Wadding, author of the “ Annals of the Friars’ Minor;” David Rothe, Bishop of Ossory, and Nicholas French, Bishop of Ferns, were all conspicuous during the seventeenth century as men of action, but also as men of literary worth. Perhaps the work of all others that is most prized — not indeed as a work of literary art, to which it has not the slightest pretensions — but as a monu- ment of industry and most valuable historical data is the “ Annals of the Four Masters,” compiled by a Fran- ciscan monk of Donegal, Michael O’Clery, with the help of three laymen, Conary and Cucogry O’Clery and Ferfeasa O’Mulconry. The Irish Franciscans of this period deserve special mention for their work in con- nection with Irish hagiography. Father Hugh Ward wrote a life of St. Romuald and Father John Colgan is the author of the “Acts of the Irish Saints,” etc. 128 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND THE FOUR MASTERS. (Seventeenth Century.) Many altars are in Banva, * Many chancels are hung- in white, Many schools and many abbeys, Glorious in our fathers’ sight; Yet whene’er I go a pilgrim Back, dear Native Isle, to thee, May my filial footsteps bear me To that Abbey by the sea — To that Abbey — roofless, doorless, Shrineless, monkless, though it be ! These are days of swift up-building ; All to pride and triumph tends ; Art is liegeman to Religion ; — Wealth on Genius now attends. As the day-beam to the sailor, Lighting up the wrecker’s shore — So the present lustre shineth And our dangers all are o’er — But no gleam rests on that Abbey, Silent by Tirconnel’s shore. Yet I hear them in my musings, And I see them as I gaze, — Four meek men around the dresset, Reading scrolls of other days ; Four unwearied scribes who treasure Every word and every line — Saving every ancient sentence As if writ by hands divine. On their calm down-bended foreheads Tell me what it is you read? * Name of Ireland. TARA BROOCH BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 129 Is there malice, or ambition, Selfish will, or selfish deed ? Oh, no, no! the angel Duty Sheds his light within these walls ; And their four worn right hands follow Where the Angel's radiance falls. Not of fame, and not of fortune, Do these eager pensmen dream ; Darkness shrouds the hills of Banva, Sorrow sits by every stream ; One by one the lights that lead her, Hour by hour, are quenched in gloom; But the patient, sad Four Masters, Toil on in their lonely room — Duty still defying Doom. As the breathing of the west winds Over bound and bearded sheaves — As the murmur in the bee-hives Softly heard on summer eves: — So the rustle of the vellum, — So the anxious voices sound ; — While a deep expectant silence Seems to listen all around. Brightly on the Abbey gable Shines the full moon thro’ the night, While afar to northward glances All the bay in waves of light: Tufted isle and splinter’d headland Smile and soften in her ray; Yet within their dusky chamber The meek Masters toil away, Finding all too short the day. 130 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND Now they kneel ! oh, list the accents, From the soul of mourners wrung; Hear the soaring aspirations In the old ancestral tongue ; For the houseless sons of chieftains, For their brethren near and far, For the mourning Mother Island These their aspirations are. And they say before up-rising: “Father ! grant one other pray’r. Bless the Lord of Moy — O’Gara ! Bless his lady and his heir! Send the generous Chief, whose bounty Cheers, sustains us, in our task, Health, success, renown, salvation : Father! grant the prayer we ask.” Oh, that we, who now inherit The great bequest of their toil, — Were but fit to trace their footsteps Through the annals of the Isle ; Oh, that the same angel, Duty, Guardian of our tasks might be ; Teach us, as she taught our Masters, Faithful, grateful, just, to be: — As she taught the old Four Masters In the Abbey by the sea ! — T. D. McGee . Many of the soldiers who had fought at the Boyne, Athlone and Aughrim remained behind in Ireland when Sarsfield’s regiments sailed away for France. Some of these banded themselves together under capable leaders and managed, from time to time, to make things un- BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 131 pleasant for their English and Protestant neighbors. To the Irish peasantry they were always favorable, and in turn received whatever help or countenance the peas- antry were able to impart. The names of Galloping Hogan and Redmond O’Hanlon are to this day house- hold words in some parts of Ireland. They were known as Rapparees, and, though half robber and half soldier, they played a part in the tragedy of Ireland. THE IRISH RAPPAREES. (A Peasant Ballad of 1591.) Righ* Shemus he has gone to France and left his crown behind : — Ill-luck be theirs, both day and night, put runnin’ in his mind! Lord Lucan followed after, with his slashers brave and true, And now, the doleful keen is raised — “What will poor Ireland do? What must poor Ireland do? Our luck, they say, has gone to France. What can poor Ireland do?” Oh, never fear for Ireland, for she has so’gers still, For Rory’s boys are in the wood, and Remy’s on the hill ; And never had poor Ireland more loyal hearts than these — May God be kind and good to them, the faithful Rap- parees ! The fearless Rapparees ! The jewel were you, Rory, with your Irish Rap- parees ! * Pronounced Ree. i 3 2 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND Oh, black’s your heart, Clan Oliver, and coulder than the clay! Oh, high’s your head, Clan Sassanach, since Sars- field’s gone away ! It’s little love you bear to us for sake of long ago— But howld your hand, for Ireland still can strike a deadly blow — Can strike a mortal blow. Och ! dhar-a-Chreesth ! ’tis she that still could strike the deadly blow 1 The Master’s bawn, the Master’s seat, a surly bodach fills; The Master’s son, an outlawed man, is riding on the hills ; But, God be praised, that round him throng, as thick as summer bees. The swords that guarded Limerick walls — his loyal Rapparees ! His lovin’ Rapparees ! Who dare say no to Rory Oge, who heads the Rap- parees ! Black Billy Grimes, of Latnamard, he racked us long and sore — God rest the faithful hearts he broke, we’ll never see them more! But I’ll go bail he’ll break no more while Truagh has gallows-trees, For why? He met one lonesome night the awful Rap- parees ! The angry Rapparees ! They never sin no more, my boys, who cross the Rapparees. BALLAD HISTORY OR IRELAND 133 Now, Sassanach, and Cromweller, take heed of what I say — Keep down your black and angry looks that scorn us night and day; For there’s a just and wrathful judge that every action sees, And he’ll make strong, to right our wrong, the faith- ful Rapparees ! The fearless Rapparees ! The men that rode at Sarsfield’s side, the changeless Rapparees ! — Charles Gavan Duffy . The fame of the Irish soldiers who took service in continental armies after the surrender of Limerick is well known and generally admitted. For whatever cause they fought, their valour was unquestioned and unquestionable. Many a time it fell to their lot to strike a hard blow to England’s power as did Sars- field on the field of Landen, who fell wounded and dying when in victorious pursuit of the English forces. But alas ! though their worth was appreciated, Ireland, the mother whom they loved, was not in any way bet- tered by their efforts. The bones of Irish soldiery strew the battle-fields of Europe. For on far foreign field from Dunkirk to Belgrade, Lie the soldiers and chiefs of the Irish Brigade. That the exiled Irish won laurels in peace as in war the courts of Europe to this day are witness — for we have O’Donnells, and Taafes, McMahons, Nugents, 134 BALLAD HISTORY OR IRELAND O’Neills and others prominent in the councils of the nations to which they now belong. Two of the occasions on which the Irish Brigade in the service of France particularly distinguished itself are commemorated in the following ballads. The town of Cremona, in Italy, held by the French forces, had been surprised by Prince Eugene, acting in the in- terest of King William. It was rescued mainly through the efforts of the Irish soldiers. The battle of Fontenoy was almost lost to the French, but the day was saved by the headlong valour of the Irish Brigade, and what threatened to be an overwhelming disaster was changed into a most glorious victory. King Louis, of France, it is said, rode down to the Irish bivouac to thank the Irish Brigade in person, while George II., of England, when he heard the cause of the disaster to the Eng- lish arms, exclaimed: “Cursed be the laws that de- prive me of such subjects.” THE SURPRISE OF CREMONA.* From Milan to Cremona Duke Villeroy rode, And soft are the beds in his princely abode; In billet and barrack the garrison sleep, And loose is the watch the sentinels keep ; ’Tis the eve of St. David, and bitter the breeze Of that mid-winter night on the flat Cremonese; A fig for precaution! — Prince Eugene sits down In winter cantonments round Mantua town. Yet through Ustiano, and out on the plain, Horse, foot and dragoons are defiling amain * A. D. 1702. