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 23 
 
 CQEOOGlft DEPOSm 
 
RAFTERY'S 
 
 POEMS 
 
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 RAFTERY'S 
 POEMS 
 
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 Songs of Life, Love 
 and Liberty 
 
 ^ 
 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 
 RAFTERY PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 376-380 West Monroe Street 
 CHICAGO 
 

 y 
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 To all who believe that "Right, Justice and Liberty" is the 
 inalienable heritage of all peoples; To all those who despise 
 hypocrisy and double dealing in individuals as well as in 
 Nations; To every true lover of and believer in, the ideals 
 and fundamental principles upon which genuine democratic 
 republicanism is based, I dedicate this volume of my simple 
 rhyming. And, if, but one in the vast number of my fellow- 
 men who has heretofore allowed others to do his thinking 
 for him, will only awaken to the fact, and that through the 
 perusal of this volume, that the Creator of the universe 
 endowed all mankmd with, as Lord Lytton put it, "Such 
 jewels as the exploring mind brings from the caves of knowl- 
 edge," namely, brains to use as they shuold be used by all 
 men for the uplifting and betterment of all mankind, then 
 I have not lived my life in vain. 
 
 The Author. 
 
 Note. — All of the poems herein with dates attached were 
 published at the time specified in Irish and Irish-American 
 weekly newspapers and magazines. 
 
 Copyright 1922 
 
 By 
 
 RAFTERY PUBLISHING CO., 
 
 Chicago. 
 
 ©C1A683717 
 
 / 
 
 I 
 
 to 
 
 ^ ^^ r-i e\ i\ ' r\ f\ 
 
IRELANDS HALL OF FAME. 
 
 Call the roll— their names are legion, 
 
 Glory's page can hold them all, 
 rho, they come from every region, 
 
 Cloister, cottage, castle, hall. 
 Theirs the deeds that history s pages 
 
 Hold as annals we should frame, 
 To enlighten future ages 
 
 In the Irish hall of fame. 
 
 Call the roll— let chief and peasant 
 
 In one grand assemblage meet, 
 We who glory in the present 
 
 Will their deeds of valor greet. 
 Let the shades of the O'Connor 
 
 Bear their grand and kingly name, 
 To a place of fitting honor, 
 
 In the Irish hall of fame. 
 
 Call the roll-the cloud is rising 
 
 Through the darkness comes the dawn 
 Bringing smiles of hope, apprising- 
 
 Erin's night of gloom has gone 
 Let her honored shield be brightened 
 
 And emblazon there each name 
 In a scroll of gold enlightened 
 
 By the glory of their fame. 
 
 Brian Born, Clontarf has crowned thee 
 Kingly sire, without a peer; 
 
 Malachy, the gold collar round thee 
 Proves a hero's prize you wear. 
 
 Owen Roe. Benburb, the glorious. 
 Great O'Neill of red hand name, 
 
 Puts Tyrone's proud sons victorious 
 In the Irish hall of fame. 
 
 Call the roll— let the O'Donnell, 
 
 Princely chieftain, shout Abu, 
 To the clansmen of Tyr Connell, 
 
 Valiant Irishmen and true. . 
 
 Shane the proud, Red Hugh the mighl>. 
 
 Grand in history stands each name. 
 Erin bows to them not lightly, 
 
 In her glorious hall of fame. 
 
 Call the roll— let thane and clansman, 
 
 Chieftain brave and warrior bold, 
 They whose fierce, defiant slogan 
 
 Answered foe in days of old. 
 Fall in line and take their places, 
 
 While loved Erin writes each name 
 Unto their allotted spaces 
 
 In the Irish hall of fame. 
 3 
 
Proud O'Briens, chiefs of Thomond 
 
 Glorious stood thy name of old, 
 Ere the coward traitor sold it 
 
 For the cursed Saxon's gold. 
 Title wore thee free from fetters, 
 
 Bright thou then kept freedom's flame, 
 And 'twill glow in shining letters 
 
 In the Irish hall of fame. 
 
 O'Rourke of Breffni, we forget not 
 
 Mighty deeds of valiant men; 
 Come, O'Malley, come, McDermott, 
 
 From each Connaught vale and glen; 
 Loved thee well our holy Ireland, 
 
 With a love that ne'er knew shame, 
 Well you'll answer for your sireland 
 
 In the Irish hall of fame. 
 
 The McCarthy clans assemble, 
 
 Desmond's bravest round will cling; 
 Come, you brave, who'd ne'er dissemble, 
 
 And O'Toole's proud standard bring, 
 Erin's valiant chiefs undaunted 
 
 Will like gems from out the frame 
 Tell a nation's tale unvaunted 
 
 In our Irish hall of fame. 
 
 We've O'Byrnes and O'Loughlins; 
 
 We've O'Duffy and O'Dowd, 
 And the master mind, O'Clery, 
 
 Who of those would not feel proud? 
 MacPallin, MacLaig, MacCullinan, 
 
 Finn MacCumhaill, every name 
 Adds each one a ray of lustre 
 
 To the Irish hall of fame. 
 
 Tho' the tyrant's foot has trampled o'er 
 
 For centuries agone 
 The clay of those great men of yore, 
 
 Their memory still lives on; 
 And 'twill burst forth grand and glorious 
 
 In a wreath of heavenly flame, 
 When a nation stands victorious 
 
 'Fore the Irish hall of fame. 
 
 Call the roll — the blush of dawning 
 
 O'er our Emerald Isle is shed, 
 In the light of freedom's morning 
 
 We cannot forget the dead. 
 The dead whose lives were given 
 
 To uphold a nation's name. 
 In deathless lines let them be riven 
 
 In the Irish hall of fame. 
 
Call the roll— 'tis Patrick Sarsfield 
 
 Leads the brave of Garryowen. 
 Come, thou murdered Father Sheehy, 
 
 Come, Fitzgerald and Wolfe Tone, 
 Brave young Emmett. gallant Dwyer, 
 
 O, how brilliant will each name 
 Shine until the day of judgment 
 
 In the Irish hall of fame. 
 
 Father Quigley, Fathers Murphy, 
 
 Brothers John and Henry Sheares, 
 Philpot Curran, bright your pleading 
 
 Shines through all the maze of years. 
 Emmet, Esmonde and McNevin, 
 
 Fanned thou fire of freedom's flame. 
 Great and grand will be the roll call 
 
 In our Irish hall of fame. 
 
 Grace O'Malley, answer queenly 
 
 To the call of Granuaile, 
 From the skies. 0, lion of Judea, 
 
 Trumpet forth the name McHale. 
 Thomas Moore and Dan O'Connell 
 
 With Dean Swift from out "the frame, 
 Will like priceless gems shine radiant 
 
 In the Irish hall of fame. 
 
 Long the list of names, 0, Ireland! 
 
 Daughters, sons, all tried and true, 
 Who in love gave all to sireland. 
 
 High their hearts e'er beat for you. 
 Gentle writers of The Nation, 
 
 "Eva" crowned in freedom's flame. 
 With "Speranza" and "May Downing", 
 
 Shine in Erin's hall of fame. 
 
 Thomas Davis. Clarence Mangan, 
 
 Ingram. Kickham, sons of song. 
 Hearts of oak that beat within thee. 
 
 To loved Erin did belong. 
 What a wealth of love and feeling 
 
 Wound thee 'round hpr hallowed name 
 How 'twill thrill the millions kneeling 
 
 'Fore the Irish hal of fame. 
 
 Statesmen, leaders, Flood and Grattan, 
 
 Isaac Butt, the loved Parnell, 
 Leal did you and your colleagues 
 
 Work for suifering Erin well. 
 From the long list true and steady 
 
 Shines the light of Davitt's name, 
 Erin's loyal souls stand ready 
 
 To fill her proud hall of fame. 
 
 5 
 
Call the roll — let dauntless Fenian, 
 
 True "United Irishmen", 
 Who in heart and soul were freemen, 
 
 Spirit rallying, stand again, 
 While the traitor, knave and cowarQ, 
 
 Trembling hang their heads in shame 
 When a nation's flag waves proudly 
 
 O'er the Irish hall of fame. 
 
 Would that pen of mine had power, 
 
 Would that brain of mine could pen. 
 Erin's past until this hour, 
 
 That her scattered children then 
 Glorying in her grand traditions, 
 
 Rallied 'round her ancient name, 
 And in bright undying letters. 
 
 Rear the Irish hall of fame. 
 
 Call the roll — the names are legion, 
 
 History's page holds one and all, 
 Tho' they hail from every region. 
 
 Cottage, abbey, castle, hall. 
 Theirs the deeds that Mother Erin 
 
 Loves to paint in heavenly flame, 
 Freedom's banner proud uprearing 
 
 In our Irish hall of fame. 
 
 —December 8, 1912 
 
 SWEET COUNTY OF MAYO. 
 
 0, this little plant of shamrock green 
 
 I'll keep where e'er I go. 
 
 I plucked it by a silvery stream 
 
 In the County of Mayo. 
 
 And tho to day I'm far away 
 
 From thee, my native land, 
 
 I'll not forget those happy days 
 
 By the River Robe so grand. 
 
 0, the alien land is dear to me. 
 
 But who on earth can blame 
 
 If in my heart so tenderly 
 
 I cherish one sweet name. 
 
 And thy praises sure ever I'll sing 
 
 In accents soft and low, 
 
 God bless the friends I left behind 
 
 In sweet County of Mayo. 
 
 INNISFAIL. 
 
 There's a little Isle, oh, many a mile 
 
 Away on the ocean's crest. 
 
 'Tis Innisfail. all hail, all hail. 
 
 Fair Isle of the brave and blest. 
 
 And we love each hill, and rippling rill. 
 
 Each sun-kissed lake and vale, 
 
 And shelving strand, in that favored land, 
 
 The home of tho sturdy Gael. 
 
 6 
 
A POEM. 
 
 Dedicated to All Men of Irish Blood on July 4th. 
 
 Unfurl old Erin's banner, 
 Fling its green folds to the breeze, 
 In this, the greater Ireland, 
 Our country o'er the seas. 
 
 Let us show the cursed Briton 
 How we glory in the pride 
 Of the countless line of heroes 
 Who for freedom's cause have died. 
 
 They now would share the honors 
 of the brave ones who are gone; 
 They now would fawn upon us 
 With, Hoi Brother Jonathan. 
 
 0' but how they loved the heroes 
 Who the sword did proudly draw 
 To save the fair Columbia 
 From the British lion's maw! 
 
 Men of Erin! Men of Erin! 
 You may well feel proud that day, 
 For the Irish troops fought bravely 
 In grim battle's fierce array. 
 
 And in may a well fought battle field. 
 On mountain, vale or glen. 
 Did the red coats cry with terror, ^^ 
 "There's that damn green flag again . 
 
 Well might they be terror-stricken, 
 When they found themselves before 
 Men who had a debt to settle 
 Of a hundred years or more. 
 
 Well they knew those Irish exiles 
 Were not there for empty spoil. 
 But blood for loved ones murdered 
 On our sacred Irish soil. 
 
 Wear the glorious Stars and Stripes, then. 
 With the green entwined in one. 
 In memory of the Irish brave 
 Who fought with Washington. 
 
 Then bear yourselves right proudly. 
 And hold your heads on high. 
 In this, our adopted country, 
 On the fourth day of July. 
 
 —June 27, 1909. 
 
THE AWAKENING. 
 
 Here's to the folly that fired the world with a 
 
 Spark of the War God's wrath; 
 Let it revel now to its heart's content in its 
 
 Own red blood-stained path. 
 While the demon of hate with a sinister smile 
 
 Is w^orking his evil way 
 Through the so-called paths of Christian love 
 
 Where religion claims full sway. 
 Ah, look at those eyes and the hard-drawn lips 
 
 Of the parson who prates of God 
 As the fount of love and forgiveness e'er to all 
 
 Children of the sod. 
 Did the lowly Jesus of Nazareth preach of 
 
 Vengeance and blood for blood? 
 Ah, no, 'twas the gospel of peace and love, or 
 
 Else we've misunderstood. 
 
 Oh, here's to the wealth red-dyed with blood 
 
 In Civilization's name; 
 Let those enjoy it who've played the trumps in 
 
 This savage hellish game; 
 Yes, let those enjoy it while they may who have 
 
 Added fuel to the fire, 
 'Til the sky's red dawn beholds the pawn wake up 
 
 With a blood desire, 
 Then the culture of Commerce whose iron hand 
 
 Has crushed in its lust for greed 
 Will see men Phoenix-like arise, no longer to 
 
 Beg and plead, 
 But with giant strength break thro the bonds that for 
 
 Ages have crushed men down 
 And place on the brow of the serf down trod 
 
 Democracy's noble crown. 
 
 Ah, high on the walls of the world is writ the 
 
 Preface of destiny, 
 And the letters gleam like fiery stars from 
 
 Thraldom bursting free 
 To encircle the earth in chariot drawn bv the 
 Steeds of knowledge unleashed. 
 Full fed on emotions electrified from the depths 
 
 That the serf has reached. 
 Now He answers Humanity's clarion call to strip 
 
 For the mighty fray; 
 And his fulcrum is union forged in the fire 
 
 Of Despotism's fell sway; 
 For Nature decrees that man combined for the 
 
 Rights of his fellow man 
 Holds not to the schism of "right divine" vested 
 
 In any one of the common clan. 
 
 —April 13, 1917 
 
 8 
 
home; sweet home. 
 
 Back to the vale that my childhood knew, 
 To the friends of my youth so tried and true. 
 Yea back to that to that Island of emerald hue, 
 With her mountains and lakes so grand, 
 Long years have gone by, since I first did roam, 
 From the verdant shores, over the oceans foam, 
 But I'll soon be sailing for Home, Sweet Home, 
 Erin, my native land. 
 
 MICHAEL DAVITT. 
 
 Died at Bray, County Dublin May 30, 1906— Buried at Straide, 
 
 County Mayo. 
 
 He sleeps on the breast of the land that he loved, 
 
 True son on her bosom reclining. 
 
 And green is the sod sheet that covers him o'er. 
 
 Fresh with shamrock and daisy entwining. 
 
 Oh, there let him rest till the flush of the dawn, 
 
 His own loved Erin a-lighting. 
 
 Will flash o'er his tomb like a herald at noon 
 
 The glad news of a nation's arighting. 
 
 Great was the love that ne'er faltered, tho thrall 
 
 Of the tyrant's fierce hate sought to batter 
 
 The hopes that were raised in his breast at the call 
 
 Of his country her shackles to shatter; 
 
 And into the vortex he plunged with a will, 
 
 No thought of himself ever heeding, 
 
 But of her whom a nation, unconquered, but still 
 
 At the feet of the tyrant lay bleeding. 
 
 Cherished be his name in the hearts of the brave. 
 
 His memory till time never ending 
 
 Will live while the sun sheds its light o'er his grave, 
 
 Heaven's rays with the emerald blending; 
 
 And thus will go onward the cause he espoused, 
 
 Unchangng with each generation. 
 