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 135 “That flash,” said Prince Eugene, “Count Merci, push on” — Like a rock from a precipice Merci is gone. Proud mutters the prince — “That is Cassioli’s sign: Ere the dawn of the morning Cremona ’ll be mine — For Merci will open the gate of the Po, But scant is the mercy Prince Vaudemont will show!” Through gate, street, and square, with his keen cava- liers — A flood through a gully — Count Merci careers ; They ride without getting or giving a blow. Nor halt ’till they gaze on the gate of the Po: “Surrender the gate” — but a volley replied, For a handful of Irish are posted inside. By my faith, Charles Vaudemont will come rather late, If he stay till Count Merci shall open that gate! But in through St. Margaret’s the Austrians pour, And billet and barrack are ruddy with gore; Unarmed and naked the soldiers are slain — There’s an enemy’s gauntlet on Villeroy’s rein — “A thousand pistoles and a regiment of horse — Release me Mac Donnell!” — they hold on their course. Count Merci has seized upon cannon and wall Prince Eugene’s headquarters are in the town hall! Here and there, through the city, some readier band, For honor, and safety, undauntedly stand. At the head of the regiments of Dillon and Burke Is Major O’Mahony, fierce as a Turk. His sabre is flashing — the major is drest, But muskets and shirts are the clothes of the rest! Yet they rushed to the ramparts — the clocks have tolled ten — And Count Merci retreats with the half of his men. 136 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND “In on them/’ said Freidberg, — and Dillon is broke, Like forest-flowers crushed by the fall of the oak; Through the naked battalions the cuirassiers go; — But the man, not the dress, makes the soldier, I trow. Upon them with grapple, with bay’net, and ball, Like wolves upon gaze-hounds, the Irishmen fall — Black Friedberg is slain by O’Mahony’s steel, And black from the bullets the cuirassiers reel. Oh, hear you their shout in your quarters, Eugene ? In vain on Prince Vaudemont for succor you lean ! The bridge has been broken, and mark ! how pell-mell Come riderless horses, and volley and yell ! — He’s a veteran soldier — he clenches his hands — He springs on his horse, disengages his bands — He rallies, he urges, till, hopeless of aid, He is chased through the gates by the Irish Brigade. News, news, in Vienna! — King Leopold’s sad. News, news, in St. James’! — King William is mad. News, news, in Versailles! — “Let the Irish Brigade Be royally honored, and royally paid.” News, news, in old Ireland — high rises her pride, And high sounds her wail for her children who died, And deep is her prayer, — “God send I may see Mac Donnell and Mahony fighting for me.” — Thomas Davis. FONTENOY* Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English column failed, And, twice, the lines of Saint Antoine, the Dutch in vain assailed; For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery, * A. D. 1745. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 137 And well they swept the English ranks, and Dutch auxiliary. As vainly, through De Barri's wood, the British sol- diers burst. The French artillery drove them back, diminished and dispersed. The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye, And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try ; On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride! And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at eventide. Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread. Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head; Steady they step a-down the slope — steady they climb the hill ; Steady they load — steady they fire, moving right on- ward still Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace blast, Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets showering fast And on the open plain they rose, and kept their course, With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked at hos- tile force: Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks — They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland's ocean banks. More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush- round ; 1 38 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground; Bomb-shell, and grape, and round-shot tore, still on they marched and fired — Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltiguer re- tired. u Push on, my household cavalry!” King Louis madly cried : To death they rush, but rude their shock — not un- avenged they died. On through the camp the column trod — King Louis turns his rein; "Not yet, my liege,” Saxe interposed, "the Irish troops remain ;” And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo, Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement, and true. "Lord Clare,” he says, "you have your wish, there are your Saxon foes !” The Marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously he goes ! How fierce the look these exiles wear, who’re wont to be so gay ! The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts today — The treaty broken, ere the ink wherewith ’twas writ could dry. Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women’s parting cry, Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their coun- try overthrown, — Each looks as if revenge for all were staked on him alone. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere, BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 139 Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were. O’Brien’s voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he com- mands, “Fix bay’nets” — “Charge” — Like mountain storm, rush on these fiery bands ! Thin is the English column now, and faint their vol- leys grow, Yet, must’ring all the strength they have, they make a gallant show. They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that battle- wind — Their bayonets the breakers’ foam ; like rocks, the men behind ! One volley crashes from their line, when, through the surging smoke, With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish broke, On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza! “Revenge! Remember Limerick! dash down the Sas- sanach.” Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger’s pang, - Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang : Bright was their steel, ’tis bloody now, their guns are filled with gore; Through scattered ranks, and severed files, and trampled flags they tore. The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, staggered, fled — The green hill-side is matted close with dying and with dead. 140 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND Across the plain, and far away passed on that hideous wrack. While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun, With bloody plumes the Irish stand — the field is fought and won ! — Thomas Davis . The Irish Volunteers, originally enrolled for the pur- pose of repelling French invasion of the north of Ire- land, became the chief agency in the national develop- ment of Ireland. At a convention held in the town of Dungannon, they declared that no power save the King, Lords and Commons of Ireland had power to legislate for the Irish people. At the instance of Henry Grattan the same principle was enunciated by the Irish Parliament, and was reluctantly admitted by King George III., of England, on the advice of Charles James Fox, and the English Whigs who were then in power. With national freedom commenced a period of prosperity for Ireland that never before or since was equalled. Ireland owes a deep debt of gratitude to the Volunteers. Largely owing to dissensions among their leaders they lost their influence and power, and the or- ganization came to an end to be succeeded in a short time by the United Irishmen. THE DUNGANNON CONVENTION.* The church of Dungannon is full to the door, And sabre and spur clash at times on the floor, While helmet and shako are ranged all along, Yet no book of devotion is seen in the throng. * A. D. 1782. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 141 In front of the altar no minister stands, And though solemn the looks and the voices around, You'd listen in vain for a litany's sound. Say what do they hear in the temple of prayer? Oh! why in the fold has the lion his lair? Sad, wounded and wan was the face of our Isle, By English oppression, and falsehood and guile ! Yet when to invade it a foreign fleet steered, To guard it for England the North volunteered. From the citizen-soldiers the foe fled aghast — Still they stood to their guns when the danger had passed ; For the voice of America came o'er the wave, Crying woe to the tyrant, and hope to the slave ! Indignation and shame through their regiments speed, They have arms in their hands, what more do they need? O'er the green hills of Ulster their banners are spread, The cities of Leinster resound to their tread, The valleys of Munster with ardor are stirred, And the plains of wild Connaught their bugles have heard ; A Protestant front-rank and Catholic rear — For forbidden the arms of freedom to bear — Yet foeman and friend are full sure, if need be, The slave of his country will stand by the free. By green flags supported, the orange flags wave, And the soldier half turns to unfetter the slave! More honored that church of Dungannon is now Than when at its altar communicants bow ; More welcome to Heaven than anthem or prayer, 142 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND Are the rites and the thoughts of the warriors there ; In the name of all Ireland the Delegates swore — “We've suffered too long, and we’ll suffer no more — Unconquered by force, we were vanquished by fraud ; And now in God’s temple, we vow unto God, That never again shall the Englishman bind His chains on our limbs, or his laws on our mind.” The church of Dungannon is empty once more — No plumes on the altar, no clash on the floor. But the counsels of England are fluttered to see, In the cause of their country the Irish agree ; So they give as a boon what they dare not with- hold, And Ireland, a nation, leaps up as of old. With a name, and a trade, and a flag of her own, And an army to fight' for the people and throne. But woe worth the day, if to falsehood or fears, She surrender the guns of her brave volunteers ! — Thomas Davis . THE VOLUNTEERS. “Mother — dear mother, tell me what meant the proud array Of armed men and prancing steeds which passed yon mountain way? And who was he of noble mien and brow of lordly pride, Who rode, like warrior chief of old, that gallant band beside? “Marked you how lighted up his eye, as in the noon- day sun Their silken banners flutter’d wide and flash’d each polish’d gun, BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 143 And how with gentle courtesy he oft and lowly bowed, As rang the brazen trumpets out, and cheer'd th' as- sembled crowd? “Methinks the Spartan chief who fell at famed Ther- mopylae, Of whom we read but yesternight was such a man as he — The same proud port and eagle eye — the same de- termined frown. And supple arm to shield a friend or strike a foeman down. “And then those troops as on they passed, in proud and glittering show, Seemed worthy of the chief who led — 'twere pity of the foe Who roused to wrath their slumbering might, or wronged our own green land — I'd promise them a scattered host with many a shivered brand." “You're right, dear Mabel, for the chief who leads that warrior host Is Grattan — high and honored name — thy country’? proudest boast ; And they whose closely marshalled ranks the people hailed with cheers. Thy country's soldier-citizens — the gallant Volun- teers." “Then why, dear mother — tell me why those Volun- teers arose? Was it to guard some sacred right, or to repel our foes? i 4 4 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND For I have heard my father say he dreaded England's word And English perfidy far more than foreign foeman's sword.” "They rose to guard from foreign foes — as well as from British guile — Thy liberties and mine, my child, and all within this Isle ; To make this glorious land of ours — those hills we love so well, A fitting home and resting place where freedom's foot might dwell. "They rose and swore by Freedom's name, by kin- dred and by kind, No foreign rule, no foreign guile, their country's limbs should bind — That she should stand erect and fair, as in the olden time, The loveliest 'mong the nations — of Ocean’s Isles the prime. "That they have nobly kept this pledge, bear witness one and alb The bootless plots of England, the baffled hosts of Gaul. That they may long be spared to guard our country's rights divine, Should be your prayer at night and morn, my child, as it is mine.” — M. O. B. On the suppression of the Volunteers the society known as United Irishmen was instituted. Its object was the reformation of the Irish Parliament, which was BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 145 a distinctly Protestant institution, and the emancipa- tion of Irish Catholics. To obtain their demands the United Irishmen determined to appeal to arms if neces- sary. Consequently they armed themselves with pikes and other weapons and drilled as best they could. They even sent emissaries to France to request assistance, which was promised and in due time despatched. Wolfe Tone was perhaps the leading spirit of the United Irishmen, Lord Edward Fitzgerald at first and after- wards Robert Emmet, the most picturesque. The out- come was the rebellion of 1798, hastened by unendur- able outrages inflicted on the people. When the rebel- lion was subdued William Pitt, the English Minister, and Lord Castlereagh, his Irish agent, through bribery and fraud, passed the iniquitous measure of legislative union with England through the Irish Parliament. The following ballads show the spirit of the Irish peasantry at this time. “Who Fears to Speak of Ninety-Eight?” written by a Trinity College man, shows Ireland’s sen- timent fifty years after. RORY OF THE HILLS. “That rake up near the rafters, Why leave it there so long ? The handle of the best of ash, Is smooth and straight and strong ; And, mother, will you tell me, Why did my father frown When to make the hay, in summertime, I climbed to take it down ?” 146 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND She looked into her husband’s eyes, While her own with light did fill, “You’ll shortly know the reason, boy!” Said Rory of the Hill. The midnight moon is lightning up The slopes of Sliav-na-man, — Whose foot affrights the startled hares So long before the dawn? He stopped just where the Anner’s stream Winds up the woods, anear, Then whistled low and looked around To see the coast was clear. The sheeling door flew open — In he stepped with right good-will — “God save all here and bless your WORK,” Said Rory of the Hill. Right hearty was the welcome That greeted him, I ween, For years gone by he fully proved How well he loved the Green ; And there was one amongst them Who grasped him by the hand — One who through all that weary time Roamed on a foreign stand; He brought them news from gallant friends That made their heart-strings thrill — “My soul ! I never doubted them !” Said Rory of the Hill. They sat around the humble board Till dawning of the day. And yet not song nor shout I heard, No revelers were they; Some brows flushed red with gladness, While some were grimly pale ; BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 147 But pale or red, from out those eyes Flashed souls that never quail ! “And sing us now about the vow, They swore for to fulfill” — “You'll read it yet in history,” Said Rory of the Hill. Next day the ashen handle He took down from where it hung, The toothed rake, full scornfully, Into the fire he flung ; And in its stead a shining blade Is gleaming once again — (Oh! for a hundred thousand of such weapons and such men !) Right soldierly he wielded it, And — going through his drill — “ 'Attention' — 'charge' — 'front point' — 'advance,' ” Cried Rory of the Hill. She looked at him with woman's pride, With pride and woman's fears ; She flew to him, she clung to him, And dried away her tears; He feels her pulse beat truly, While her arms around him twine — “Now God be praised for your stout heart, Brave little wife of mine.” He swung his first born in the air, While joy his heart did fill — “You'll be a FREEMAN yet, my boy,” Said Rory of the Hill. Oh ! knowledge is a wondrous power, And stronger than the wind; And thrones shall fall, and despots bow, 148 BALLAD HISTORY OR IRELAND Before the might of mind; The poet and the orator The heart of man can sway, And would to the kind heavens That Wolfe Tone were here to-day Yet trust me, friends, dear Ireland's strength — Her truest strength — is still The rough and ready roving boys, Like Rory of the Hill. — Charles Kickham. THE CROPPY BOY. “Good men and true ! in this house who dwell, To a stranger bouchal, I pray you tell Is the priest at home ? or may he be seen ? I would speak a word with Father Green." “The priest's at home, boy, and may be seen ; 'Tis easy speaking with Father Green; But you must wait, till I go and see If the holy father alone may be." The youth has entered the empty hall — What a lonely sound has his light footfall ! And the gloomy chamber's chill and bare, With a vested priest in a lonely chair. The youth has knelt to tell his sins ; “Nomine Dei" the youth begins; At “mea culpa" he beats his breast, And in broken murmurs he speaks the rest. “At the siege of Ross did my father fall, And at Gorey my loving brothers all ; BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 149 I alone am left of my name and race, I will go to Wexford and take their place. “I cursed three times since last Easter day — At mass-time once I went to play ; I passed the church-yard one day in haste, And forgot to pray for my mother’s rest. “I bear no hate against living thing ; But I love my country above my King. Now, Father! bless me, and let me go To die, if God has ordained it so.” The priest said naught, but a rustling noise Made the youth look up in wild surprise ; The robes were off, and in scarlet there Sat a yeoman captain with fiery glare. With fiery glare and with fury hoarse, Instead of blessing, he breathed a curse : — “ ’Twas a good thought, boy, to come here and shrive, For one short hour is your time to live. “Upon yon river three tenders float, The priest’s in one, if he isn’t shot — We hold his house for our Lord and King, And, amen say I, may all traitors swing!” At Geneva Barrack that young man died, And at Passage they have his body laid. Good people who live in peace and joy, ' Breathe a prayer and a tear for the Croppy Boy. — Carroll Malone. 150 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight? Who blushes at the name? When cowards mock the patriot's fate, Who hangs his head for shame ? He's all a knave or half a slave Who slights his country thus : But a true man, like you man, Will fill your glass with us. We drink the memory of the brave, The faithful and the few — Some lie far off beyond the wave, Some sleep in Ireland, too; All, all are gone — but still lives on The fame of those who died ; And true men, like you, men, Remember them with pride. Some on the shores of distant lands Their weary hearts have laid, And by the stranger's heedless hands Their lonely graves were made ; But though their clay be far away Beyond the Atlantic foam, In true men, like you, men, Their spirit's still at home. The dust of some is Irish earth; Among their own they rest; And the same land that gave them birth Has caught them to her breast ; And we will pray that from their clay Full many a race may start Of true men, like you, men, To act as brave a part. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 151 They rose in dark and evil days To right their native land ; They kindled here a living blaze That nothing shall withstand. Alas ! that Might can vanquish Right — They fell, and passed away ; But true men, like you, men, Are plenty here to-day. Then here’s their memory ! may it be For us a guiding light, To cheer our strife for liberty, And teach us to unite ! Through good and ill, be Ireland’s still Though sad as theirs, your fate; And true men, be you, men, Like those of Ninety-Eight. — /. K. Ingram. Robert Emmet, the gallant youth who forfeited his life for Ireland, has won his way to the undying love of Ireland by his undaunted bearing in the dock and by the appealing eloquence of his last speech. He was the accepted lover of Sarah Gurran, the beautiful daughter of John Philpot Curran, one of the greatest of Ireland’s advocates and patriots. The pathos of their sad fate is well expressed in the following short poems. Robert Emmet was hanged in Dublin, 20th of September, 1803. He was then only twenty-four years of age. EMMET’S DEATH. “He dies today,” said the heartless judge, Whilst he sat him down to the feast. 