 Till the rights of his country forever are housed 
 
 'Neath the emblem of "Ireland a Nation". 
 
 —May, 1909. 
 
 ERIN MAVOURIVEEN. 
 
 Erin, acushla, the land we love best, 
 
 Ever our thoughts wander back over the foam, 
 Fain would we lay ourselves once more to rest 
 
 On the emerald sod round our childhood's loved home, 
 And list to the birds in the foliage singing. 
 
 In praise of their Maker 'neath skies ever blue, 
 There where the daisies in sunshine are springing, 
 
 Erin, Oh, Erin mavourneen, 'tis you. 
 
 9 
 
THE OPTIMIST. 
 
 Taunt me not, thou laughing demon, 
 
 With the chances missed and gone, 
 For I see the sunlight gleaming 
 
 Through the cloud that's coming on. 
 See, I cast thy fetters from me, 
 
 And defy Dame Fortune's frown, 
 You may glower thus upon me. 
 
 But you cannot crush me down. 
 
 On a "royal road" I've wandered 
 
 Many long and weary years, 
 Ah. the bright, bright hours I've squandered, 
 
 And for naught but sighs and tears. 
 With a fringe of passing pleasure 
 
 Just picked up in fast Joytown, 
 Sorrow I've had in full measure, 
 
 But there's naught can crush me down. 
 
 LINES ADDRESSED TO A BIGOT. 
 
 Poor, poor old whited sepulchre, the barnacles of hate 
 Cling tightly to your fossiled hide, ne'er to disintegrate, 
 Because, preserved by blatant rant and base hypocrisy, 
 Shamelessly flowing from pools of cant, fount ,of your 
 Christianity. 
 
 When, "from ashes to ashes and from dust to dust" 
 
 Is piously uttered o'er your grave. 
 
 Dear Mother Earth alas she must 
 
 Hold remnant of a knave. 
 
 From which by time's unchanging power 
 
 The spirit has been set free 
 
 To roam an outcast from that hour 
 
 Through and for all eternity. 
 
 For Peter could not refuge give within the heavenly home 
 To soul that on this earth did live hating the Church of 
 
 Rome. 
 And Satan sure will take the pains Hades gatekeeper to tell. 
 "That peace would reign in my domains, keep bigots out of 
 
 hell." 
 
 Then as there is no half way house in your belief, wise guy. 
 Your soul must keep right on the roads forever passing bye 
 The gates of Paradise above, the gates of Hades below, 
 Bereft of peace, of hope, of love, a wondering soul hobo. 
 
 10 
 
SWEET IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 The songs of his country each hour grows dear, 
 
 To the Irishman far from his home, 
 For they seem to bridge time and bring old mem'ries near 
 
 As in spirit each dear spot he'll roam, 
 While the music goes on and he hears each old song, 
 
 On memory's sweet page he can see. 
 And the places and friends that forever are gone 
 
 Live again in each old melody. 
 
 There's the "Last Rose of Summer, Left Blooming Alone", 
 
 Now "A Glimpse of Old Ireland" I crave. 
 Then "Believe Me, if All Those Endearing Young Charms", 
 
 And "My Spirit Bounds Over the Wave" 
 To "The Vale of Avoca, Where Bright Waters Meet", 
 
 'Tis a sight that's entrancing to see; 
 And the Lakes of "Killarney" I And at my feet, 
 
 At the sound of that sweet melody. 
 
 Oh, 'tis fine to go back and be once more a boy, 
 
 Full of life, free from trouble and care; 
 To roam by the banks of the sweet, silvery Moy, 
 
 Hand in hand with a colleen so dear. 
 And with light heart to go through thy vales, sweet Mayo, 
 
 Filled with tenderest memories to me, 
 They live in the songs that I love best and know 
 
 My native land's sweet melody. 
 
 Ah, the "Connaught Man's Rambles" bring joy to my heart, 
 
 I go strolling through old Gastlebar, 
 And the strains of the "Irish Washerwoman" impart 
 
 A delight that no trouble can mar. 
 Then the "Blackberry Blossom", so lithesome and gay, 
 
 To its tune I now trip o'er the lea; 
 With the Bard of Armagh I continue my way 
 
 Through the dear land of sweet melody. 
 
 The "Boys of Kilkenny" each neat, roving blade, 
 
 Loving "Mary, the Rose of Tralee", 
 And the Wexford boys, brave, who were never afraid, 
 
 Through the mountains of Wicklow I see. 
 That "Limerick is Beautiful" everyone knows, 
 
 "Dublin Bay", that sounds sweetly to me, 
 While the Shannon or Liffey majestically flows 
 
 Through the garden of sweet melody. 
 
 "Though the Last Glimpse of Erin in Sorrow I See", 
 
 How Fm longing to be once again 
 Where the old "Shandon Bells" tolled so sweet o'er the Lee, 
 
 But I know that the longing's in vain. 
 Still I'll ever go on through that sweet land of song. 
 
 And forever in spirit I'll be 
 A-roaming through Erin dear, wafted along 
 
 On the sweetest of sweet melody. 
 
 H 
 
They sing of the exile that came to the beach, 
 
 Oh, "Let Erin Remember the Days" 
 When scholars sublime in old Tara did teach, 
 
 While the harp it rang out in their praise. 
 Then "Gome Back to Erin" you left far behind. 
 
 And "Wearing the Green" they'll all be, 
 On "St. Patrick's Day in the Morning" you'll find, 
 
 In that dear land of sweet molody. 
 
 Now 'tis "Brian Boru's March" and "O'Donnell Abu", 
 And the song of the brave "Minstrel Boy', 
 
 The songs that were made for the brave and the true. 
 Sure the wanderer's heart fills with joy; 
 
 For in these you can tell, as in "Emmet's Farewell", 
 The great love of thy children for thee, 
 "Oh, Erin Acushla, Mavourneen Asthore", 
 There's naught like they sweet melody. 
 
 EILEEN, THE PRIDE OF TAUGHEEN. 
 
 I. 
 
 In fantasy's realms I'm wandering, 
 
 'Mid fond scenes of long, long ago. 
 Where the bright silvery Robe is meandering 
 
 Through the lowlands of dear old Mayo. 
 Of a rosy cheeked colleen I'm dreaming, 
 
 She's as pure as the shamrock is green, 
 And her eyes with fond love-light are gleaming, 
 
 'Tis Eileen, the pride of Taugheen. 
 
 II. 
 
 Oh, if by the Robe I could meet her. 
 
 And clasping her close to my breast, 
 With a smile and a kiss fondly greet her. 
 
 In that fairyland, Ireland's proud West. 
 We'd know naught of trouble or sorrow, 
 
 Our loves would be peaceful, serene. 
 Ever waiting the joys of the morrow, 
 
 My Eileen, fair maid of Taugheen. 
 
 III. 
 
 The shamrocks we'd pluck, love, together. 
 
 And we'd list' to the lark's morning song. 
 As he rose from the bright purple heather, 
 
 That 'broider the moorlands along, 
 Where the shades of our grandsires are sleeping, 
 
 'Neath mounds ever mantled in green, 
 A vigil of love we'd be keeping, 
 
 My Eileen, the pride of Taugheen. 
 
 12 
 
THE LAND OF MY BIRTH. 
 
 Sweet little island, where grows the green shamrock, 
 Pride of the world, thou land of my birth; 
 Tho' far from the shores, thy brave children may wander, 
 To them thou'rt the dearest, best land upon earth. 
 Through years of oppression you've risen triumphant, 
 Forcing the foe to allow your just claims; 
 Grand is thy history, my own loved Ireland, 
 Made glorious by thousands of patriot names. 
 
 Erin Machree, the dark clouds disappearing 
 That crushed you, Mavourneen, for centuries gone; 
 Thy day-star of liberty brightly is nearing. 
 God bless thee, my country, and soon bring it on. 
 Oh, if but my bones I could lay in old Ireland, 
 And she were a nation, as once she had been, 
 'Tis gladly I'd give my life's blood for mysireland, 
 To sleep 'neath a sod sheet of shamrocks so green. 
 
 And there with the clay of the parents who bore me. 
 
 Loving and kind, oh, they always had been — 
 
 Rest peacefully on while a green flag flew o'er me, 
 
 The emblem of Ireland, a nation again. 
 
 Ob > r'*: acushla, thy green shores are ever 
 
 Before me, no matter asleep or awake. 
 
 To see liberty crown thee I'd fondly endeavor. 
 
 And gladly I'd give my life's blood for thy sake. 
 
 The tyrant may boast of his prestige and power, 
 
 Empires great have existed before, 
 
 And they and their glory were swept in an hour 
 
 Into oblivion to rise never more, 
 
 All over the earth, thou beloved little island. 
 
 Thy children so scattered are making a name. 
 
 And the bully so haughty that wronged thee, my sireland. 
 
 Finds out they're determined on spoiling his game. 
 
 Where'er she sought trouble the whole world over. 
 An Irish brigade England's army has met, 
 Her enemy ever, the bold Irish rover. 
 He has wrongs to wipe out that he cannot forget. 
 'Tis loyal and true he will stand by the stranger, 
 If liberty's the watchword he's his to command, 
 Then fearless and brave, caring nothing for danger. 
 He'll face the oppressor who threatens the land. 
 
 01 could thy sons meet on thy soil for an hour 
 
 And muster their force round the bridge of Athlone , 
 
 Or on Augrim's famed field, why, on earth there's no power, 
 
 Could keep thee in bondage, my loved island home. 
 
 The free air can soon carry ships of invasion, 
 
 And England is trembling, her doom's near at hand. 
 
 May her downfall bring forth Ireland once more a nation, 
 
 The pride of the world, my own native land! 
 
 —August 28, 1909. 
 
 13 
 
MY LAND. 
 
 0, green are the fields in the land of our birth, 
 And blue are the skies that o'er circle above, 
 Sure ,where is the spot, tho we travel the earth, 
 That can make us forget the sweet isle of true love. 
 
 It lies far away on the crest of the ocean. 
 Like emerald pure it is crowning the wave 
 'Tis Erin, the isle of our heart's deep devotion. 
 The land of the free and the home of the brave. 
 
 MY MAGGIE OF THE MOY. 
 
 'This a face of gentle sweetness, 
 
 And a maiden form divine, 
 As memory sweet I've treasured. 
 
 Through the long lost page of time 
 Since we rambled by the river 
 
 Hand in hand a maid and boy. 
 Oh, thee I never will forget, 
 
 My Maggie of the Moy. 
 
 As I sit, I think and ponder 
 
 O'er that happy long ago, 
 When by the Moy we'd wander 
 
 In my own, my sweet Mayo. 
 Oh, no wonder I start dreaming. 
 
 And I'm once again a boy. 
 Awaiting thy sweet coming, 
 
 My Maggie of the Moy. 
 
 Once again I sit beside you. 
 
 And I hold your hand in mine, 
 As I look into your eyes of blue. 
 
 Where the love light used to shine. 
 Then I tell you of my life hopes. 
 
 And I watch you smile with joy. 
 . Oh my purest, sweetest angel, 
 
 My Maggie of the Moy. 
 
 Now the golden sun is setting 
 
 As I wander down the lane 
 And I see the old, old churchyard 
 
 By the river Moy again. 
 But thou art not there to greet me. 
 
 And I know that 'its on high 
 We'll meet agnin my angel one. 
 
 My Maggie of the Moy. 
 
 On my hand a tear drop falling 
 
 Brings me back to earth once more. 
 To find that I am far away 
 
 From Erin's lovely shore. 
 And tho' far and near I've wandered, 
 
 I have never laid an eye 
 On a sweeter, truer colleen 
 
 Than was Maggie of the Moy. 
 
 —July 31, 1909. 
 
 14 
 
TO MY FIRST SWEETHEART. 
 
 Ah, sure I could not forget you, 
 
 Even tho you did forget 
 
 The words that were whispered at parting, 
 
 Midst the scenes where our eyes had first met; 
 
 Love such as mine lives forever. 
 
 An ideal enthroned cannot fall, 
 
 Even tho' oceans may sever 
 
 And fate round a life casts its thrall. 
 
 Thus I think of you night and morning, 
 
 Wherever my footsteps may roam, 
 
 Out on the wild rolling prairie, 
 
 'Way on the oceans white foam, 
 
 And your cheeks like the roses in Summer, 
 
 Your eyes like the fresh sparkling dew, 
 
 That is the picture that thro the years 
 
 Comes floating to me of you, 
 
 'Tis framed in a setting of emerald green 
 
 And lit by the sun's evening glow. 
 
 All mirrored so soft in the rippling gleam 
 
 Of a lake in our loved Mayo. 
 
 So thus around my every soul 
 
 Fond loving thoughts entwine. 
 
 Of those halycon days of yore 
 
 Sweetheart days of mine. 
 
 And as twilight comes softly stealing, 
 
 And paints each bright scene anew, 
 
 The sweet memories ever revealing, 
 
 Those old visions fair of you. 
 
 So thus do the smiling Cupids 
 
 Exporing my soul's dim deeps. 
 
 Find a keeper there ealled Memory, 
 
 Who slumbers but never sleeps, 
 
 And he to their question replying, 
 
 "Loves Youn^ Dream you gaze upon" 
 
 Who here midst a dead past lying, 
 
 Yet dying would still live on. 
 
 September, 1903. 
 
 AN IRISHMAN'S BOQUET. 
 
 A red, red rose for the love I bear 
 
 This native land of mine, 
 
 An ivy spray and a Shamrock sprig 
 
 Their leaves to fondly 'twine 
 
 With the pansies and forget-me-nots, 
 
 I'd place with loving hand 
 
 In the Spring boquet I wear today 
 
 For dear old Ireland. 
 
 15 
 
AN IRISH EXILE'S LOVE. 
 
 Could we forget the land where we were born, 
 
 Green Isle, where in our childhood days we spent. 
 The cottage home, midst fields of flowering thorn. 
 
 Where reigned peace, plenty, happiness, content, 
 0, no; while life lasts, so must live a love 
 
 For Erin. Columbia knows our hearts to her are true; 
 And as there is a God in Heaven above. 
 
 Our hearts are large enough to love the two. 
 
 Columbia's praises we can sing aloud 
 
 And glory in the red, the white, the blue; 
 While of the old green flag we can be proud, 
 
 A children's love we'll give to Erin, too. 
 One fla^ the symbol of a grand old race. 
 
 Fighting for right, and longing to be free; 
 The other 'mongst all nations hold first place, 
 
 'Tis emblem of the land of liberty. 
 
 And 'neath them both, our grandsires bled and died, 
 
 In freedom's cause they ne'er were known to yield. 
 And Irish troops have oft turned battles tide. 
 
 And victory won on many a hard fought field, 
 Who dares to say that in this great free land 
 
 Green Erin's children have no rights nor claims, 
 For liberty they stood here sword in hand, 
 
 Good men and true, proud of their Irish names. 
 
 Before them stood a cruel, relentless foe. 
 
 Deep dyed in blood of their loved kith and kin; 
 And memory of three hundred years or so 
 
 Rose up before those Irish exiles then. 
 They saw their country, once a nation grand, 
 
 Laid waste and trampeld 'neath the tyrant's heel, 
 And swore that young Columbia, fair, fair land. 
 
 Would ne'er beneath a despot's shackles reel. 
 
 Above them waved a striped and starry flag. 
 
 The emblem true, of liberty and light. 
 They pledged if it the Briton down would drag, 
 
 He'd have to change their day to darkest night. 
 For freedom's sake, they fought, they bled, they died, 
 
 And Washington, great soul, he knew their worth, 
 He saw that old green flag, their love, their pride, 
 
 Help make this great republic of the earth. 
 
 We cannot then forget the dear, old land, 
 
 Whose gold-harped green flag, good true hearts unfurled, 
 Tho 'neath the stars and stripes today, we stand 
 
 Willing to fight its battles 'gainst the world. 
 Speak up, my brother exiles, is't not so 
 
 Columbia holds a love that's free from guile. 
 While o'er the ocean wide will always go 
 
 A children's love, to poor old Erin's Isle. 
 
 16 
 
THE KERRY LOVER TO HIS SWEETHEART. 
 
 Tender and true is our love for old Ireland, 
 
 Then come back Mavourneen and roving we'll go, 
 O'er the soft springing turf of our sireland, 
 
 The lakes, vales, the dells and the mountains we know 
 0, 'tis happy we'll be in our own native Kerry, 
 
 Soft kissed by the breeze from McGillicuddy, 
 And the friends that we knew, all light-hearted and merry, 
 
 We'll join once again at the fair of Tralee. 
 
 Acushla, then come where the eagles are screaming 
 
 'Way up above round crest of the Tore, 
 'Tis springtime, Mavourneen, the dew drops are gleaming 
 
 On the shamrocks 'way down in the vale of Glenore. 
 0, sure the headlands will smilingly greet us, 
 
 While the sea gull will fly from his soft, cozy nest, 
 And skimming the wave rush, alanna, to meet us, 
 
 As the ship bears us home to our haven of rest. 
 
 Ah, we'll visit Muckross and the home of Kate Kearney, 
 
 The famed Innisf alien, the Gap of Dunloe; 
 Sure, 'tis often I watched as some one sang "Killarney", 
 
 And saw the big tears down your rosy cheeks flow. 
 Arrah, why hesitate when you know that I love you? 
 
 Maybe 'tis because from dear Kerry you came. 
 But, Mavourneen, as true as the heaven's above you, 
 
 As the summer needs sunshine, I need you the same. 
 
 Acushla, the blush that your cheek is adorning. 
 
 Tells plainer than words ever answered, Machree, 
 That if thoughts were but wings you'll be there before morn- 
 ing. 
 
 0, say then, alanna, you'll come back with me, 
 And we'll go to Kilorglin, Kenmare, and old Dingle, 
 
 Like children we'll joyously trip o'er the green. 
 How gladsome your heart when once more you will mingle 
 
 With the folks kind and true in sweet Cahirciveen. 
 
 Don't cry, now, acushla, the arms about you 
 
 Will guard and defend you in life evermore; 
 Ah, sure it is lonely I'd be, love, without you. 
 
 And now that I've won you I'll prize you, asthore; 
 Faith, 'tis rich I will feel as the good ship is sailing, 
 
 And over my life sweet contentment will smile. 
 As with you by my side, dear, I'll stand by the railing, 
 
 Watching out for dear Kerry, in Erin's loved isle. 
 
 17 
 
IRELAND A NATION. 
 
 Blood of the sea-divided Gael, ye children of a grand old 
 
 nation, 
 Pulse proud and stand by Innisfail, with De Velera take 
 
 your station. 
 Our Motherland needs every son and daughter true to Irish 
 
 Freedom, 
 To rout and keep right on the run the prophets false who 
 
 wrong would lead them. 
 There ne'er was time "Dark Rosaleen" good men and true 
 
 so badly needed, 
 As this ffark hour, the dawn between, when hope's fair field 
 
 is darkly seeded 
 By hypocrites with lying tongue, the propagandists of the 
 
 spoiler, 
 Who strew'd the thorns that sprung from roots hard and 
 
 oppressive to the toiler. 
 
 Sons of the sea-divided Gael, fair exiled daughters of old 
 
 Erin, 
 Rise, and the standard boldly hail, the colors of your nation 
 
 wearing; 
 'Tis Eamon De Valera calls in name of her unconquered ever, 
 Our own "Dark Rose," who tho' in thralls, a nation's right 
 
 relinquished never. 
 0, by the blood that laved her breast from patriot hearts 
 
 thro' all the ages. 
 In memory of the brave and blest, her chieftains bold and 
 
 saints and sages, 
 Rise in your might and take your place, let Shoneens hie 
 
 to hell's damnation. 
 But you of Erin's dauntless race with De Yalera take your 
 
 station. 
 
 TEARS. 
 
 Those salty pearls, we know not what they mean 
 That well from out the depths of our despair; 
 Perchance they come from realms of might have been- 
 To tell of hoped for joys that never were. 
 And as the thoughts arise from memory's book 
 So flow those pearly streams from nature's brook. 
 Coursing adown the paths where joy and fears 
 Have played at odds through all the bvgone years. 
 Relieving thus the grief overburdened brain 
 Blest as a God-sent shower of summer rain. 
 
 18 
 
"SWEET BROOKHILL." 
 
 (Respectfully inscribed to my old friend and townsman, 
 T. Q. Ouray, Colorado. 
 
 I. 
 
 Let poets praise their fair lands in wonder 
 In notes of thunder, in peans of joy. 
 But I will chant, of a beauteous Eden 
 Where oft' I played in, when a boy, 
 'Tis there the blooming rhododendrons 
 The gentle summer breezes fill 
 With perfujned breaths, making life's elysium 
 Of Sylvian glades of Sweet Brookhill. 
 
 II. 
 
 0, bounteous nature, who freely dealt her, 
 A wealth of splendor, supreme, sublime. 
 In dell and woodland, by lake and fountain. 
 With verdure blooming there all the time I 
 Sure my heart grows fonder, as I sit and ponder 
 And in spirit wander, by rippling rill, 
 O'er glade through wildwood, as in my childhood 
 I often roamed, in Sweet Brookhill. 
 
 III. 
 
 'Tis there the wild duck nests in sedges, 
 Along the edges of islands fair; 
 That dot the lakes in this smiling Eden 
 With shrub o'er laden, and blossoms rare. 
 There pine trees palmy, make fresh air balmy, 
 While from their branches the wild birds thrill, 
 With mingled chorus, ringing out melodious. 
 O'er the Emerald meadows of Sweet Brookhill. 
 
 IV. 
 
 'Mid hills surrounding, with fruit abounding; 
 The nuts and berries in profusion grow. 
 While blooming thorn, each height adorn, 
 Makes pictures beauteous where-e'er you go, 
 The sweet red clover you'll find all over, 
 With daisy, violet and daffodil, 
 The old house rounding, with laurel crowning 
 This Mayo Eden, the Sweet Brookhill. 
 
 V. 
 
 Oh, may I be blest, once more may I rest, 
 
 And gaze with rapture the hills a-down 
 
 Where mirrored nightly, on lakes starred brightly. 
 
 Are the dear loved homes of Glaremorristown, 
 
 Then to roam at even, when for home I'm leaving, 
 
 The shady lane, to Donlin's mill; 
 
 By old Mount Lambert, where oft I scampered. 
 
 In boyhood days through Sweet Brookhill. . 
 
 —March 30, 1913. 
 
 19 
 
AN IRISHMAN'S PRIDE. 
 
 It matters not where e'er I roam, 
 
 My thoughts will drift across the foam 
 
 To Erin's Isle, my home, sweet home, 
 
 The land that I adore. 
 Bright emerald on the ocean crest, 
 Soil by St. Patrick's footsteps blest, 
 Fair Isle, by Heaven's blue sky caressed, 
 
 I love thee more and more. 
 
 0, land of song and story old, 
 Of scholar, Saint and hero bold, 
 Would that my pen could but unfold 
 
 The ages past and hoary. 
 And view thy shrines and temples all, 
 Thy courts with knight and seneschal. 
 Thy sceptred chiefs, in Tara's Hall, 
 
 In all their ancient glory. 
 
 I'd show some pictures truly grand. 
 
 To Erin's sons in every land. 
 
 And watch them in amazement stand 
 
 Filled with new-born pride. 
 For that fair isle, from whence they sprung, 
 Where learnings fane was rocked and rung 
 With eloquence sublime, where bards have sung 
 
 And heroes fought and died. 
 
 Where chief with love of home inspired 
 Each clansman's heart with courage fired, 
 'Twas free and untrammeled they desired 
 
 Their native isle should be. 
 Its homes and altars they would shield, 
 Or proudly die on battlefield, 
 Ere to invader they would yield 
 
 A Nation's destiny. 
 
 To see the kingly Brian Boru, 
 
 Lead Erin's warriors staunch and true, 
 
 And Clontarf's bloody field bestrew, 
 
 With crushed and vanquished Dane. 
 And Benburb where the great Owen Roe, 
 Met bloody Coote, and fierce Monroe, 
 And caused Blackwater's banks o'erflow 
 
 With Scot and British slain. 
 
 To watch the struggle at the Boyne 
 Would be a picture glorious, fine. 
 For Papist valor would outshine 
 
 The cursed Orange knavery — 
 And show how time and time again, 
 They cut the mongrel horde in twain, 
 'Gainst odds they shed their blood like rain, 
 
 Ah, there was Irish bravery. 
 
 20 
 
But dirty James, whose craven heart, 
 Had caused him from the field to start, 
 With troops, who had they done their part, 
 
 And entered in the fray. 
 No bigot spawn, of recreant crew, 
 Who flaunt the flag of orange hue. 
 Would e\er feel as now they do, 
 
 Exultant o'er the day. 
 
 To be at Limerick's walls again, 
 
 When Sarsfleld and his gallant men 
 Made Orange William tremble when 
 
 He heard the loud uproar. 
 And knew that Irish pluck had won, 
 Had ruined his siege train, every gun, 
 To see him fume, as rose the sun, 
 O'er Shannon's lovely shore. 
 
 And many pictures just as bright. 
 
 Of struggles fought, for truth and right, 
 
 'Gainst hireling foe and Saxon might, 
 
 For faith and liberty. 
 I'd show till Erin's sons today 
 Would proudly raise their heads and say, 
 Thank God, I'm Irish, hip, hip, hurraah! 
 
 For the green isle o'er the sea. 
 
 DEAR OLD GALWAY. 
 
 In dreamsl see you, sweet Loughrea, 
 
 By Slieve's blue mountain side I roam 
 
 From Menlough heights at break of day 
 
 I watch the beauteous Gorrib foam. 
 
 On Claddagh's strand I lay me down, 
 
 As oft I did when but a boy, 
 
 And memory paints me Galway town. 
 
 My heart is beating now with joy. 
 
 For dear old Galway, sweet old Galway, 
 
 I left her years ago, but my heart is there, I know. 
 
 In dear old Galway, loved old Galway, 
 
 Yes, my heart is there, because I love her. 
 
 At even when my work is o'er, 
 
 In fancy by the Suck I go. 
 
 By Ballygar and Ballinamore, 
 
 Thro' Ballyglass to Ballinasloe, 
 
 And turning westward once again 
 
 To Athenry I fondly stray. 
 
 Then dear old Tuam I enter in. 
 
 And seem to heart a sweet voice say, 
 
 Through dear old Galway, sweet old Galway, 
 
 A dream 'twas I regret, fond memories linger yeL 
 
 Round dear old Galway, loved old Galway, 
 
 My heart is there, I know, because I love her. 
 
 21 
 
A CALL TO THE SONS OF MAYO. 
 
 Get beneath the old green standard 
 Of our own dear Granuaile, 
 Fall in line, true men of Mayo, 
 You were never known to fail 
 When our country needed heroes, 
 Yeu were ever to the fore. 
 What's the matter? Are you sleeping? 
 Mayo needs you more and more. 
 
 Where aer the boys I played with 
 
 On the wide Claremorris Square, 
 
 When the Mayo club sounds roll-call 
 
 How many answer here? 
 
 Shame upon you! Shame upon you! 
 
 You were ever in the van, 
 
 Are you now ashamed to own up 
 
 That you are a Mayo man? 
 
 Castlebar! I call upon you 
 By the shades of Staball hill. 
 Have your sons become decadent? 
 Do their hearts no longer thrill 
 At the memory of the races. 
 That you held in ninety-eight? 
 If not then let them come and knock 
 Upon old Mayo's gate. 
 
 Westport, answer; where's your quota? 
 Have your children lost their pride? 
 England met on Boer battlefields 
 Thy dauntless son, McBride, 
 And were he in New York today 
 He'd find the time to go 
 And tell us in our club room 
 That he's proud of sweet Mayo. 
 
 Ballina! pride of Tyrawley, 
 Backward you have never been, 
 You were always represented 
 By the best of Mayo men. 
 In the club room we are waiting 
 To give them the glad hand, 
 For the honor of old Mayo, 
 And our own, our native land. 
 
 Ballinrobe, why art thou laggard? 
 Come, arise! Perform thy task. 
 Send thy sturdy sons to join us. 
 Bring the heroes of Loug Mask, 
 Shrule, The Neale will bravely follow 
 Robeen, Hollymount will come along 
 And the dashing boys from Keelogues 
 And the gallant lads from Gong. 
 
 22 
 
Ballyhaunis, let us hear from you, 
 
 What is it you can say? 
 
 That your sons from Mayo's honor guard 
 
 Should like this stay away. 
 
 'Twas not like that at one time, 
 
 For your gallant hoys would go 
 
 O'er miles and miles of Irish roads, 
 
 For the honor of Mayo. 
 
 Swinford, Kilkelly, Keltimagh, come forward, 
 
 Who dare say thou art afraid. 
 
 You who knew our own loved Davitt, 
 
 Gome, you manly sons of Straide, 
 
 Charlestown, art thou delmquent? 
 
 If not, then come, prove 'tis so 
 
 That thy sons can have a voice, tOQ 
 
 In the councils of Mayo. 
 
 Murrisk, Achill, Crossmolina, 
 Thou art missing from the fold. 
 Yet ye gave staunch men to Mayo 
 In the dark, dark days of old. 
 When the west land did awaken 
 And proudly took the field. 
 You had sons beneath the standard 
 Who would die, but never yield. 
 
 Round they ruins, Mayo Abbey, 
 By the shades of Carnacon, 
 Ballinafad, Towerhill and Moorehall, 
 Where the fox and wild hare have run. 
 Have your sons here ceased to love thee.' 
 No, they've not; nor ever shall. 
 By the memory of brave Nally, 
 Come, you trusty sons of Balla. 
 