152 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND And a smile was upon his ashy lip As he uttered a ribald jest; For a demon dwelt where his heart should be. That lived upon blood and sin, And oft as that vile judge gave him food The demon throbbed within. “He dies today,” said the gaoler grim, Whilst a tear was in his eye; “But why should I feel so grieved for him? Sure, Fve seen many die! Last night I went to his stony cell, With the scanty prison fare — He was sitting at a table rude. Plaiting a lock of hair! And he look’d so mild, with his pale, pale face, And he spoke in so kind a way, That my old breast heav’d with a smothering feel, And I knew not what to say!” “He dies today,” thought a fair, sweet girl — She lacked the life to speak, For sorrow had almost frozen her blood, And white were her lips and cheek — Despair had drunk up her last wild tear, And her brow was damp and chill, And they often felt at her heart with fear, For its ebb was all but still. — Anon. SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. She is far from the land where her young hero sleep And lovers are ’round her sighing ; But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 153 She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, Every note which he loved awaking ; — Ah! little they think who delight in her strains, How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking. He had lived for his love, for his country he died ; They were all that to life had entwined him ; Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him. Oh ! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, When they promise a glorious morrow ; They’ll shine o’er her sleep, like a smile from the west, From her own loved island of sorrow. — Thomas Moore. No wonder Thomas Moore penned this lament for the death of Henry Grattan! for, though a Protestant himself, he was one of the greatest of Irish patriots and one of the best friends of the down-trodden Catho- lics. He it was who, as he said himself, found Ireland on her knees and watched over her with perpetual solicitude until she stood erect, a thriving nation. With all his strength he opposed the union of Ireland and England. In the interest of his countrymen he became a member of the English Parliament. His last journey to London was taken in the hope of furthering relief for Catholics by an appeal to Parliament, which, how- ever, he did not live to make. He died on the 4th of June, 1820, aged seventy- three years, and as he had 154 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND won a reputation not merely as one of the greatest of Irishmen, but as one of the world’s greatest orators, he was interred in Westminster Abbey. LAMENT FOR GRATTAN.* Shall the Harp then be silent, when he who first gave To our country a name, is withdrawn from all eyes? Shall a Minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave, Where the first — where the last of her Patriots lies? No — faint tho’ the death-song may fall from his lips, Tho’ his Harp, like his soul, may with shadows be crost, Yet, yet shall it sound, ’mid a nation’s eclipse, And proclaim to the world what a star hath been lost ; What a union of all the affections and powers By which life is exalted, embellish’d, refined, Was embraced in that spirit — whose centre was ours, While its mighty circumference circled mankind. Oh, who that loves Erin, or who that can see, Through the waste of her annals, that epoch sublime — Like a pyramid raised in the desert — where he And his glory stand out to the eyes of all-time ; That one lucid interval, snatch’d from the gloom And the madness of ages, when fill’d with his soul, A Nation o’erleap’d the dark bounds of her doom And for one sacred instant, touch’d Liberty’s goal? * Born 3rd July, 1746. Died 4th June, 1820. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 155 Who, that ever hath heard him — hath drunk at the source Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin’s own, In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the force, And the yet untamed spring of her spirit are shown? An eloquence rich, wheresoever its wave Wander’d free and triumphant, with thoughts that shone thro’ As clear as the brook’s “stone of lustre,” and gave, With the flash of the gem, its solidity too. I Who, that ever approach’d him, when free from the crowd, In a home full of love, he delighted to tread ’Mong the trees which a nation had giv’n, and which bow’d, - As if each brought a new civic crown for his head — Is there one, who hath thus, through his orbit of life, But at distance observed him — through glory, through blame, In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife, Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same — Oh, no, not a heart, that e’er knew him, but mourns Deep, deep o’er the grave, where such glory is shrined — O’er a monument Fame will preserve, ’mong the urns Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind ! — Thomas Moore. Daniel O’Connell, “the Liberator,” as he was lovingly called by the Irish people, because he forced Catholic Emancipation from a reluctant English king and gov- 156 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND ernment, was born near Caherciveen, County Kerry. 6th of August, 1775, and died on the 15th of May, 1847, at Geneva, after a long and strenuous career. Edu- cated in France, he studied law in Ireland; became a United Irishman and an advocate of emancipation ; but was, before all, a repealer — for as he once said, he would accept cheerfully the re-enacting of the entire Penal Code in exchange for Repeal of the Union. In 1829 he succeeded in winning emancipation of Catho- lics, and then set out to win Repeal, and kept up his agitation till the end of his life. He was a man of wonderful energy and power — a great pleader in the Courts of Justice, a mighty orator like Henry Grattan, and an utterly fearless advocate in and out of Parlia- ment of the rights of Ireland. DARRYNANE. Where foams the white torrent, and rushes the rill, Down the murmuring slopes of the echoing hill — Where the eagle looks out from his cloud-crested crags, And the caverns resound with the pantings of stags — Where the brow of the mountain is purple with heath, And the mighty Atlantic rolls proudly beneath, With the foam of its waves like the snowy fenane — Oh ! that is the region of wild Darrynane ! Oh ! fair are the islets of tranquil Glengariff, And wild are the sacred recesses of Scariff — And beauty, and wildness, and grandeur, commingle By Bantry’s broad bosom, and wave-wasted Dingle ; But wild as the wildest, and fair as the fairest, And lit by a lustre that thou alone wearest— BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 157 And dear to the eye and the free heart of man Are the mountains and valleys of wild Darrynane ! And who is the Chief of this lordly domain? Does a slave hold the land where a monarch might reign ? Oh ! no, by St. Finbar, nor cowards, nor slaves, Could live in the sound of these free, dashing waves ! A Chieftain, the greatest the world has e’er known — Laurel his coronet — true hearts his throne — Knowledge his sceptre — a Nation his clan — O’Connell, the Chieftain of proud Darrynane ! A thousand bright streams on the mountains awake, Whose waters unite in O’Donoghue’s Kake — Streams of Glanflesk and the dark Gishadine Filling the heart of that valley divine! Then rushing in one mighty artery down To the limitless ocean by murmuring Lowne ! Thus nature unfolds in her mystical plan A type of the Chieftain of wild Darrynane! In him ev’ry pulse of our bosoms unite — Our hatred of wrong and our worship of right — The hopes that we cherish, the ills we deplore, All centre within his heart’s inmost core, Which gathered in one mighty current, are flung To the ends of the earth from his thunder-toned tongue ! Till the Indian looks up, and the valiant Afghan Draws his sword at the echo from far Darrynane ! But here he is only the friend and the father, Who from children’s sweet lips truest wisdom can gather, And seeks from the large heart of Nature to borrow 158 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND Rest for the present and strength for the morrow ! Oh ! who that e’er saw him with children about him, And heard his soft tones of affection, could doubt him ? My life on the truth of the heart of the man That throbs like the Chieftain’s of wild Darrynane ! Oh! wild Darrynane, on the ocean-washed shore, Shall the glad song of mariners echo once more ? Shall the merchants, and minstrels, and maidens of Spain, Once again in their swift ships come over the main? Shall the soft lute be heard, and the gay youths of France Lead our blue-eyed young maidens again to the dance ? Graceful and shy as thy fawns, Killenane, Are the mind-moulded maidens of far Darrynane ! Dear land of the South, as my mind wandered o’er All the joys I have felt by the magical shore, From those lakes of enchantment by oak-clad Glena To the mountainous passes of bold Iveragh ! Like the birds which are lured to a haven of rest, By those rocks far away on the ocean’s bright breast — Thus my thoughts love to linger, as memory ran O’er the mountains and valleys of wild Darrynane! (1844) — D. F. McCarthy . A man who has left his mark for all time on Irish literature and history, more, perhaps, from his influence upon others than even from his own achievements, was Thomas Davis. Of Welsh ancestry, he was born in Ireland, and certainly no one ever loved his native land with a purer or nobler affection. When he died BALLAD HISTORY OR IRELAND 159 he was only a young man, but he had gathered around him a band of young men of remarkable literary ability, including Gavan Duffy, Dillon, Mangan, O’Hagan, Mitchell, Dalton-Williams, and many others. They were called Young Irelanders in contra-distinction to the older followers of O’Connell, from whom in some degree they differed. THOMAS DAVIS.* I walked through Ballinderry in the Springtime, When the bud was on the tree ; And I said, in every fresh-ploughed field beholding The sowers striding free, Scattering broadcast forth the corn in golden plenty On the quick, seed-clasping soil, Even such, this day, among the fresh stirred hearts of Erin, Thomas Davis, is thy toil! I sat by Ballyshannon in the summer, And I saw the salmon leap ; And I said, as I beheld the gallant creatures Spring glittering from the deep, Through the spray, and through the prone heap**, Striving onward, to the calm, clear streams above, So seekest thou thy native founts of freedom, Thomas Davis, In the brightness of strength and love ! I stood on Derrybawn in the Autumn, And I heard the eagle call, With a clangorous cry of wrath and lamentation That filled the wide mountain hall, * Born 1814. Died 1845. i6o BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND O'er the bare, deserted place of his plundered eyrie; And I said, as he screamed and soared, So callest thou, thou wrathful, soaring, Thomas Davis , For a nation's rights restored! And, alas, to think but now, and thou art lying, Dear Davis, dead at thy mother’s knee; And I, no mother near, on my own sick bed, That face on earth shall never see; I may lie and try to feel that I am dreaming not — I may lie and try to say, “Thy will be done." But a hundred such as I will never comfort Erin For the loss of the noble son! Young husbandman of Erin's fruitful seed-time, In the fresh track of danger’s plough ! Who will walk the heavy, toilsome, perilous furrow, Girt with freedom's seed-sheets now? Who will banish with the wholesome crop of knowl- edge The flaunting weed and the bitter thorn, Now that thou thyself art but a seed for hopeful plant- ing Against the resurrection morn? Young salmon of the flood-tide of freedom That swells round Erin's shore! Thou wilt leap against their loud oppressive torrent Of bigotry and hate no more; Drawn downward by their prone material instinct, Let them thunder on their rocks and foam — Thou hast leapt, aspiring soul, to founts beyond their raging, Where troubled waters never come ! BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 161 But I grieve not, eagle of the empty eyrie, That thy wrathful cry is still ; And that the songs alone of peaceful mourners Are heard today on Erin’s hill; Better far, if brothers’ war be destined for us (God avert that horrid day, I pray!) That ere our hands be stained with slaughter fratricidal Thy warm heart should be cold in clay. But my trust is strong in God, who made us brothers, That He will not suffer those right hands Which thou hast joined in holier rites than wedlock To draw opposing brands. Oh, many a tuneful tongue that thou mad’st vocal Would lie cold and silent then ; And songless long once more should often-widowed Erin Mourn the loss of her brave young men. Oh, brave young men, my love, my pride, my promise, ’Tis on you my hopes are set, In manliness, in kindliness, in justice, To make Erin a nation yet; Self-respecting, self-relying, self-advancing, In union or in severance, free and strong — And if God grant this, then, under God, to Thomas Davis , Let the greater praise belong. — Samuel Ferguson. Theobald Mathew, the Apostle of Temperance, as he is called, was born at Thomastown, near Kilkenny, ioth of October, 1790. He early determined to become a priest, and after some years spent at Maynooth Col- 162 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND lege, entered the Capuchin Order. He was a man of great zeal and piety, and from the moment when he took up the temperance cause at the request of William Martin, of Cork, he never ceased to carry on the crusade against intoxicants ’till his death. His success was phenomenal, not merely in Ireland, but in England and Scotland. He even came to America and made a tour through the country that was productive of much good. He died at Queenstown on the 8th of December, 1856, and was buried at Cork. FATHER MATHEW.* (To a painter about to commence a picture illustrating the labours of Father Mathew.) Seize thy pencil, child of art! Fame and fortune brighten o’er thee; Great thy hand and great thy heart, If well thou dost the work before thee! ’Tis not thine to round the shield, Or point the sabre, black or gory ; ’Tis not thine to spread the field, Where crime is crown’d — where guilt is glory. Child of art! to thee is given To paint, in colours all unclouded, Breakings of a radiant heaven O’er an isle in darkness shrouded ! But to paint them true and well, Every ray we see them shedding In its very light must tell What a gloom before was spreading. * Born 1790. Died 1856. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 163 Can’st thou picture dried-up tears — Eyes that wept no longer weeping — Faithful woman’s wrongs and fears, Lonely, nightly vigils keeping — Listening ev’ry footfall nigh — Hoping him she loves returning? Can’st thou, then, depict her joy, That we may know the change from mourn- ing? Paint in colours strong, but mild, Our isle's Redeemer and Director — Can’st thou paint the man a child, Yet shadow forth the mighty Victor? Let his path a rainbow span, Every hue and colour blending — Beaming “peace and love” to man, And alike o’er all extending ! Can’st thou paint a land made free — From its sleep of bondage woken — Yet, withal, that we may see What ’twas before the chain was broken ? Seize thy pencil, child of art ! Fame and fortune brighten o’er thee! Great thy hand, and great thy heart, If well thou dost the work before thee! — Anon. In the year 1845 a blight destroyed the potato crop in Ireland, and as this was, owing to conditions over which the poor people had no control, the chief article of diet, a famine ensued which lasted in all nearly three years. Thousands of people died of hunger — 1 64 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND other thousands of famine fever ; while yet other thousands lost their lives in emigrant ships or were cast helpless and dying upon foreign shores. The horrors of the famine years can never be forgotten, for they have left upon Ireland a mark that can never be obliterated. The most cruel feature of the famine was the hoarding and exportation of grain while the people were dying from hunger, and the easy indifference of an alien government that long turned a deaf ear to the cry of distress. THE FAMINE YEAR. Weary men, what reap ye? — “Golden corn for the stranger.” What sow ye — “Human corses that await for the Avenger.” Fainting forms, all hunger-stricken, what see you in the offing ? “Stately ships to bear our food away, amid the stranger’s scoffing.” There’s a proud array of soldiers — what do they round your door? “They guard our master’s granaries from the thin hands of the poor.” Pale mothers, wherefore weeping? — “Would to God that we were dead — Our children swoon before us, and we cannot give them bread.” Little children, tears are strange upon your infant faces. God meant you but to smile within your mother’s soft embraces. BALLAD HISTORY OE IRELAND 165 “Oh, we know not what is smiling, and we know not what is dying; But we’re hungry, very hungry, and we cannot stop our crying; And some of us grow cold and white — we know not what it means. But as they lie beside us, we tremble in our dreams.” There’s a gaunt crowd on the highway — are ye come to pray to man, With hollow eyes that cannot weep, and for words your faces wan ? “No; the blood is dead within our veins, we care not now for life; Let us die hid in the ditches, far from children and from wife; We cannot stay to listen to their ravings, famished cries — Bread ! Bread ! Bread ! — and none to still their agonies. We left an infant playing with her dead mother’s hand; We left a maiden, maddened by the fever’s scorching brand ; Better, maiden, thou wert strangled in thy own dark- twisted tresses ! Better, infant, thou wert smothered in thy mother’s first caresses. “We are fainting in our misery, but God will hear our groan ; Yea, if fellow-men desert us, He will hearken from His throne ! Accursed are we in our own land, yet we toil still and toil; But the stranger reaps our harvest — the alien owns our soil. 1 66 BALLAD HISTORY OE IRELAND O, Christ, how have we sinned, that on our native plains We perish houseless, naked, starved, with branded brow, like Cain's? Dying, dying wearily, with a torture sure and slow — Dying as a dog would die by the wayside as we go. “One by one they’re falling round us, their pale faces to the sky; We’ve no strength left to dig them graves — there let them lie. The wild bird, when he’s stricken, is mourned by the others, But we, we die in Christian land — we die amid our brothers — In the land which God has given — like a wild beast in his cave. Without a tear, a prayer, a shroud, a coffin, or a grave. Ha! but think ye the contortions on each dead face ye see Shall not be read on judgment day by the eyes of Deity ? “We are wretches, famished, scorned, human tools to build your pride, But God will yet take vengeance for the souls for whom Christ died. Now is your hour of pleasure, bask ye in the world’s caress ; But our whitening bones against ye will arise as wit- nesses, From the cabins and the ditches, in their charred, un- cofifined masses, For the Angel of the Trumpet will know them as he passes. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 167 A ghastly, spectral army before great God, we'll stand And arraign ye as our murderers, O spoilers of our land!" — Lady Wilde. The shrine of a nation's spirit is her national lan- guage. The national spirit cannot die out altogether as long as the language lives. A long and persistent ef- fort to destroy the Irish language has met, thank God, at last its most serious check, though some fifty years ago it seemed to be almost completely successful. The first bann was placed upon the Irish language so long ago as the 14th century, when the Statute of Kilkenny forbade its use by the Norman Irish. The National School System, so called, aimed at its complete eradi- cation, and with it of the national spirit and the Catho- lic faith, and would have been largely successful only for the determined opposition of a few far-seeing clerics and laymen. The following wail over the decay of the Irish language was written some fifty years ago by a young Irish priest, who, were he living today, would change his threnody into a paean of joy; for the Irish language and the Irish spirit are now very much alive. THE CELTIC TONGUE. 'Tis fading, oh, 'tis fading, like leaves upon the trees! In murmuring tone 'tis dying, like the wail upon the breeze ! 'Tis swiftly disappearing, as footprints on the share Where the Barrow, and the Erne, and Loch Swilly's waters roar — 1 68 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND Where the parting sunbeam kisses Loch Corrib in the West, And Ocean, like a mother, clasps the Shannon to her breast ! The language of old Erin, of her history and name — Of her monarchs and her heroes — her glory and her fame — The sacred shrine where rested, thro’ sunshine and thro’ gloom, The spirit of her martyrs, as their bodies in the tomb ; The time-wrought shell, where murmur’d, ’mid cen- turies of wrong, The secret voice of Freedom, in annals and in song — Is slowly, surely sinking, into silent death at last, To live but in the memories of those who love the Past. The olden tongue is sinking like a patriarch to rest, Whose youth beheld the Tyrian on our Irish coasts a guest ; Ere the Roman or the Saxon, the Norman or the Dane, Had first set foot in Britain, o’er trampled heaps of slain ; Whose manhood saw the Druid rite at forest tree and rock — And savage tribes of Britain round the shrines of Zernebock ; And for generations witnessed all the glories of the Gael, Since our Celtic sires sung war-songs round the sacred fires of Baal; The tongues that saw its infancy are ranked among the dead, And from their graves have risen those now spoken in their stead. The glories of old Erin, with her liberty have gone, BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 169 Yet their halo linger’d round her, while the Gaelic speech liv’d on ; For ’mid the desert of her woe, a monument more vast Than all her pillar-towers, it stood — that old Tongue of the Past ! ’Tis leaving, and forever, the soil that gave it birth, Soon, very soon, its moving tones shall ne’er be heard on earth, O’er the island dimly fading, as a circle o’er the wave — Receding, as its people lisp the language of the slave, And with it, too, seem fading as sunset into night The scattered rays of liberty that lingered in its light, For, ah, tho’ long, with filial love, it clung to mother- land, And Irishmen were Irish still, in language, heart and hand; T’ install its Saxon rival, proscribed it soon became, And Irishmen are Irish now in nothing but in name; The Saxon chain our rights and tongues alike doth hold in thrall, Save where amid the Connaught wilds and hills of Donegal — And by the shores of Munster, like the broad Atlantic blast, The olden language lingers yet and binds us to the Past. Thro’ cold neglect, ’tis dying, now ; a stranger on our shore ! No Tara’s hall re-echoes to its music, as of yore — No Lawrence fires the Celtic clans round leaguered Athaclee — No Shannon wafts from Limerick’s towers their war- songs to the sea. 170 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND Ah! magic Tongue, that round us wove its spells so soft and dear! Ah ! pleasant Tongue, whose murmurs were as music to the ear ! Ah! glorious Tongue, whose accents would each Celtic heart enthrall ! Ah! rushing Tongue, that sounded like the swollen torrent's fall! The Tongue that in the Senate was lightning, flashing bright — Whose echo in the battle was the thunder in its might ! That Tongue, which once in chieftain’s hall poured loud the minstrel lay, As chieftain, serf, or minstrel old is silent there today ! That Tongue, whose shout dismayed the foe at Kong and Mullaghmast, Like those who nobly perished there, is numbered with the Past! The Celtic Tongue is passing, and we stand coldly by — Without a pang within the heart, a tear within the eye — Without one pulse for Freedom stirred, one effort made to save The language of our Fathers from dark oblivion’s grave ! Oh, Erin! vain your efforts — your prayers for Free- dom’s crown, Whilst offered in the language of the foe that clove it down; Be sure that tyrants ever with an art from darkness sprung, Would make the conquered nation slaves alike in limb and tongue. Russia’s great Czar ne’er stood secure o’er Poland’s shatter’d frame, BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 171 Until he trampled from her heart the tongue that bore her name ! Oh, Irishmen, be Irish still! stand for the dear old tongue, Which as ivy to a ruin, to your native land has clung ! Oh, snatch this relic from the wreck! the only and the last, And cherish in your heart of hearts, the language of the Past! — Rev. M. Mullen. The immediate consequence of the great famine in Ireland was a tide of emigration, which, in a short time, reduced the population of Ireland one-half. Some of this emigration was to England and Scotland, but the great outflow was to the United States. What was Ireland’s loss was this country’s gain; for in every walk of life the Irish have made their mark and have won renown in the ranks of war, as well as in the pathways of peace. We can easily imagine the fre- quent effort of prosperous son or daughter to lure the lonely parent from the old homestead ; and the answer so often given that the new land was for the young and the ambitious, but that the old and infirm were better suited to the quiet and prayerful ways of the old home. THE IRISH EMIGRANT’S MOTHER. "Oh! come, my mother, come away, across the sea- green water ; Oh, come with me, and come with him, the husband of thy daughter; 172 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND Oh, come with us, and come with them, the sister and the brother, Who, prattling, climb thine aged knees, and call thy daughter, mother. “Oh, come, and leave this land of death — this isle of desolation — This speck upon the sun-bright face of God’s sublime creation, Since now o’er all our fatal stars the most malign hath risen, When Labour seeks the Poorhouse, and Innocence the Prison. “ ’Tis true, o’er all the sun-brown fields the husky wheat is bending ; ’Tis true, God’s blessed hand at last a better time is sending ; ’Tis true, the island’s aged face looks happier and younger, But in the best of days we’ve known the sickness and the hunger. “When health breathed out in every breeze, too oft we’ve known the fever — Too oft, my mother, have we felt the hand of the be- reaver ; Too well remember many a time the mournful task that brought him, When freshness fanned the Summer air, and cooled the glow of Autumn. “But then the trial, though severe, still testified our patience, We bowed with mingled hope and fear to God’s wise dispensations ; BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 173 We felt the gloomiest time was both a promise and a warning, Just as the darkest hour of night is herald of the morn- ing. “But now through all the black expanse no hopeful morning breaketh — No bird of promise in our hearts, the gladsome song awaketh ; No far-off gleams of good light up the hills of ex- pectation — Nought but the gloom that might precede the world's annihilation. “So, mother, turn thine aged feet, and let our children lead 'em Down to the ship that wafts us soon to plenty and to freedom ; Forgetting nought of all the past, yet all the past for- giving ; Come, let us leave the dying land, and fly unto the living. “They tell us, they who read and think of Ireland's ancient story, How once its Emerald flag flung out a Sunburst's fleet- ing glory ; Oh ! if that sun will pierce no more the dark clouds that efface it, Fly where the rising Stars of Heaven commingle to replace it. “So, come, my mother, come away, across the sea- green water; Oh, come with us, and come with him, the husband of thy daughter; 174 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND Oh, come with us, and come with them, the sister and the brother, Who, prattling, climb thine aged knees, and call thy daughter, mother !” “Ah, go, my children, go away — obey this inspiration ; Go, with the mantling hopes of health and youthful expectation ; Go, clear the forests, climb the hills, and plough the expectant prairies ; Go, in the sacred name of God, and the Blessed Virgin Mary's. “But though I feel how sharp the pang from thee and thine to sever, ’ To look upon these darling ones the last time and for- ever ; Yet in this sad and dark old land, by desolation haunted, My heart has struck its roots too deep ever to be trans- planted. “A thousand fibres still have life, although the trunk is dying — They twine around the yet green grave where thy father's bones are lying; Ah! from that sad and sweet embrace, no soil on earth can loose 'em, Though golden harvests gleam on its breast, and golden sands in its bosom. “Others are twined around the stone, where ivy blos- soms smother The crumbling lines that trace thy names, my father and my mother ; BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 175 God’s blessing be upon our souls — God grant, my old heart prayeth, Their names be written in the Book whose writing ne’er decayeth. “Alas ! my prayers would never warm within those great cold buildings, Those grand cathedral churches, with their marbles and their gildings ; Far fitter than the proudest dome that would hang in splendour o’er me. Is the simple chapel’s white-washed wall, where my people knelt before me. “No doubt it is a glorious land to which you now are going, Like that which God bestowed of old, with milk and honey flowing ; But where are the blessed saints of God, whose lives of His law remind