 Forward Newport and Killala, 
 Why'rt thou standing idly by? 
 Come, thou sons of old Belmullet, 
 And take up the battle cry. 
 Mayo ever to the forefront, 
 'Tis a noble work to do, 
 Now to place it where it should be. 
 Is just up to me and you. 
 
 From St. Colman's ruined abbey. 
 Over mountain, hill and rock, 
 Let it ring through BarnacarroU, 
 Send it thundering on to Knock. 
 That New York has men from Mayo, 
 Staunch, vehement and true, , 
 Banded, full of love for Granuaile, 
 And Ireland's welfare, too. 
 
 23 
 
Come, then, men, and join us, 
 
 We will welcome one and all, 
 
 Let my words be not unheeded, 
 
 Rise and answer Mayo's call, 
 
 And show the Irish people 
 
 That you thought it worth your while 
 
 To prove we're patriots just as true 
 
 As e'er left Erin's Isle. 
 
 -July 10, 190e. 
 
 WHERE YOU AND I WERE BORN. 
 
 'Tis sad tonight I'm feeling, 
 
 Remembrances crowd on, 
 Old memories o'er me stealing 
 
 Of days forever gone. 
 When through the bog and moorland 
 
 We roamed in early morn, 
 Round the homesteads in old Ireland, 
 
 Where you and I were born 
 
 0, the lark his way was winging, 
 
 Towards Heaven's bluest sky, 
 His joy notes sweetly singing, 
 
 While onward you and I 
 Went tramping o'er the mireland, 
 
 A-hunting in the morn, 
 Through the bogs and woods in Ireland, 
 
 Where you and I were born. 
 
 A chase we looked for ever, 
 
 From some nimble old game keep, 
 And many a trench and river 
 
 We crossed with flying leap; 
 Then o'er the bog and moorland, 
 
 We'd race in early morn, 
 0! those good old times in Ireland, 
 
 Where you and I were born. 
 
 And tho' oceans wide divide us, 
 
 And new friends each have met. 
 No matter what betide us, 
 
 Old memories linger yet, 
 Of our boyhood in the sireland. 
 
 When the game keeper we'd scorn. 
 And go poaching in old Ireland, 
 
 Where you and I were born. 
 
 'Twas many a brace of rabbits, 
 
 We bagged by wood and hill. 
 And learned the wild birds' habits, 
 
 And the grouse and snipe we'd kill; 
 
 24 
 
When hunted that was joyland, 
 
 How we'd laugh with ringing scorn, 
 
 And lure the keeper into the soft land 
 Then leave him there forlorn. 
 
 0, those good days are over, 
 
 They're gone forever more. 
 But memories still will hover, 
 
 Of the happy days of yore, 
 When through the bog and moorland, 
 
 O'er hill, through wood and thorn, 
 We rambled in old Ireland, 
 
 Where you and I were born. 
 
 The sad clouds now dispelling, 
 
 I laugh at boyhood's prank; 
 When before the keeper yelling. 
 
 We'd cross the well known plank. 
 Then drag it o'er the bye land. 
 
 While he'd plunge, with power shorn, 
 In a trench or river in Ireland, 
 
 Where you and I were born. 
 
 To drop the game we never 
 
 Would for a moment think, 
 But rush right for the river. 
 
 And clear it brink to brink. 
 I'll shoot, the keeper'd cry, and 
 
 We'd laugh with ringing scorn. 
 0, those were good old days in Ireland, 
 
 Where you and I were born. 
 
 —August 14, 1909. 
 
 If there was a road to Ireland, sure I'd journey there on 
 
 foot. 
 Just to see again the mireland and the cosy wayside hut, 
 Where the comely Irish housewife bids you welcome with 
 
 a smile 
 Oh, were there a road to Ireland, faith, I'd tramp it every 
 
 mile. 
 
 25 
 
IRELAND. 
 
 Pride of Atlantic's Ocean, 
 
 Dear little Isle of Green, 
 Land of my heart's devotion, 
 
 Of all others, thou art queen. 
 
 Sorrows thou had'st thy share of. 
 Through centuries gone and fled, 
 
 But close to thy breast thou claspeth 
 Thy own brave patriot dead. 
 
 Love of my life, my sireland, 
 
 True will I be to thee; 
 My wish is to see thee, Ireland, 
 
 A nation once more free. 
 
 Free from the Briton's power, 
 
 Alone by thyself to stand; 
 May God speed on the hour, 
 
 For my own, my native land. 
 
 Land of ethereal beauty. 
 
 Home of the shamrock green; 
 Thy martyrs to love and duty. 
 
 Beat all the world has seen. 
 
 True to their God and sireland. 
 
 Patriots, brave and grand; 
 Gave life and love to Ireland, 
 
 Their own beloved land. 
 
 Help me. Oh, Lord, and aid me, 
 
 Guide my hand and pen 
 To place a wreath to the memory, 
 
 Of the heroes who have been. 
 
 Gone, aye; but not forgotten; 
 
 No! nor they ne'er shall be; 
 When the Briton's throne is rotten, 
 
 They'll live on in momory. 
 
 Then Ireland will be a nation, 
 
 Cultured, sublime, and grand; 
 And the lords of all creation 
 
 Will bow to my native land. 
 
 —May, 1911. 
 
 26 
 
A TALE OF TVVO SHIPS. 
 
 On the dial of life does the hand of time 
 
 Tell its tale as the years roll on, 
 And the fate of projects corrupt — sublime, 
 
 Are writ tho' their sponsors are gone 
 To the vale beyond, whence they can't return 
 
 To view the child of their mind. 
 Nor check its course through the downward bourne 
 
 That flows on through human kind. 
 
 One of them floats on a kindly stream 
 
 And is nursed on an ocean's roar 
 That wafts it back with a mighty scream 
 
 To change what has been before; 
 While the other sinks in the mire it has sprung 
 
 And putridly stagnant lay; 
 The one a song of advancement sung, 
 
 While the other would clog the way, 
 But nature, wise as the mariner, stands 
 
 To pilot the good barque through 
 To a harbor safe where to willing hands 
 
 He delivers the cargo and crew. 
 And the other it looks upon with distrust, 
 
 'Tis unsafe in a calm or gale. 
 Each block and bolt is eaten with rust, 
 
 It is rotten from keel to rail, 
 And its cargo reeks with the filth and slime 
 
 In which it's encompassed; so 
 Nature knows that it can't ride the waves of time, 
 
 But down to the depths must go. 
 
 And down it goes with a sickening yawn 
 
 In the harbor it claimed as its own; 
 While the good barque buffets both wave and storm, 
 
 And rides on its course alone. 
 Till some kindly haven in God's own land 
 
 A welcoming beacon shows. 
 When in on the waves to a kindred strand 
 
 The barque of advancement goes, 
 Then out from its mast like an eagle set free 
 
 Flies its standard once more unfurled 
 In the fair, free winds of God's blest liberty. 
 
 And a nation is reborn to the world. 
 
 —January 9, 1912. 
 
 27 
 
AN IRISHMAN'S TOAST. 
 
 To me there's not in all the earth 
 
 A sweeter land, nor one more dear, 
 Than the loved isle that gave me birth, 
 
 Whose skies reflect the smile and tear, 
 And wheresoe'er from her I roam, 
 
 Wherever fate my footsteps guide, 
 I'll hold for thee, my island home. 
 
 Thoughts full of love, of hope and pride. 
 
 The tyrant's foot may leave its mark 
 
 Upon thy proud and pulsing breast, 
 But never can it quench the spark 
 
 That long has lit thy soul oppressed. 
 When all thy hopes were dark and drear. 
 
 The sacred cause of liberty 
 'Bove all things else thou held most dear, 
 
 Sweet little isle of destiny. 
 
 And that is why, no matter where 
 
 Thy children from thy side may roam, 
 Their thoughts so fraught with memories dear, 
 
 Drift back to thee, across the foam. 
 Fain would I now be near thy coast, 
 
 A-watching for thy shelving strand, 
 But failing that, then let me toast 
 
 My fair, my peerless native land. 
 
 Then here's to thee, Erin, bright gem of the ocean. 
 
 Your rocky bound coast proudly breasting the wave, 
 Sends back o'er the billows with heartfelt emotion 
 
 The sorrows that crowned thee, thou land of the brave, 
 And with hope beating high that at length comes the dawn- 
 ing. 
 
 The guerdon that lures on thy valleys to smile, 
 A-glinting thy hills and thy mountains adorning, 
 
 But makes thee more beauteous, thou green little isle. 
 
 — November, 1911. 
 
 THE EXILE'S DREAM. 
 
 Last night I dreamt a dream surpassing sweet. 
 
 Once more I was the care-free, happy boy. 
 The sylvan dells of youth my eyes did greet, 
 
 And pleasure there was free from false alloy. 
 Among the boughs the birds their joy notes sang. 
 
 The hawthorn filled the air with sweet perfume. 
 The village bell the call to matins rang, 
 
 And nature seemed to wear her brightest bloom. 
 There I entranced sat me down. 
 
 To gaze enrapt at scenes I well recall. 
 The lake, the stream, the hill beyond the town, 
 
 My childhood home the dearest spot of all. 
 0, would to heaven that dream were only true. 
 
 That 1 might wander there again, starting in life anew. 
 
 28 
 
AN EXILE'S WISH. 
 
 1. 
 
 0! had I but my choice today, 'tis roving I would be 
 Where flows a clear and purling stream that holds a charm 
 
 for me, 
 'Tis there I'd hear the thrush's thrill, the black bird's piping 
 
 call, 
 And the lark his joy-notes singing in the sky above them all; 
 'Tis there I'd lay me down to rest on daisy-tufted sod. 
 Where often in the good old days of youth I gaily trod. 
 With lithesome step to meet a lass with laughing eyes of 
 
 blue, 
 Fair as the grandest flower that e'er within a garden grew. 
 
 II. 
 
 0! had I but my wish today, 'tis there I'd love to go. 
 Then lay me down upon the bank and watch the waters flow. 
 And hear the winds a-murmuring, like music soft and sweet, 
 While fancy dreamy pictures of the past laid at my feet. 
 'Tis a cailin sweet and simple would be smiling at me there, 
 The love light beaming in her eyes, the sun light on her hair. 
 And all my cares would vanish and life a joy would seem, 
 E'en though 'twere but a vision, e'en tho' 'twere but a dream. 
 
 III. 
 
 But wishes are not wings, astoir, nor are they ships I know, 
 Tho' flying, aye and sailing, oft' across the seas they go. 
 When the old heart, acushia, the paths of youth would tread, 
 And seek the golden yesterday that, Ah! alas! has fled, 
 Fled, never to return more, save when the God of Sleep 
 The mystic veil of dreamland lifts and bids us take a peep, 
 At hill and dale and woodland that well our childhood knew; 
 By memory's nymphs, with angel hands, now painted fresh 
 and true. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And now my soul is wandering 'mid scenes I love the best, 
 Where flows the winding Robe and Moy, my Mayo in the 
 
 west! 
 Of Erin, best beloved of all the world's favored isles — 
 Who, tho' her heart is filled with woe still hoping ever 
 
 smiles. 
 That soon the dawn dispelling, e'er disunion's cursed pain, 
 In glory she will blossom forth, "A Nation once again", 
 God grant the hour is near at hand when freedom's magic 
 
 gleam 
 Lights up the paths the exile loves to picture in his dream. 
 
 —March, 1912. 
 
 29 
 
THE LOVERS' PARADISE. 
 
 Out in the land from which there's no returning 
 
 Our souls will meet for all eternity, 
 Par from the life of sadness, strife and yearning, 
 
 Like hope's own zephyrs for ever floating free, 
 Fresh midst the flowers of sweet contentment blooming, 
 
 Kissed by the sun of summer all the while. 
 There where no shades of night will e'er be glooming 
 
 Our dream of peace, love, thro clouds of guile. 
 
 'Way in the realms where plumaged birds of splendor 
 
 To sleep will lull our souls with songs of heavenly rest. 
 Into the arms of angels whose light embraces tender 
 
 Assures us e'er the guardianship of sentinels truly blest 
 0, the awakening midst perfumed winds a-sighing 
 
 O'er gardens rich with smiling flowers whose like the earth 
 ne'er seen, 
 Wafting their breaths to thrill our spirits lying 
 
 On knolls of softest feather grass the greenest of the greei" 
 
 Dear, could I but paint the charms that shall await us 
 
 Nature should give more than her richest hues 
 More than she owns in art or divine affliatus 
 
 Wrought by a brush that an angel's hand might use . 
 Such is the realm I've pictured for you, dearest. 
 
 In that far off celestial bye and bye 
 Where there is naught but all things of the fairest 
 
 Awaiting our souls in that home goal of Joy. 
 
 ERIN. 
 
 What is thy destiny. Island of Saints, 
 
 Nation of bards and scholars sublime? 
 'Tis not the hand of the serf who paints 
 
 The glory that's thine through ages of time. 
 The glory that spread o'er a darkened land 
 
 True light of learning, man's brightest star. 
 O, isle of tradition and history grand, 
 
 A slave to the ruthless tyrant you are. 
 
 A slave, but no, not a willing one, 
 
 Thou couldst not be such a menial thing, 
 A captive held in chains by the gun 
 
 Of the tyrant base, who is trying to bring 
 Thy proud, proud race to a bended knee, 
 
 A scullion's fate and a coward's brand. 
 But he finds that that station can never be 
 
 By a nation filled, 0, my native land. 
 
 — September, 1911. 
 
 30 
 
THE "DARK ROSALEEN". 
 
 0, Erin, Acushla, we carried away 
 
 When we left you, a love that could never decay; 
 
 For the soil where our forefathers battled and bled 
 
 'Gainst the foe that was crushing thy little brown head. 
 
 The tyrant so ruthless who wronged you, our own 
 
 Little "Rosaleen Dhu", all so sad and alone; 
 
 Ah, sure 'tis not pity we feel for you, dear, 
 
 For, for that, you'd despise us as ones who knew fear. 
 
 No, 'tis faith, aye, and hope that your soul, ever bright. 
 
 Will bloom forth once again in loved freedom's proud light. 
 
 A nation unconquered and virile our own 
 
 Little "Rosaleen Dhu", now so sad and alone. 
 
 Ah, perhaps, in this land where the starry flag flies. 
 O'er a nation thy exiled ones helped realize, 
 The hopes of thy bosom be answered, Machree 
 And thy children from thraldom of Britain set free. 
 God grant right will triumph o'er foul might, our own. 
 Little "Rosaleen Dhu", all so sad and alone. 
 
 —April, 1916. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL, BEAUTIFUL EYES. 
 
 The maiden was coy, caught was the boy 
 
 In a net by Cupid laid, 
 
 And she played the game, 0, just the same. 
 
 As any other maid, 
 
 'Twas well he knew that her eyes of blue 
 
 Had stole his heart away. 
 
 As he caught their gleam, full of love's young dream, 
 
 To her he'd fondly say, 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Shine, shine, beautiful eyes, where the lovelight lurks and 
 
 lies. 
 Like a sunbeam brightly you gleam, taking my heart by 
 
 surprise, 
 Glow, glow, wherever you go, make havoc among the boys, 
 But save for me the soft glance I see 
 In those beautiful, beautiful eyes. 
 
 Like the bright stars above shone those eyes full of love, 
 
 For she knew the lad was true, 
 
 Saying we can't live apart, she gave him her heart. 
 
 Just as other maidens do. 
 
 And one day they were wed, so the story said. 
 
 And lived happy day by day. 
 
 For he holds her apart, then she's clasped to his heart 
 
 As to her he'd fondly say, 
 
 — November 4, 1912. 
 
 .31 
 
A WREATH OF HOPE. 
 
 Land of my dreams, far away o'er the ocean, 
 
 Deep in my memory thy wrongs are engraved. 
 Well dost thou merit a heart's deep devotion, 
 
 Erin unconquered — alas! but enslaved. 
 Enslaved? Yes, acushla, but conquered — no, never 1 
 
 Thy proud head ne'er bowed to the tyrant's command, 
 But true to thy just claims of nationhood ever — 
 
 A queen in the epoch of nations thou stand. 
 
 Erin unbeaten! tho' trampled — dishonered — 
 
 And fettered with chains by a cold blooded foe. 
 Rose up like a phoenix and faced her oppressor, 
 
 A craven? No, never; Her tyrants would know 
 That tho' crimson they'd turn her emerald valleys, 
 
 And pillage her hearths with a blood-reddened hand, 
 Or send her brave sons to the block or the galleys, 
 
 For Ireland a nation, she ever would stand. 
 
 Ah, Erin! thou fearless, proud child of the ocean, 
 
 Tho' for centuries broken and battered you've been, 
 Thy fair bosom crushed with each heartfelt emotion 
 
 That sorrows have pressed on thy mantle of green. 
 Still thy soul full of freedom, shone out in its glory; 
 
 With no faltering voice thou thy brave sons command 
 Ah! who that has read they eventful life's story 
 
 But feels that forever a nation thou'lt stand. 
 
 A nation! A nation! Yes, Ireland a nation, 
 
 In language, in customs, yea! yea! she will be 
 The thrall of no tyrant, no base subjugation 
 
 Can hold down a people who yearn to be free. 
 Then, on with the struggle; the twilight is clearing. 
 
 The bright star of hope now is lighting the land; 
 Stick close to her soil, for the day is fast nearing 
 
 When Ireland a nation once more takes her staand. 
 
 July 1, 1911. 
 
 NATIVE LAND. 
 
 There is a land of other lands the best 
 To him whose thoughts at times will loving rest, 
 On scenes that memory calls to mind at will, 
 The sheltered vale, the cot beneath the hill, 
 Wherein his youthful days in ease he spent, 
 Blest with a parents love, 0, sweet content, 
 Touch but that absent chord with fairy wand, 
 And there the answer lies, his native land. 
 
 32 
 
THE EXILE'S CHRISTMAS GREETING. 
 
 0, God bless the isle where my thoughts now are roaming, 
 
 Green Erin, Acushla, far over the sea. 
 May Liberty's star light her long years of gloaming 
 
 And crown her a nation, contented and free. 
 
 Sure, fervent the wish that her exiles are sending 
 
 From over the waste of the world so wide. 
 That the Angel of Hope, his bright wings extending, 
 
 May guard and defend her this blest Ghristmastide. 
 
 Oh, Heaven, smile down on our dear Mother Erin, 
 Make fruitful her valleys from center to sea. 
 
 In peace and good will make her children endearing, 
 Stand shoulder to shoulder, one grand unity, 
 
 While her loved flag unfurled, the free winds a-kissing, 
 Waves over her lakes, dells and mountains so fair. 
 
 The emblem of all, not a single child missing. 
 Is the wish of thy exiles this coming New Year. 
 
 Then here's to thy shores all the joys of the season, 
 And all of the blessings God's angels can bear — 
 
 Mavourneen, astoir, sure to wish you 'tis pleasing 
 A bright, happy Christmas, and a propsperous New Year. 
 
 — December, 1912. 
 
 THE MUSE'S SHRINE. 
 
 Where did I build my shrine? 
 Out, where as king, Peace reigned supreme, 
 O'er woodland knoll and mountain stream. 
 
 Crowned by a light divine. 
 
 I built my shrine within the sylvan wood, 
 
 My idol. Nature in her rich adorn, 
 Before the threshold smiling meadows stood 
 
 Flanked on each side by fields of glowing corn. 
 All sweetly nodding, as each zephyr blew 
 
 Its perfumed kisses to the orb of day. 
 Who gathered in the sparkling drops of dew 
 
 That diamond-like bestrewed the daisied way. 
 
 I built my shrine upon the silvery stream. 
 
 There, where the moon in mirrored glory shone, 
 Reflecting full the heaven's starry gleam, 
 
 A rich tiara Nature's brown upon. 
 Its emerald banks gave forth the vibrant sound 
 
 Of rippling waters' ceaseless melody, 
 While peace and plenty smiling all around 
 
 Caught up the strains and sang them gloriously. 
 
 33 
 
 / 
 
THE DYING EXILE. 
 
 Move my bed near the window, Alanna, let my eyes gaze 
 
 across the blue sea, 
 Ah, it won't be for long, for I hear the low song of the 
 
 waves calling sweetly to me. 
 'Tis a message they bear from the land of my youth, my own 
 
 loved Erin, asthore. 
 And each wavelet doth bring a sad murmuring from the 
 
 shore that I'll never see more. 
 
 0, Erin, Acushla, deep down in my heart there's a love, sure 
 
 that never can die, 
 And I've treasured it there as a jewel most rare, Oh, 'tis 
 
 something that wealth couldn't buy. 
 And now that I know my poor spirit must go up above to 
 
 that beautiful shore, 
 I am breathing a prayer for the land that I'll ne'er see with 
 
 these mortal eyes ever more. 
 
 0, merciful God, 'tis a blessing I crave for the land where 
 
 my boyhood was spent, 
 The home of my youth, where the teachings of truth had 
 
 filled my young soul with content. 
 Where the touch of Thy hand had most carefully planned a 
 
 vista of beauties galore. 
 In woodland and dell, by stream, lake and fell, in the land 
 
 that I'll never see more. 
 
 May Thy angel of light all her children unite and give her 
 the wealth of their love, 
 
 Till the sound of their prayer will arise in the air and peti- 
 tion Thy throne up above 
 
 Her pure brow to crown with her ancient renown a nation 
 as free as of yore 
 
 0, Lord, hear the prayer of the exile whose care is the dear 
 land he'll never see more. 
 
 The light dim has grown, 0, Alanna Mavrone has the night 
 time come on all so soon? 
 
 What's that whispering sound I hear all around who is play- 
 ing that old marching tune? 
 
 And what is that vast throng that goes trooping along with 
 the green flag a-waving before, 
 
 0, Alanna, Machree, sure they're marching to free the land 
 that I'll never see more. 
 
 'Twas good bye to Erin's Isle, and a fond loving smile lit his 
 
 face ere his spirit had fled. 
 He breathed his last as the phantom troops passed with the 
 
 flag he loved waving ahead. 
 His last wish on earth for the land of his birth as dear and 
 
 true as of yore. 
 For his glorious sireland his ever brave Ireland, whose 
 
 shores he would never see more. 
 
 34 
 
O, MAGGIE, DEAR, THE WAY IS ROUGH. 
 
 0, Maggie, dear, the way is rough and steep the hills before, 
 That I must tread to earn my bread upon a foreign shore. 
 But yet I'm richer than the duke that counts his golden pile, 
 For memories still my coffers fill of thee and Erin's isle. 
 I roam again in spiritland, beside a rippling stream. 
 I see the graveyard on the hill, I catch your eyes' bright 
 
 gleam. 
 As oft I did in days gone by, the days of long ago, 
 When you and I by Manulla's banks roamed in our sweet 
 
 Mayo. 
 
 0, Maggie, dear, the times are changed from what they used 
 
 to be 
 When you and I, a girl and boy, stood 'neath the willow tree. 
 Hand clasped in hand to plight a troth, in youthful love 
 
 sincere. 
 Without a thought that fate decides our paths in life, my 
 
 dear. 
 The bird had oft his evening lay sung to his nesting mate 
 Ere you and I had left our tryst within the old barred gate. 
 Where slept the kin of you and yours, revered spot, well you 
 
 know, 
 Upon the hill by rippling rill in dear old sweet Mayo. 
 
 0, Maggie, dear, I've roamed the world, a-drifting wide afar, 
 And oft I longed for sight of you and dear old Gastlebar, 
 But leagues of ocean lay between me and the scenes I love. 
 The meadow green by purling stream, Mayo's blue sky above, 
 The glistening lake, the bog and brake, the ruined tower 
 
 beyond. 
 Each vale and dell we knew so well, to memory ever fond. 
 The sheltered lane, dear parting place, the broken stile, you 
 
 know. 
 Upon the hill by rippling rill, in dear old sweet Mayo. 
 
 O. Maggie, dear, I oftimes hear the magic of thy voice 
 
 On whispering winds it comes to me, and makes my heart 
 
 rejoice. 
 From out the past it speaks to me and olden days recall, 
 Till I forget the present time for sweetest hours of all. 
 Ah, sweetest hours, so free from care, you by my side, 
 
 asthore, 
 Fond memory treasures and keeps green each moment loved 
 
 of yore. 
 Spent in the glory of thine eyes, where silvery waters flow 
 Through mendows green, Manulla's stream, in our own, our 
 
 loved Mayo. 
 
 — December 16, 1911. 
 
 35 
 
> THE ALIEN'S SONG. 
 
 0, 'tis simple llio lay that the alien sings, 
 Tho' wondrous the pictures that memory brings 
 To the exile who sighs at the close of the day 
 For the land of his childhood, away, far away. 
 
 The ship of his fancy is breasting the waves, 
 A-bearing him back where the foamy tide braves 
 The rocks that are crowning the bright silvery strand, 
 That slopes from the shores of his dear native land. 
 
 0, who that has roamed from the land of his birth, 
 
 Forgets the loved sod o'er his dear mother earth. 
 
 Not he whom the soul of the patriot warms 
 
 With hope through the years full of tempest and storms. 
 
 But him who, heart cold, drifting careless along, 
 Finds no answering throb to dame nature's sweet song, 
 Inviting him back o'er the ocean's wild foam 
 To revel again round his boyhood's loved home. 
 
 'Midst the scenes that are cherished in sunshine and rain, 
 
 By the exile whose dreams fondly picture again 
 
 The vale and the mountain, the lake and the rill, 
 
 And the woodlands that rang with the thrush's wild thrill. 
 
 O, here let my lay find its answering call, 
 
 'Midst the dreams and the hopes that o'ercircle it all, 
 
 While in fancy my spirit is winging its way 
 
 To the land of my childhood, away, far away. 
 
 A DAY DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Ah, if of life sublime, you dreamt a dream, 
 
 Then woke to find the mockery of life 
 A grinning demon, glorying 'twould seem 
 
 At all the wrecks of poverty and strife 
 Those failures upon the rough, turbulent sea 
 Of fate, oftimes misnamed man's destiny. 
 
 And, what if on awaking, you should find 
 The world changed from what it was before. 
 
 And all the ills of life were cast behind 
 A curtain dripping with the million's gore, 
 
 Who died that o'er the earth, democracy 
 
 Might live, and henceforth guide man's destiny. 
 
 Would not the change be worth the price man paid 
 
 In blood, to thus create a nobler plan, 
 Whereby a new foundation could be laid 
 
 For world of man's humanity to man. 
 No place in such for cursed autocracy 
 To rule with iron hand man's destiny. 
 
 — February, 1915. 
 
 36 
 
MOON DREAMS. 
 
 Like the moon at evening 
 
 Shining from the sky, 
 
 The shadows softly cleaving 
 
 Like dreams of days gone by. 
 
 As to memory's mansion, 
 
 Smiling spirits bring 
 
 From out the caves of olden 
 
 The thoughts that ever cling. 
 
 Thus to me there comes, dear, 
 From the long ago, 
 On the winds of even, 
 Passing to and fro, 
 Voices sweetly singing 
 Old words ever new. 
 Love's own message bringing 
 Across the seas from you. 
 
 Like the ivy twining 
 Round the ruined walls, 
 Clinging, ever clinging, 
 'Til the structure falls, 
 Then fresh tendrils creeping, 
 Bind each torn part, ^ 
 
 As soft as angels weeping 
 O'er a broken heart. 
 
 Thus around my soul, dear. 
 Loving thoughts entwine. 
 Of those happy days of old. 
 Sweetheart days of mine. 
 And twilight softly stealing 
 Paints each scene anew, 
 Memories sweet revealing 
 Visions fair of you. 
 
 Like summer winds a-sighing 
 Through the leafy bowers. 
 Soft as the dewdrops lying 
 Within the sleeping flowers. 
 At night when the stars are falling 
 There comes from the realms above 
 A sweet voice ever calling, 
 I'm watching o'er thee, my love. 
 
 Thus do the smiling cupids, 
 Exploring my soul's dim deeps, 
 Find a tenant there called memory. 
 Who slumbers but never sleeps; 
 And he to their words replying, 
 Love's young dream you gaze upon, 
 Who here 'midst a dead past lying 
 Yet dying would still live on. 
 
 37 
 
THE LAUNCHING OF THE LEAGUE. 
 
 'Twas June of 1879, and a glorious sun shone down 
 
 On the towering crest of Croagh Patrick blest, and the 
 
 streets of Westport town; 
 The day was the 8th — ah! glorious day; when Davitt stood 
 
 side by side 
 With the great Parnell, who at length did tell of a nation's 
 
 right and pride. 
 "No man," said he, "dare a boundary place on a nation's 
 
 upward tread; 
 Stand firm, you sons of Granau Waile, grip tightly your old 
 
 homestead." 
 And list' to the words of the truest friend downtrodden man 
 
 could know; 
 Then Davitt stepp-ad forth, and his silvery voice rung out 
 
 over — Sweei Mayo. 
 
 My friends, said he, long the tyrants' grasp has throttled 
 
 our suffering land; 
 It has crushed us down with a bitter hate, the world can't 
 
 understand; 
 Plundered our homes — laid waste our fields, made desolate 
 
 our green hillside; 
 While roughshod o'er graves of our sacred dead — the ab- 
 sentee's minions ride. 
 Shall we — the sons of those valiant sires, who ne'er bent a 
 
 cringing knee, 
 Bow down to the whims of a British lord? No! heavens, 
 
 that cannot be; 
 And the ringing shout that rent the air in accents true said 
 
 —No! 
 Then Davitt smiled and to Parnell said, there's the answer 
 
 from brave — Mayo. 
 