me, Like Patrick, Brigid, and Columbkille, in the land I’d leave behind me ? “So leave me here, my children, with my old ways and notions ; Leave me here in peace, with my memories and de- votions ; Leave me in sight of your father’s grave, and as the heavens allied us. Let not, since we were joined in life, even the grave divide us. “There’s not a week but I can hear how you prosper better and better, For the mighy fireships o’er the sea will bring the ex- pected letter; 1 76 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND And if I need aught for my simple wants, my food or my winter firing, Thou’lt gladly spare from thy growing store a little for my requiring. “Remember, with a pitying love, the hapless land that bore you; At every festal season be its gentle form before you ; When the Christmas candle is lighted, and the holly and ivy glisten, Let your eye look back for a vanished face — for a voice that is silent, listen ! “So go, my children, go away — obey this inspiration; Go, with the mantling hopes of health and youthful expectation. Go, clear the forests, climb the hills, and plough the expectant prairies ; Go, in the sacred name of God, and the Blessed Virgin Mary's.” — D. F. McCarthy, The great factor in the preservation of Ireland’s faith, after the grace of God was, of course, the Irish priest. Banned and hunted as the wolf, he was ever steadfast and faithful. He loved his suffering people with a father’s love, and their love for him in turn and their faith in him knew no bounds. This is the note that runs all through the following verses, which have attracted the notice and approval of such critics as Jeffreys, the first editor of the Edinburgh Review. BALLAD HISTORY OE IRELAND 177 The words “Soggarth Aroon" mean that the priest is the secret treasure of the Irish heart. SOGGARTH AROON. Am I the slave they say, Soggarth aroon ? Since you did show the way, Soggarth aroon, Their slave no more to be, While they would work with me Ould Ireland's slavery, Soggarth aroon? Why not her poorest man, Soggarth aroon, Try and do all he can, Soggarth aroon, Her commands to fulfill Of his own heart and will, Side by side with you still, Soggarth aroon? Loyal and brave to you, Soggarth aroon, Yet be not slave to you, Soggarth aroon, Nor, out of fear to you — Stand up so near to you — Och, out of fear to you ! Soggarth aroon ! Who, in the winter's night, Soggarth aroon, When the could blast did bite, Soggarth aroon, 178 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND Came to my cabin door, And, on my earthen-flure, Knelt by me, sick and poor, Soggarth aroon? Who, on the marriage day, Soggarth aroon, Made the poor cabin gay, Soggarth aroon — And did both laugh and sing, Making our hearts to ring, At the poor christening, Soggarth aroon? Who, as friend only met, Soggarth aroon, Never did flout me yet, Soggarth aroon? And when my heart was dim, Gave while his eye did brim ; What should I give to him, Soggarth aroon? Och! you, and only you, Soggarth aroon! And for this I was true to you, Soggarth aroon; In love they’ll never shake, When for ould Ireland’s sake We a true part did take, Soggarth aroon! — John Banim. Notwithstanding all the power of England for three hundred years and her wealth and wiles in the last century, the faith of Ireland is still as fresh and pure BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 179 as when the Irish received it from the lips of St. Pat- rick. The evangel of the sword and that of the bribe did, no doubt, influence from time to time a few timid or mercenary souls ; but the great heart of the Irish people always beat true to God and His faith. This is the great glory of the Irish people and is put into beautiful words in the following poem : THE OLD CHURCH AT LISMORE. Old Church, thou still art Catholic! — e'en dream they as they may That the new rites and worship have swept the old away; There is no form of beauty raised by nature or by art That preaches not God's saving truths to man's adoring heart ! In* vain they tore the altar down; in vain they flung aside The mournful emblem of the death which our sweet Saviour died; In vain they left no single trace of saint or angel here — Still angel spirits haunt the ground, and to the soul appear. I marvel how, in scenes like these, so coldly they can pray, Nor hold sweet commune with the dead who once knelt down as they; Yet not as they, in sad mistrust or sceptic doubt — for, oh, They looked in hope to the blessed saints, these dead of long ago. i8o BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND And, then, the church yard, soft and calm, spread out beyond the scene, With sunshine warm and soothing shade and trees up- on its green; Ah! though their cruel Church forbid, are there no hearts will pray For the poor souls that trembling left that cold and speechless clay? My God ! I am a Catholic ! I grew into the ways Of my dear Church since first my voice could lisp a word of praise; But oft I think, though my first youth were taught and trained awrong, I still had learnt the one true faith from nature and from song ! For still, whenever dear friends die, it is such joy to know They are not all beyond the care that healed their wounds below; That we can pray them into peace, and speed them to the shore Where clouds and cares and thorny griefs shall vex their hearts no more. And the sweet saints, so meek below, so merciful above ; And the pure angels, watching still with such untiring love. And the kind Virgin, Queen of Heaven, with all her mother’s care, Who prays for earth, because she knows what break- ing hearts are there. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 181 Oh, let us lose no single link that our dear Church has bound, To keep our hearts more close to heaven, on earth’s un- genial ground; But trust in saint and martyr yet, and o’er their hal- lowed clay, Long after we have ceased to weep, kneel, faithful, down to pray. So shall the land for us be still the Sainted Isle of old, Where hymn and incense rise to Heaven, and holy beads are told ; And even the ground they tore from God, in years of crime and woe, Instinctive with His truth and love, shall breathe of long ago! — Ellen M. Downing. After the famine years in the middle of the last cen- tury an effort was made to win a tenant-right which should establish the Irish tenant on his farm and pre- vent him from eviction at the mere will of a landlord ; and thereby to stop the emigration that was draining away the life-blood of a nation. The sentiment of the following ballad is as true now as it was then ; and though in many ways conditions are better in Ireland in our day, they are not by any means satisfactory. It seems to me then that in view of the effort that is now making to stop the flow of emigration altogether, this ballad is peculiarly fitting to close this brief col- 182 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND lection of ballads relating to the chequered history of Ireland : THE ANCIENT RACE. What shall become of the ancient race, The noble Keltic island race? Like cloud on cloud o'er the azure sky, When winter storms are loud and high, Their dark ships shadow the ocean's face — What shall become of the Keltic race? What shall befall the ancient race — The poor, unfriended, faithful race? Where ploughman's song made the hamlet ring, The hawk and the owlet flap their wing; The village homes, oh, who can trace — God of our persecuted race! What shall befall the ancient race ? Is treason's stigma on their face? Be they cowards or traitors? Go — Ask the shade of England’s foe; See the gems her crown that grace; They tell a tale of the ancient race. They tell a tale of the ancient race — Of matchless deeds in danger's face; They speak of Britain’s glory fed With blood of Kelts, right bravely shed; Of India's spoil and Frank’s disgrace — Such tale they tell of the ancient race. Then why cast out the ancient race? Grim want dwelt with the ancient race, BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 183 And hell-born laws, with prison jaws; And greedy Lords, with tiger maws, Have swallowed — swallow still apace — The limbs and blood of the ancient race. Will no one shield the ancient race? They fly their father’s burial place ; The proud lords with the heavy purse, Their father’s shame, their people’s curse — Demons in heart, nobles in face — They dig a grave for the ancient race! What shall befall the ancient race. Shall all forsake their dear birthplace Without one struggle strong to keep The old soil where their fathers sleep? The dearest land on earth’s wide space— Why leave it so, O ancient race? What shall befall the ancient race? Light up one hope for the ancient race; Oh, priest of God — Soggarth Aroon! Lead but the way, we’ll go full soon; Is there a danger we will not face, To keep old homes for the Irish race? They shall not go, the ancient race — They must not go, the ancient race ! Come, gallant Kelts, and take your stand — And form a league to save the land; The land of faith, the land of grace, The land of Erin’s ancient race! They must not go, the ancient race! They shall not go, the ancient race ! i 84 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND The cry swells loud from shore to shore, From emerald vale to mountain hoar, From altar high to market place — “THEY SHALL NOT GO, the ancient race! — Rev. M. F. Tormey. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 185 APPENDIX I. The writers whose ballads appear in this collection are only a few of the great body of Irish poets who have made a name in this walk of literature. They are almost all of a past generation, but it is safe to say that no body of names stand higher as representa- tives of what Ireland has done in the region of ballad poetry. As long as the English language and litera- ture shall last, so long shall their names be remem- bered as writers of thrilling verse. Thomas Davis Thomas Davis was born at Mallow, County Cork, in 1814; studied at Trinity College, Dublin; was called to the bar in 1838 ; helped to found The Nation, a news- paper; died of scarlet fever, 1845. He was the author of essays, poems and “A History of the Patriot Parlia- ment of Ireland.” He was the leader of the Young Ireland Party. Sir Samuel Ferguson Was born at Belfast, March 10, 1810; studied law and was called to the bar in 1838; gave up the practice of his profession in 1867, an <3 became Deputy Keeper of the Records of Ireland. The author of much poetry and prose on Irish subjects, and always of fine quality. Died August 9, 1886, 1 86 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND James Clarence Mangan This, perhaps the greatest of Irish poets, was born in Dublin, May I, 1803; he had great linguistic talent which he found means to cultivate and which helped him much in his literary career. He became the victim of hurtful habits and led a precarious and miser- able life. He died in 1849. His poems and essays have been collected and published twice since his death. The “Anthologia Germanica” was his only work that appeared in collected form during his lifetime. William Drennan A United Irishman, born in Belfast, May 23, 1754; died February 5, 1820; the author of several notable pieces. Thomas Moore Thomas Moore, usually accounted the greatest of Ireland’s poets, was born in Dublin, 1779; educated at a grammar school, and afterwards at Trinity College, Dublin. He early developed a talent for poetry. His best work is probably contained in his "‘Irish Melodies/' though “Lalla Rookh” is longer and more ambitious. He was the author of many works in prose and poetry. He died in England, 1852. John Banim Born in Kilkenny, April 3, 1798; was a novelist rather than a poet, though he is known in both capa- cities. His “Soggarth Aroon” was much admired. He died in 1842. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 187 John O’Hagan One of the younger men of The Nation and a man who made his mark as lawyer and litterateur, was born at Newry, 1822; died in 1890. He wrote several spirited Irish ballads. Lady Wilde Perhaps better known by her pen name of “Sper- anza,” was the wife of Sir William Wilde, a famous oculist and antiquarian. She was one of the most noted contributors to The Nation in its best days. Her maiden name was Jane Francisca Elgee. Charles Gavan Duffy Was born in Monaghan in 1816. He early de- veloped a taste for literary work and became editor of a paper in Belfast. In conjunction with Thomas Davis and John B. Dillon, he started The Nation, and was its first editor. After a wearisome trial of Irish politics he emigrated to Australia and ultimately be- came one of the greatest forces in the politics of Victoria. He has written several very interesting books bearing on the Irish history of his own day, and produced many fine ballads. He spent the last years of his life in Europe and died recently at a very advanced age. Ellen Mary Downing Was one of the women writers of The Nation. Her pen name was “Mary.” She became an Ursuline nun and died January 27, 1869. 1 88 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND T. D’Arcy M’Gee One of the most brilliant young Irishmen of his day. Poet, orator, historian ; was born at Carlingford, Ireland, April 13, 1825; died the victim of an assassin in Ottawa, Canada, April 7, 1868. D. F. McCarthy Was born in Dublin in the year 1820, and died in 1882. He was a very pleasing writer of verse on Irish subjects, and also translated much from the Spanish. Charles J. Kickham Best known as a Fenian, and author of “Knock- nagow,” a novel descriptive of Irish life in Tipperary, also wrote some poems which have attracted attention. Robert Dwyer Joyce Was a physician and poet. His works are all con- cerned in some way with Ireland and her history. His best known poem, “Deirdre,” is concerned with the fate of the children of Usnach. He spent many years of his life in Boston, Mass., but was born and died in Ireland. His death occurred October 23, 1883, in the fifty-third year of his age. T. D. Sullivan Irish editor and Member of Parliament; is still liv- ing. He is a very tuneful poet and has done good work for Ireland. His brother, A. M. Sullivan, was, perhaps, more widely known. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 189 Aubrey De Vere Was born in Limerick in 1814; educated at Trinity College. He became a Catholic early in life and his faith tinctures all his writings. He was a great friend of Thomas Carlyle and of the poet Wordsworth. He was one of the greatest poets of our day, but, like his model Wordsworth, he does not seem to be appreciated as he deserves. He died in 1902. Edward Walsh Was born in Londonderry, in 1805. He taught school on Spike Island at the convict station and after- wards in the Cork poorhouse. He was the author of many original and translated poems. He died August 6, 1850. Rev. M. J. Tormey Was a priest of the Diocese of Meath, and was dis- tinguished as a theologian and orator as well as a poet. He was born in 1820 and died in 1893. Carroll Malone Was the pen name of James McBurney, who was born in County Down ; emigrated to America and died there in 1892. William Pembroke Mulchinock Was born in Tralee, County Kerry; seems to have taken part in the rising of 1848, and afterwards emi- grated to America. 190 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND APPENDIX II. Short List of Books Bearing on Irish History : HISTORY History of Ireland Martin Haverty History of Ireland Geoffry Keating History of Ireland McGeoghegan History of Ireland John Mitchell History of Ireland T. D. McGee History of Ireland Walpole History of Ireland Rev. E. A. D’Alton History of Ireland Joyce History of Ireland J. H. McCarthy Story of Ireland A. M. Sullivan Story of Ireland Emily Lawless Social History of Ireland Joyce Ecclesiastical History of Ireland Lanigan Ecclesiastical History of Ireland Brennan Ecclesiastical History of Ireland Malone Ecclesiastical History of Ireland Walsh Confederation of Kilkenny Rev. C. P. Meehan The Flight of the Earls Rev. C. P. Meehan The Cromwellian Settlement of Ireland. . .Prendergast Cromwell in Ireland Rev. D. Murphy Our Martyrs Rev. D. Murphy Irish History of the 18th Century W. H. Lecky The English in Ireland J. A. Froude The Patriot Parliament of Ireland Thomas Davis Rise and Fall of the Irish Nation. . . . Sir. J. Barrington BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 191 Early Christian Art in Ireland Stokes The Ancient Irish Church Salmon The Monks of the West Montalembert Ireland Under English Rule Perraud Persecution of Irish Catholics , . . . . Moran Compendium of Irish Biography Webb Sufferings for the Catholic Faith in Ireland M. O'Reilly A Literary History of Ireland Douglas Hyde Irish Schools and Scholars Archbishop Healy Annals, Anecdotes and Traditions of the Irish Par- liaments O’Flannigan Irish Brigade in the Service of France. . O'Callaghan Ireland and Her Agitators O'Neill Daunt Ireland Under English Rule Emmet The Volunteers McNevin Young Ireland C. Gavan Duffy New Ireland A. M. Sullivan Ireland Since the Union J. H. McCarthy The History of Our Own Times. . . . Justin McCarthy Rise and Fall of the Irish Nation Barrington Sketches of His Own Times Barrington The Sham Squire Fitzpatrick The Last Conquest of Ireland (Perhaps) . . J. Mitchell The Parnell Movement T. P. O'Connor The Life of St. Patrick Archbishop Healy The Life of St. Patrick Morris The Life of St. Patrick Kinane The Life of St. Patrick Fleming The Life of St. Patrick Cusack Lives of Irish Saints O’Hanlon 192 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND Lives of United Irishmen Robert R. Madden The Life of Lord Edward Fitzgerald T. Moore Life of O'Connell Luby Life of O'Connell Cusack Life of John Mitchell William Dillon Life of Thomas Davis C. G. Duffy Life of Hugh O'Neill John Mitchell Life of Owen Roe J. F. Taylor The Irish Nation Thomas Wills, D. D. The Story of an Irishman J. McCarthy My Recollections William O'Brien Catholicity and Progress in Ireland O'Riordan Ireland, Industrial and Agricultural Coyne Irish Race in the Past and Present. . Thebaud Leaders of Public Opinion Lecky POETRY . Legends of St. Patrick De Vere Innisfail De Vere The Foray of Queen Meave De Vere Deirdre R. D. Joyce Ballad Poetry of Ireland Hayes Ballad Poetry of Ireland C. G. Duffy Ballad Poetry of Ireland D. F. McCarthy The New Spirit of the Nation McDermott The Poetry and Song of Ireland* . . . . J. Boyle O'Reilly A Treasury of Irish Poetry Brooke & Rolleston The Four Winds of Eirinn Ethna Carbery The Three Sorrows of Story Telling. .Douglas Hyde * Contains the chief poems of many Irish poets, in- cluding Moore, Davis, Ferguson, McCarthy, Mangan and M'Gee. BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND 193 FICTION. The Invasion Gerald Griffin The Colleen Bawn Gerald Griffin Tales of a Jury Room Gerald Griffin Castle Rackrent Maria Edgeworth The Boyne Water Banirn Father Connell Banim The White Horse of the Peppers Banim The Confederate Chieftains Sadlier The Chances of War Findlay Marcella Grace Rosa Mulholland The Wild Birds of Killeevy Rosa Mulholland Knocknagow C. J. Kickham Hurrish Emily Lawless The Two Chiefs of Dunboy J. A. Froude In the Celtic Past Ethna Carbery Old Celtic Romances W. P. Joyce Castle Daly Keary When We Were Boys W. O'Brien A Queen of Men W. O'Brien Lord Edward Fitzgerald M. McD. Bodkin Gods and Fighting Men Lady Gregory Cuchullain of Murthemne Lady Gregory Poets and Dreamers Lady Gregory Wild Irish Girl Lady Morgan Florence McCarthy Lady Morgan Mononia Justin McCarthy The Wizard's Knot W. Barry My New Curate Rev. P. Sheehan Luke Delmege Rev P. Sheehan 194 BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND Glenanaar Rev. P. Sheehan Geoffrey Austin, Student Rev. P. Sheehan Triumph of Failure Rev. P. Sheehan Valentine McCluschy William Carleton The Poor Scholar William Carleton The Hibernian Nights' Entertainment Ferguson Date Due JUl 9'37 5 / / . :spfr\ / ( t 1 MAR 2 i 1993 • V * i