 And over the hills and the mountain tops that ringing war 
 
 cry sped, 
 It resounded from Glontarfs famous field, and re-echoed 
 
 from Mizen Head; 
 It blazed to the sons of the gallant North, the tale of the 
 
 West's awake. 
 And the sturdy South heard the news with joy, and its light 
 
 o'er the East did break. 
 Then over the ocean the glad cry rang, where the sun on 
 
 "Old Glory" shines; 
 Through the canyon's old of the Rockies bold, through the 
 
 whispering Southern pines; 
 Oh, the exile's heart beat high with pride, tho' a tear dimmed 
 
 his eye, I know. 
 And Davitt's name was on every tongue, with a God bless 
 
 you, old — Mayo. 
 
 38 
 
0, could we recall the days of the past, and have in our midst 
 
 again 
 The heroes of 1879, brave, honest, true, steadfast men; 
 But some of them sleep in their native earth; some in Glas- 
 
 nevin lay; 
 Some where the sweep of the ocean's tide o'er the rocks of 
 
 Long Island play; 
 Some on bleak Barnacarroll's hill — some 'round sweet Bal- 
 
 lindine. 
 Yea! Davitt's laid in his own dear STRAIDE, where the sun 
 
 on his Mayo shines. 
 And the great McHale in that land above is breathing a 
 
 prayer, I know, 
 On the sturdy sons that thou still can boast, thou queen of 
 
 the West — Mayo. 
 Yes, some they rest by the silvery Moy — some in loved Cas- 
 
 tlebar; 
 And some in this world living are, but scattered, ah, wide 
 
 afar; 
 But they hail the name, not with blush or shame, but with 
 
 pride in their hearts, yea! yea! 
 And they pray to their God for the soil they trod on that 
 
 proud, eventful day, 
 When the League was launched, that glorious June, 'neath 
 
 Groagh Patrick's sacred crest; 
 And the world at large heard the new war cry that thun- 
 dered from Ireland's west; 
 So, God bless the living, and rest the souls of those that are 
 
 lying low, 
 And ever keep bright sweet liberty's light in the core of my 
 
 heart— MAYO. 
 
 — ^August 5, 1911. 
 
 THE WANDERING OF SHAUN PADRAIC AND THE IRISH- 
 AMERICAN LITERARY SOCIETY. 
 
 I've been in many places, for I've wandered quite a while; 
 
 0! 'tis fifteen years ago since I left Erin's lovely Isle. 
 
 And watched the hills of Queenstown fade away before my 
 
 eyes. 
 The headlands of old Kerry and the gold-blue Irish skies 
 Ah, sure in all my ramblings I never could forget 
 The land where I was born, throth my heart clings to it yet, 
 Her history and traditions grand are very dear to me. 
 To disseminate them is the object of our young society. 
 So I'll try to tell my roamings, in the best way that I can, 
 Since I joined the I. A. L. S. as a literary man. 
 Harry Lannen, Jim McGurin and your very humble friend 
 Decided that a meeting Thursday evening we'd attend. 
 So we sought the Irish Counties Hall, and said faith we'l 
 
 invite 
 
 39 
 
The Kerry Ladies one and all, to visit us next night, 
 And hear the brilliant Father Tom, a worthy Soggarth, trul;? 
 Discourse and give a lecture on "An Hour With Mr. Dooley." 
 We mount the stairs, tight held in hand our overcoats and 
 
 caidies, 
 With hearts in mouth a gallant band, to meet such charming 
 
 ladies. 
 Upon the door, then gently knocked the leader of the trio, 
 Yeu'd think that we were burglars or scoundrels in embryo. 
 A-wondering who would enter first, the medium, short, or 
 
 taller. 
 When the door did ope', and there all smiles stood President 
 
 Miss Lawlor. 
 Gaed mille a failthe was her cry; step in, we're glad to see 
 
 ye— 
 Ah! fair, sweet Kerry damsels, the Lord in Heaven be wi' 
 
 thee. 
 Sure in we went to bask in smiles, that come from rows of 
 
 pearls, 
 Each colleen there was fit to grace a lord's home or an 
 
 earl's. 
 'Twas sit right down, feel quite at home, be you from Cork 
 
 or Derry, 
 You're welcome here this blessed night, said all those girls 
 
 from Kerry. 
 They asked us then our mision state; Harry seemed to have 
 
 throat dryness, 
 But sure I've only found of late, ho gets attacks of Shyness. 
 He said I'm glad to meet you ail, proud daughters of Dan's 
 
 County, 
 We're here because we're hero, and perhaps encroaching on 
 
 your bounty. 
 But I won't say but a word, then introduce McGurin. 
 The orator from Leifrim, faith deceivers e'er he'll spurn. 
 He'll toll you of I he Martyrs brave, our country's great de- 
 
 partey. 
 And the rambling rhymer from Mayo, just wait till he gets 
 
 started. 
 Troth faith, we made those girls feel proud that they were 
 
 Irish born, 
 That dear land we could talk upon, from sundown until 
 
 morn; 
 And then we bid them all farewell, midst smiles of colleens 
 
 cheering, 
 0, sure 'tis pleasant scenes like this makes the Celtic hearts 
 
 endearing. 
 We left; they said don't strangers be, 0. glad we felt and 
 
 merry — 
 I'll never forget my wandering in upon the girls from Kerry. 
 
 40 
 
A CHAMELEON IRISHMAN. 
 
 (Lines written on the presentation of a suit of Irish tweed 
 
 to Lord Londonderry by a former Skibbereen merchant.) 
 Some years ago, so goes the tale, me proud Lord London- 
 derry 
 Was journeying through Ireland's south, that county next 
 
 to Kerry, 
 'Tis rebel Cork they call it, shure, and speaking on the level, 
 Some of those same Gorkonians would toady to the devil, 
 And homage pay unto Old Nick and cheer and shout and 
 
 yell, Oh, 
 Hip, hip, hurrah, for Lucifer, ain't he a damn fine fellow. 
 So thus they did when came me lord, the tyrant represent- 
 ing. 
 Not like a lowly penitent his evil deeds repenting, 
 But strutting like a great I am, demanding an ovation. 
 An alien ruler in the land that once had been a nation. 
 
 Me Lord arrived in Skibbereen, the Shooneens were in wait- 
 ing. 
 His visit to their little town they'd been anticipating, 
 And chief among the gallant band was one he seemed the 
 
 proudest, 
 A package he held in his hand, his voice, too, was the 
 
 loudest. 
 Some days before this very man in fierce denunciation 
 Damned all the lords and earls alive as hellhounds of 
 
 creation, 
 And said that they should one and all be swept into the 
 
 ocean. 
 Now here he stands a cringing serf to offer his devotion 
 Unto the very class of being that he in fiery speeches 
 Denounced in terms somewhat rude as bloodsuckers and 
 leeches. 
 
 When me Lord rolled in a cheer went up from Skibbereen's 
 muckrakers 
 
 That could be heard on Mizen Head above the ocean break- 
 ers. 
 
 Me Lord had scarcely drawn his breath till the follow with 
 the bundle 
 
 With hat in hand rushed up to him and thus began to mum- 
 ble: 
 
 Me name's O'Connell, and, me Lord, I'm awful glad to 
 meet ye. 
 
 I'm here, me Lord, in Cork's fair name, an humble man to 
 greet ye, 
 
 An' here's a suit of Irish tweed, no better e'er was made, sir, 
 
 Let me present it to me Lord just for the good of trade, sir. 
 
 Do take it, please, no thanks at all, to me goes all the glory, 
 
 Just think how popular I'll be when the papers get the story. 
 
 Good bye, me Lord, may God bless ye every day ye live, sir, 
 
 Shure 'tis more blessed to receive than 'tis for just to give, 
 sir. 
 
 41 
 
THERE ARE HEARTS THAT LONG, ACUSHLA. 
 
 There are hearts that long, alanna, there are hearts that 
 can't forget, 
 
 Even tho' the years be fleeting old-time memories linger 
 yet, 
 
 When the mystic veil, acushla, 'fore the soul is brushed 
 away, 
 
 And the scenes of nigh a score of years seem but as yester- 
 day. 
 
 0, it seems so short, alanna, tho' 'tis long, long years have 
 
 passed. 
 And the weight of age, acushla, on my shoulder's falling 
 
 fast, 
 While the memories floating round me ever freshening in 
 
 my mind, 
 Seems to say why 'twas but yesterday I left my love behind. 
 
 Ah, but sure time cannot fool me, why, 'twill soon be twenty 
 
 years 
 Since I held your hand, acushla, and I kissed away your 
 
 tears. 
 Oh, my heart was full to bursting, sure I yet can feel the 
 
 pain ^ 
 
 That welled up in my bosom when we parted down the lane.^ 
 
 When we parted, aye, alanna, parted never more to meet, 
 
 Save when in the spirit realms, kindred souls each other 
 
 greet, 
 
 And just now, asthore, acushla, sure I think that you are 
 
 near. 
 For your face so often pictured, faith is smiling at me, dear. 
 
 Yes, the face beloved of memory, that to me would never 
 
 change, 
 ^f the long lost past, acushla, 'tis the one link that remains, 
 And I've treasured it, alanna, gently nursed it in my heart, 
 Wound my very soul around it, yea, of life made it a part. 
 
 And the time comes round, acushla, ah, I wonder do you 
 
 know, 
 When my longing soul goes roaming o'er the vales of sweet 
 
 Mayo. 
 And it seeks the spots, alanna, where we oftimes used to 
 
 meet 
 On the hill above, acushla, with the river at our feet. 
 
 By the river side, alanna, through the meadow, up the hill, 
 To where everything was silent, aye, acushla, calm and still, 
 Save the wild bird's notes melodious, or the rustling of the 
 
 trees, 
 Or the sighing winds of heaven, borne on the westward 
 
 breeze. 
 
 42 
 
Well you know the place, alanna, sure 'tis there I often go 
 When through space my soul is speeding to old haunts in 
 
 loved Mayo. 
 And my compass, memory guiding, brings my spirit ship to 
 
 land, 
 Where in days gone by, acushla, you and I sat hand in hand. 
 
 Now, the long, long years have vanished, and it seems but 
 
 yesterday 
 Since I held your hand, acushla, and I kissed your tears 
 
 away, 
 And in hope, in joy or sorrow, sure I've got fond memories 
 
 yet, 
 Round a heart that longs, acushla, aye, a heart that can't 
 forget. 
 
 BY SHANNON'S LOVELY SHORE. 
 
 0! Limerick Asthore, I may never see you more. 
 
 But I'll ne'er forget the time now past and gone, 
 
 When by Shannon's side. 
 
 Where my frail barque kissed the tide, 
 
 I rambled merrily along, along, 
 
 I rambled merrily along. 
 
 0! George's street so fair, don't I wish that I were there. 
 
 Then I'd cross the bridge the cannon stood upon. 
 
 Oft' they barked in days of yore; 
 
 But they've long since ceased to roar. 
 
 Still the Shannon sings the same old song, old song, 
 
 Still the Shannon sings the same old song. 
 
 0! on the side next Clare, the treaty stone is there, 
 
 A witness mute of England's cruel wrong, 
 
 The solemn pledge you gave. 
 
 Ah! you broke bloodthirsty knave. 
 
 And let loose again your murdering throng, throng. 
 
 And let loose again your Hessian throng. 
 
 Perhaps I'll go back yet, but at least I'll not forget 
 
 The city famed in story and in song, 
 
 From where Sarsfield, Erin's pride, 
 
 01 one night did boldly ride, 
 
 And he set King Billy's plans all wrong, all wrong, 
 
 And he set King Billy's plans all wrong. 
 
 I now will say good-bye, and perhaps next week I'll try 
 
 To keep the muse a traveling right along, 
 
 From Clew Bay to Clogher Head, 
 
 And Clear Isle, to Doagh Beg. 
 
 0! for Ireland, you're the land of song, of song, 
 
 Yes, Ireland, you're the land of song. 
 
 —July, 1911. 
 
 43 
 
DEAR OLD CLAREMORRIS TOWN. 
 
 In fancy I am roaming now, where the hills are smiling 
 
 down 
 On gabled roofs and streets I loved, dear old Glaremorris 
 
 town; 
 And all the tender thoughts of years come rushing back 
 
 today, 
 To one who here in exile dreams, four thousand miles away. 
 Four thousand miles from Sweet Mayo, the ocean waves 
 
 between, 
 My spirit ship a-gliding o'er to hills and valleys green, 
 To lake and stream and woodland sweet and bogs of purpl'd 
 
 brown, 
 I see them all a-stretching out from dear old Glaremorris 
 
 town. 
 
 0, memory, good, kind, trusty friend, untrue you've never 
 been. 
 
 With brush of skill you paint at will my boyhood paths 
 again. 
 
 Once more I roam round home, sweet home, a happy, care- 
 free boy, 
 
 When life was one long golden hour of bliss, fond hope 
 and joy. , 
 
 I'm passing now by Mophill lake, I he road leads to Brookhill; 
 
 I cross o'er meadow, dale and brake and out by Donlon's 
 mill 
 
 And on thro' Tubber alley dark and up each slight incline 
 
 'Till now I stand upon the hill overlooking old Grossboyne. 
 
 From here the winding Robe rolls on, a silvery streak 
 
 through green, 
 Then 'cross the sweep of purple moor, meandering by 
 
 Tauheen, 
 Thru PuUaweela, dear old spot, by Hollymount to go. 
 0, fain would I just follow on its course through Sweet 
 
 Mayo. 
 But I must with my wandering soul keep to the well-known 
 
 track. 
 By Hamilton's green vine clad cot to Ballindine, then back 
 Thro' wood and moor until I reach where smiling hills look 
 
 down 
 Upon the streets my boyhood knew, dear old Glaremorris 
 
 town. 
 
 My spirit still a-journeying on to holy Knock I go, 
 
 O'er six long miles of hill and dale, each footstep well I 
 
 know. 
 By Gastlegar and Reaney's mill, the road to Ballinsmall, 
 Ballybreheany lake and Loughnamon, Barnacarroll, Rock- 
 field— all. 
 
 44 
 
0, sure, the places come so fast, e'en thro' the lapse of years, 
 Who wonders that the exile's eyes are now bedimmed with 
 
 tears, 
 But thro' their mist I see again the green hills smiling down 
 Upon the spot I e'er will love, dear, dear Claremorris town. 
 
 I'm roaming now up Killeen hill, Kilbeg looms into view. 
 
 The old bogroad, next comes Drumkeen, then Ballygowan, 
 too, 
 
 And then beyond the railroad bridge, one fork leads to 
 Kylemore, 
 
 The other on thro' Meelick, then Gloonconnor hill, Asthore. 
 
 From here the workhouse I can see and also sweet Brook- 
 hill, 
 
 The glistening lake between them both, its waters calm and 
 still. 
 
 And again the picture greets my eyes of green hills smiling 
 down 
 
 Upon the streets and gabled roofs of dear Claremorris town. 
 
 In fancy I the longing feel that comes o'er me, you know. 
 
 To see again in all its bloom the old fort at Arflroe, 
 
 To drink a draught of purest air, perfumed by hawthorn 
 
 sweet. 
 And gaze enrapt at miles of moor, enpurpling at my feet, 
 Bohergarra lake, Mayfield beyond, then Carrasteelaun hill. 
 0, wonder not those pictured scenes my eyes with sad tears 
 
 fill, 
 That with blest St. Michael's on the mount like angels e'er 
 
 smile down 
 Upon the streets my boyhood loved, dear, dear Claremorris 
 
 town. 
 To Mount street I send my best wish, my heart's love to the 
 
 Square, 
 A kiss I send to James street, 0, would that I were there. 
 To Church street, where I went to school, I send a heart felt 
 
 sigh, 
 I wish that I could lapse the past and once more be a boy. 
 But, ah, friends, sure that cannot be; life now must run its 
 
 span, 
 But ore I die I hope to see where my life's path first began, 
 And tread once more those emerald hills that smilingly look 
 
 down 
 On streets and homes my boyhood knew in loved Claremorris 
 
 town. 
 
 —May, 1912. 
 
 45 
 
A SONG OF LOVE. 
 
 We'll sing a song of the absent land 
 
 That we ne'er may see again; 
 Each mountain scarp and shining strand, 
 
 Moor, meadow, vale and glen, 
 The cross-roads, haunt of happy hours 
 
 With comrades young and gay, 
 Of rambles through those fairy bowers 
 We knew in life's noonday. 
 
 0, sure, we'll sing a song of love. 
 
 The friends of long ago, 
 Of memories fond, the treasure trove, 
 
 Of exile hearts you know. 
 No matter where we wander to, 
 
 Whate'er our fortune be. 
 If hearts within us still beat true. 
 
 Old land, we'll long for thee. 
 
 Ah, sure, we'll long and pine and sigh. 
 
 E'en though it be in vain, 
 For scenes beloved in days gone by, 
 
 Far o'er the Atlantic's Main. 
 So thus we'll sing a song tonight. 
 
 Though sorrow be our lot. 
 That freedom's dawn may soon beam* bright. 
 
 For her we've ne'er forgot. 
 
 That dear, dear land our childhood blest, 
 
 Where sleep our kith and kin. 
 Sweet island on the ocean's breast. 
 
 Our hopes are centered in 
 God bless her emerald hills and dells. 
 Gold bless her children all, 
 And may the light that gloom dispels 
 Burst through the clouds that thrall. 
 
 — August, 1915. 
 
 AN EPITAPH. 
 
 He may have been an arrant knave. 
 
 He may have been a fool, 
 And from the cradle to the grave 
 
 Had broken each golden rule, 
 But yet within his pulsing breast 
 
 Some spark of good there lay. 
 That now when he has gone to rest 
 
 Will cause some one to say — 
 "He was a man.' 
 
 46 
 
SWEET ISLAND OF SONG. 
 
 Erin, thy bards tho' for centuries sleeping, 
 
 Live yet in thy music all soulful and sweet; 
 Their spirits in song grand traditions are keeping, 
 
 That in ages to come thy proud children will greet 
 With the tale of thy glory in times past, Mavourneen, 
 
 Ahl thrilling the story thy harp strings can tell 
 When the mantle of freedom unto thee returning 
 
 Rings forth once again with thy soul's magic spell. 
 
 Sure, Musa herself makes her home in thy mountains 
 
 And rides on the breeze thro' thy emerald vales, 
 While her nymphs at thy rivers, thy lakes and thy fountains 
 
 E'er herald her coming thro' woodland and dales, 
 The wind bearing onward in loud swelling motion 
 
 JVature's song that still sweeter in cadence grows, 
 'Til it joins the soft murmuring croon of the ocean, 
 
 Then over the earth it a-caroling goes. 
 
 And that is the reason why everyone calls thee 
 
 Sweet island of song, Acushla Machree. 
 For e'en tho' the chains of the tyrant enthrall thee. 
 
 The shackles but heightened thy soul's melody, 
 For all thro' the ages in sunshine and sorrow. 
 
 Thy children, rejoicing or weeping in song. 
 In the past, through the present, and ever the morrow, 
 
 Will tenderly ever thy soul bear along. 
 
 And music's thy soul, 0, Niobe of nations, 
 
 Long, long, wert thou dead were it not for the charm, 
 Heaven born in thy breast, pulsing proud animations. 
 
 Putting hope in thy heart, giving strength to thy arm. 
 So thus let thy song, diadem of thy glory, 
 
 Ring out thro' the ages vast, coursing along. 
 Till it tells to the unborn millions thy story. 
 
 Green Erin, Alanna, sweet island of song. 
 
 MY OWN, MY SWEET MAYO. 
 
 I could not well forget thee, tho' ocean waves divide, 
 
 To me you're stiU the fairest, no matter what betide. 
 
 The day that I forget thee my spirit wings its way, 
 
 And leaves behind its earthly cloak, a cold, cold corpse of 
 
 clay. 
 In youth I trod thy valleys, thy hills I rambled down, 
 Barefooted oft I wandered o'er thy moorlands purple brown, 
 And fancy paints me pictures of scenes that well I know. 
 Then how could I forget thee, my own, my sweet Mayo? 
 
 Long years ago I left thee, a wanderer to roam, 
 'Mid strangers in an alien land, to seek another home. 
 But all the glare and glitter that surrounds me here today 
 Fades into naught as longing comes for hills far, far away. 
 For lakes and rills and rivers and woodland pathways sweet, 
 That memory's page will gather to scatter at my feet. 
 And once again I feast my eyes, tho' in fancy 'tis I know, 
 I roam through youth's elysium, my own, my sweet Mayo. 
 
 47 
 
TO MOTHER IRELAND. 
 
 Gould I but love thee dearer, could I but give thee more, 
 'Tis at thy feet, my own loved one, I'd lay proud freedom's 
 
 store, 
 But all I've got to give thee, dear, is all a man can give, 
 And flesh and blood and brain of mine is thine while e'er I 
 
 live. 
 0, would that fate would grant thee, dear, just only what is 
 
 thine, 
 A nation's right, that once thou held, from Him who is 
 
 divine. 
 A nation's right that yet you claim, is yours, and yours 
 
 alone, 
 No suppliant, thou, on craven knee, before a British throne, 
 But as a queen who dares deny the stranger's right to stand 
 Supreme and sole dictator o'er thy children in thy land. 
 0, could the blood within thee, dear, the blood of patriot 
 
 dead, 
 The blood that drenched thy emerald breast, by baneful 
 
 tyrant shed, 
 Cry out to Him who reigns above, for vengeance would it 
 
 cry, 
 Until to crimson hue it turned the blue of heaven's sky. 
 And men to passion would give sway and strike another 
 
 blow, 
 To break the chains that bind thee, dear, a captive to the 
 
 foe. 
 The foe that does not know thy worth, nor for thy feelings 
 
 care. 
 Whose hirelings oft' with brutal force has driven thee to 
 
 despair, 
 Has scourged thee with a bitter hate, with sorrow lined thy 
 
 brow, 
 And laughed to scorn the rights you claimed, the rights 
 
 you're claiming now, 
 But there's a day, 'tis your day, dear, for surely it must 
 
 come, 
 When clarion voice in accents true, or roll of beating drum, 
 Will tell the world that for thy rights no long thou'lt delay, 
 E'en tho thou callest upon thy sons to arm for the fray. 
 0, could we love the tyrant, dear, and kiss the bloody hand, 
 That stilled the hearts who dared to beat with pity for their 
 
 land, 
 The land that died a million deaths and shed a billion tears. 
 Scourged by the tyrant's bloody leash, for seven hundred 
 
 years. 
 0, no, our heritage is hate, for by the God on high. 
 We can't forget the patriot's fate, the mother's anguished 
 
 cry, 
 The dead would rise from out their graves and smite us 
 
 where we stood. 
 Did we join hands with hands red dyed in Ireland's noblest 
 
 blood. 
 
 4B 
 
Thus must we still push onward, dear, until we win the 
 
 fight 
 In serried ranks devoid of fear, till wrong is turned ot right. 
 Slaves we are not, we claim the rights of true men to mam- 
 
 The struggle fair that makes thee, dear, a nation once again. 
 
 — November 14, 1911. 
 
 LOVE'S BOUQUET. 
 
 A rose in the garden of youth, dear, I plucked in the loved 
 
 lonor asro 
 Its petals still wet in the dew, dear, that shone in the soft 
 
 morning glow, i ^ ,•„ «o 
 
 Surrounded with pansy and ivy, forget-me-not, daisy as 
 
 I sent it, ail fresh and fragant, love's story to you to tell. 
 
 And sweet was the story it told, dear, a story tho' old ever 
 
 In language that hearts do unfold, dear, it breathed the 
 
 message to you. , , . .. ♦ *i«„r^r>o 
 
 You asked of the green little ivy what is it you sweet flowers 
 
 hrins''^ 
 Fond thoughts, said the beautiful pansy, that like ivy around 
 
 you'll cling. ,, . ,., 
 
 Yes, fond thoughts, said the beautiful pansy, that like ivy 
 will round you cling. 
 
 Then your eyes had a wondrous look, dear, glowed with a 
 
 new-born charm, . ,. , ^u^ 
 
 While vour lips to the rose seemed to lisp, dear, are you the 
 
 harbinger of harm \ r.^ r.f r.^a+ t 
 
 Oh, I'm love, said the rose, m a whisper; a haven of rest l 
 
 but seek 
 And I, smiled 'the innocent daisy, the course of true love 
 
 bespeak. 
 
 Oh your cheeks, how they blushed like the rose, dear, free 
 
 as the daisy from guile; 
 Your eyes like the bright dewdrops shone, dear, lit up hy 
 
 young love's golden smile; . ,, ^ „^^ , . 
 
 Two hearts then with happiness beating, all else in the world 
 
 Now the^pansy and ivy send greeting, and whisper forget- 
 Yes, the^pansy and ivy send greeting, a simple forget-me-not. 
 
 49 
 
LINES WRITTEN ON A MAYO PATRIOT. 
 
 I. 
 
 In Glasnevin cemetery I stood, 
 
 Full many a year ago, 
 
 With gentle footsteps there I trod, 
 
 And spoke in accents low. 
 
 Beside a grave, beneath a tree 
 
 I knelt, and prayed awhile, 
 
 Oer 'one who gladly gave his life, 
 
 For love of Erin's Ise. 
 
 II. 
 
 Ah I who would think that there lay one, 
 
 Fleetfooted as the deer. 
 
 And that the manly heart was stilled. 
 
 That knew not what was fear; 
 
 His spirit proud, they could not break, 
 
 Threats were of no avail, 
 
 'Twas his young life they then did take, 
 
 In Mountjoy's cursed jail. 
 
 III. 
 
 Oh, Patrick Nally, brave and bold, 
 Thou'rt with the Lord on high. 
 On earth thou'd be, if British gold 
 Thy loyalty could buy; 
 But a traitor thou would'st never be 
 To Ireland's cause so grand. 
 Thy fondest hopes were liberty. 
 For faith and fatherland. 
 
 Iv. 
 
 Accursed be they who gave thy youth 
 
 Into the tyrant's power. 
 
 And may their blood, and progeny, 
 
 Be blasted from that hour. 
 
 Oh, Ireland, thou nursed the sordid knave. 
 
 Who sold your rights away, 
 
 And sent thy patriot loyal and brave 
 
 To sleep 'neath the cold clay. 
 
 V. 
 
 But the dawn is nearing now for thee. 
 
 My own, my native land, 
 
 And the day-star of thy destiny, 
 
 Is shining bright and grand; 
 
 Thv broad demensnes are once again 
 
 With homesteads dotted o'er. 
 
 The landlord and his foreign henchman 
 
 Forever leave thy shore. 
 
 50 
 
VI. 
 
 Sleep on! Sleep on thou noble youth, 
 
 Beneath the sheltering tree; 
 
 Fear not, when Ireland gains her rights, 
 
 Forgotten thou wilt be. 
 
 Nol thine amongst the hallowed names. 
 
 Of Ireland's heroes shall 
 
 Be recorded in her hall of fame. 
 
 Thou martyr brave from Balla. 
 
 —July 24, 1909. 
 
 KING GEORGE'S 'TATER PATCH. 
 
 From o'er the ocean comes the news that Britain's on the job, 
 And farming is quite popular, led by the King, be gob; 
 For royalty is making friends with spade and shovel, sure 
 The princesses blue-blooded are now experts oh manure. 
 And now the humble tubers by kingly hands are laid 
 Behind old Windsor Palace in beds by princes made. 
 While with hoe in hand the Queen does stand old mother 
 
 earth to scratch, 
 for they're raising Irish Murphies now in George's '"tater" 
 
 patch. 
 
 1 EM 
 
 The rose, old England's emblem, e'er diffuses sweet perfume. 
 But to the high-bred onion now it must give up some room. 
 Sure, cabbages and Yankee beans are leaders of the hour 
 And claim the 'tater blossom can't become the nation's 
 
 flower. 
 But when regal dukes and duchesses its praises loudly sing, 
 And help to raise its standard loyal to their Queen and King, 
 Where is the other vegetabe can ever be the match 
 With the kingly Irish Murphy raised in George's '"tater" 
 
 patch? 
 
 Let the farmers of this great broad land look to their laurels 
 
 now, 
 Europe's kingly line by right divine are turning to the plow. 
 And Mother Earth is coming back as ruler of the free. 
 While rejuvenated nature smiles upon democracy, 
 Then let all toil and give the soil the best care that they can, 
 For the farmer is acknowledged now to be the kingly man. 
 So let us doff our bonnets now and bow our hirsute thatch, 
 To the royal Irish Murphies in King George's '"tater" patch. 
 
 — Chicago, May 1, 1917. 
 [From news item in Tuesday morning, May 1, papers.] 
 
 51 
 
THE FEMALE OF THE SPECIES. 
 
 (As written in answer to Kiplings' poem under the same 
 
 title.) 
 Coming down thro' all the ages since the world first began, 
 Woman bravely bore her burdens as the mother of the man. 
 Calmly gave with love unequaled, all that childhood did 
 
 entail. 
 'Twas the female of the species that gave manhood to the 
 
 male. 
 
 In the midst of pain and sorrow, in the thick of care and 
 
 strife. 
 Tender are the ministrations of the mother, sweetheart, 
 
 wife. 
 Great the wealth of love and kindness that was never known 
 
 to fail. 
 Did the female of the species ever lavish on the male. 
 
 In the bearing of her burden, from the cradle to the grave. 
 
 Who has been the most unselfish— who has been the willing 
 slave 
 
 To the offspring of her bosom— down the long road of tra- 
 vail, 
 
 'Twas the female of the species, giving ever to the male. 
 
 In the cloister, in the hospice, on the gory field of death, 
 Midst the din and grime of battle, like a loving angel's breath 
 She has soothed, calmed and comforted, made easier the 
 
 trail. 
 Yea, the female of the species creditrix is of the male. 
 
 Ah, sometimes she's what man has made her, a warped and 
 
 wicked thing. 
 The playtoy of the monster, who for passion's sake will 
 
 bring, 
 Wealth or honeyed words all sinister, that their powers may 
 
 prevail. 
 And some female of the species falls a martyr to the male. 
 
 Love, that pure and holy virtue, is the cloak that lewd men 
 
 bring 
 To the barriers of innocence, hiding well the poisoned sting, 
 And with soft alluring phrases they a sister soul assail 
 Till some female of the species sacrifices to the male. 
 
 Ah, yes, trusting sacrifices, to a coward and a brute, 
 Lost to every manly feeling, Satan's cub devoid of truth, 
 Devil, viper, gormandizer, seeking naught but lust — ^wassail 
 Rending female of the species with fhe talons of the male. 
 
Tears the tender heart asunder, when the mask they cast 
 
 aside, 
 Laughs to scorn the trusting woman, and with wolfish howls 
 
 deride 
 The fount his hands unholy tore apart because 'twas frail, 
 A fair female of the species thus made hideous by the male. 
 
 Skeptics, fiends, foul, ungodly, bow your heads so crowned 
 
 with shame, 
 For the weak and erring woman you alone are but to blame. 
 That her stronger, abler sisters arc at last upon your trail, 
 Proves that the female of the species has found out the 
 
 arrant male. 
 
 0, the female of the species, with the soft and tender hand, 
 Is the bulwark of all nations, is the pride of every land, 
 She that gives of love unstinting, suffering never made her 
 
 quail, 
 Yea, the female of the species is the sole prop of the male. 
 
 A NATURALIZED CITIZEN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SON. 
 
 Salute that starry banner, son, for 'neath it you w^ere born. 
 It was conceived, my boy, upon the dawn of freedom's morn. 
 Each glowing stripe and gleaming star should cherished be 
 
 by you, 
 No focman's hand must ever mar our loved red, white and 
 
 blue. 
 
 Your dad would gladly die, lad, for Mother dear and you. 
 Defending home and freedom 'neath our loved red, white 
 and blue. 
 
 If foe should e'er endanger your dad's adopted land. 
 Be foeman, kin or stranger, 'tis by that flag I'll stand. 
 And while I've blood to shed, son, I'll proudly die or do 
 My part 'neath freedom's emblem grand old red, white and 
 blue. 
 
 Your granddad was an alien ,your dad an alien, too. 
 One died, the other's willing, for our loved red, white and 
 blue. 
 
 Through time as you grow up, lad, let that flag be your pride, 
 Your mother's father loved it and for it bravely died. 
 And you must e'er be ready to give life for it, too. 
 Like soldier true and steady 'neath our loved red, white and 
 blue. 
 
 Then here's to every stripe and star that waves o'er me and 
 
 you. 
 We'll die 'fore foeman's hand shall mar our grand red, white 
 a nd blue. 
 
 — Chicago, February 9, 1917. 
 
 53 
 
IN POESY LAND. 
 
 Of rippling rills, of babbling brooks and purling streams, we 
 
 sing, 
 Of woodlands sweet, the cool retreat where notes of wild 
 
 birds ring, 
 Of hills and' dells, of lakes and fells, and valleys smiling fair, 
 Of moorlands brown, of crags that frown, and islands rich 
 
 and rare, 
 Of childhood haunts, of merry jaunts with Mary, Mag or 
 
 Kate, 
 Of trysting stiles adown the lane or by the garden gate. 
 
 Of meadows green where maidens glean the grain the reaper 
 
 mows, 
 Of waving fields whose corn yields its treasure to him who 
 
 sows. 
 Of bush and brake and paths that maake life's journey 
 
 doubly sweet. 
 Of shining strands and bold headlands, that exile eyes e'er 
 
 greet. 
 Of glistening wave, of ships that brave the ocean's foamy 
 
 track, 
 Of eyes so blue, of hearts so true that bring the rover back. 
 
 Of golden hair, of cheeks so fair, of love that ne'er will die, 
 
 Of roving blade, of mossy glade, of gold and azure sky; 
 
 Of sultry clime, of harvest time, of flowers that blush and 
 
 bloom. 
 In gardens fair, and fill the air with Nature's sweet perfume, 
 Of winds that sigh, the banshee's cry, of how the fairies 
 
 dance. 
 Of love's sweet song, the madding throng, of battle steeds 
 
 who prance. 
 
 The thrush's thrill, the whippoorwill, the cuckoo's well 
 
 known call; 
 The ruined tower, the leafy bower, the moss-grown garden 
 
 wall. 
 The setting sun, the rising moon, the little twinkling star; 
 The candle light that shines at night for those beyond the 
 
 bar, 
 The old bog road, youth's loved abode, the little white washed 
 
 cot, 
 The violet blue, the pansies hue, the sweet forget-me-not. 
 
 Tho shamrock green, the pike and skeen, the harp without 
 the crown. 
 
 The village street, the friends you meet, the lad from your 
 home town. 
 
 The thoughts divine, 0, sweetheart mine, the kiss, the win- 
 ning smile 
 
 The winsome lass, the mountain pass, the little Emerald isle, 
 
 The lowing kine that slowly wind at eve across the lea; 
 
 The dreamy mood, the hearts that brood for loved ones o'er 
 the sea. 
 
 54 
 
And these asthore, and many more, in rhyme and rhythm 
 
 free, 
 Make up the themes from which we get all soulful melody, 
 And thus it will go ever on until the end of time, 
 For mankind will burst into song in every age and clime, 
 And all the phrases sad or gay that poets love to use 
 Are found in Poesy's golden realm, the kingdom of the muse. 
 
 —July, 1910. 
 
 IF MOTHER EVE CAME BACK TO EARTH TODAY. 
 
 Eve never wore a corset in the days of long ago, 
 
 And she was mother of the race, at least they tell us so; 
 
 Her figure must have been the best the world e'er did know, 
 
 By God's own hand a perfect model made. 
 
 Eve never wore a silken gown when visiting she went, 
 
 Her robe of fig leaves fresh she donned, and with it was 
 
 content, 
 And for the gee gaws such as we see now her coin she never 
 
 spent, 
 So husband Adam couldn't her upbraid. 
 
 Eve never had the option from a dozen hats to choose. 
 
 Nor wardrobe of fine linen, silk hose and high-heeled shoes; 
 
 No servants had she, either, to bully and abuse. 
 
 A perfect lady she was in every way. 
 
 Yet Eve was always fitly dressed in nature's sweetest smile, 
 
 She used no frills, complexion pills or fads now know as 
 
 style, 
 And for good looks perhaps she may have beaten by a mile 
 Her fussy daughters of the present day. 
 
 Eve never, never paint nor powder rubbed upon her face. 
 Such things I'm sure she'd look upon as being a disgrace, 
 But that seems all the rage now with the female of the race. 
 And by my soul they think 'tis simply grand. 
 Good old soap and water in the discard they have cast. 
 The paint rag and the powder puff now o'er the face is 
 
 passed, 
 And the healthy, clear complexion is disappearing fast. 
 One seldom sees it now in this great land. 
 
 And if Mother Eve came back today she'd wonder, you may 
 
 bet, 
 At the inconsistent reasoning of our sister suffragette, 
 Who equal rights with manhood claim, her privileges yet 
 To remain just as they were before. 
 
 Now we men are not a-kicking or a-growling, don't you know, 
 If women want to do men's work, fight, plow, and reap and 
 
 sow, 
 But chivalry will get a scare and off this planet go, 
 'Tis simply this and nothing more. 
 
 —September 14, 1912. 
 
 91$ 
 
SHAMROCaCS. 
 
 (On receiving Shamrocks from my little friends, Francis 
 and Mary J. Neary, Cloomahara, County Galway). 
 
 Speak not to me of jewels rare 
 
 Those priceless gems a king might prize; 
 Rich, flashing bright beyond compare 
 
 Resplendent as the sunlit skies; 
 For they're but cold, poor, lifeless things 
 
 E'en tho' they flash and glitter so. 
 Beside the gift my letter brings 
 
 From far off fields and friends I know. 
 
 'Tis but a few small sprigs of green 
 
 Begirt around with humble clay, 
 But fairer gems were never seen 
 
 Than those that greet my eyes today, 
 For sure of loving hearts they tell 
 
 And tender hands that from the sod 
 Plucked fresh and green in fairyed dell 
 
 Those emblems of our home and God. 
 
 Methinks I yet can see the dew, 
 
 Like angel tears, that softly lay 
 Upon those leaves as fresh they grew, 
 
 'Round that dear home in old Galway; 
 And sure this little bit of earth 
 
 Now hard and dry that girds them round. 
 Is soil that gave my father birth, 
 
 For Galway was his native ground. 
 
 So doubly dear to me, are those 
 
 Sweet slender sprays of Shamrock green. 
 Three leaves as one together grows 
 
 God's unity the parent stem. 
 Faith, Hope, and Love, from whose fount springs 
 
 The strength that e'er in union lies; 
 Before its voice the rule of kings 
 
 And ruthless sway of tyrant flies. 
 
 God bless the little hands and hearts 
 
 To whom this priceless gift I owe, 
 'Tis love like theirs that e'er imparts 
 
 To Spirits bowed, love's heavenly glow. 
 And as on tender leaves I press 
 
 Soft kiss on this St. Patrick's day. 
 My spirit flies with fond caress 
 
 To you dear friends in old Galway. 
 
 —March 9, 1913. 
 
 56 
 
DKAR ERIN. 
 
 0, (o hear tlie woodlands ringing 
 
 With wild birds winging— sweetly singing, 
 
 Fond recollections bringing 
 
 Of those good old days of yore. 
 
 In the loved land of our childhood, 
 Land of mountain, vale and wildwood, 
 All with verdure sweetly smiling 
 What a picture grand, asthore. 
 
 Sure 'tis there we'd love to wander. 
 Every moment growing fonder 
 Of these scenes so fresh, beguilding. 
 On our own dear Erin's shore. 
 
 GALWAY LADIES' BALL. 
 
 Respectfully dedicated to the Galway Ladies' Association. 
 
 Galway's exiled daughters fair 
 
 Will dance at Tammany! 
 What a great crowd will be there 
 
 From the old country; 
 Bouchaleen's brave and cailins sweet, 
 
 In Patrick's Day array. 
 Will dance with the ladies 
 
 Of Galway. 
 
 Music's sweetest strains will ring, 
 
 The spacious hall around; 
 Laughter gay and joy 'twill bring 
 
 With mirth to there abound. 
 Gra machree mo cailin dhas, 
 
 The gossoons all will say, 
 Who'll dance with the ladies 
 
 From Galway. 
 
 Tir-nan-oge's the new password; 
 
 There on St. Patrick's night 
 Hearts with Irish music stirred 
 
 Will make eyes sparkle bright 
 Of Erin's exiled children brave, 
 
 Who smilingly will say, 
 Hurrah for the ladies 
 
 From Galway! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Hurrah! Hurrah! upon St. Patrick's Day! 
 
 Hurrah! Hurrah! you'll hear the Irish say, 
 I'm going tonight to Tammany, 
 
 Where Donohue will play 
 Grand tunes like *'The Ould Road 
 
 To Galway." 
 
 —February 23, 1914. 
 
 '57 
 
DEAR OLD MAYO. 
 
 I. 
 
 0, the fault was mine, or we ne'er had parted, 
 
 And life had been what it ought to be; 
 But the die was cast ere yet I started 
 
 To know thy worth, Agra Machree! 
 'Twas only when in my wild, wild roaming 
 
 'Neath alien skies, with no friend to cheer. 
 That my lonely heart was ever homing, 
 
 And pining for thee, loved Mayo dear. 
 
 n. 
 
 Sad, sad, the path that the exile wanders! 
 
 For sad's the thoughts that remembrance brings. 
 In the lonely night as he sits and ponders. 
 
 The scene that ever to memory clings; 
 0, those olden days that were prized so lightly. 
 
 The golden hours that childhood knew, 
 Could they return, how I'd clasp them .tightly. 
 
 And ne'er again would I roam from you. 
 
 III. 
 
 Dear, dear old land, how my soul is yearning 
 
 To rove once more by the rippling Moy, 
 But fate decrees there is no returning 
 
 To the happy days, when a care-free boy 
 I roamed thy moors, and o'er hills I wandered; 
 
 0, the thoughts well up and they thrill me so, 
 Till I lapse the waste of the years I squandered, 
 
 That left me far from thee, loved Mayo. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But ah! Machree, there's no use in sighing, 
 
 Tho' back the tears sure I cannot keep. 
 For the love I bear you, Asthore's undying. 
 
 And with thoughts of you T am lulled to sleep. 
 Then my soul flies out o'er the bounding ocean, 
 
 To when Robe and Moy ever rippling flow. 
 And seem to sing in their winding motion, 
 
 "May Heaven bless thee, loved Mayo!" 
 
 V. 
 
 Yes, may Heaven bless thee, old Granua dearest. 
 
 From Ballaghaderreen o'er to Achill Isle; 
 And from Benmore Head down to Cong the fairest, 
 
 My bounteous nature upon thee smile. 
 0, that's my heartfelt wish, Acushla! 
 
 Awake, asleep, wheresoe'er I go, 
 And fond thoughts I send to thy shore Alanna, 
 
 For proud am I of dear Old Mayo. 
 
 —April, 1913. 
 
 58 
 
VERSES. 
 
 Respectfully inscribed to Limerick's famous disciple of 
 Musa, Port Costa, California. 
 
 Poetic son of Garryowen, tho' far from her you stray, 
 Across the foam to "home, sweet home" you own loved, 
 
 Monegea, 
 Goes sapphic gems a-wafting o'er the gently flowing Feale 
 That to the whispering zyphers there, an exile's love reveal. 
 
 Within your breast the tender spark of memory bursts to 
 
 flame, 
 'Till Limerick, proud of valiant sons who brilliant made 
 
 her name. 
 Her blessing sends to you loved one with mother's fond 
 
 caress. 
 And glories in her absent son, her own famed T. D. S. 
 
 Let humble wooer of the muse in fancy clasp your hand, 
 
 And in draughts of love divine we'll toast "our Mother- 
 land." 
 
 From Mizen Head to Garvan Isles, from Achill o'er to Bray. 
 
 Would she were garbed in freedom's smiles, our fondest 
 wish today. 
 
 well I know your pulsing heart beats fervently and true 
 Like Sarsfield's dauntless veterans, you'll nobly die or do. 
 And when some future day we meet, with joy your hand 
 
 I'll press 
 Till then may Heaven bless the path of far-famed T. D. S. 
 
 April 13, 1913. 
 
 ALL TOGETHER. 
 
 All together children banded, 
 
 One for all and all for one. 
 Faction's blighting ships have stranded 
 
 And our eyes have seen the sun 
 Rise above the troubled waters 
 
 Like a God-sent beacon grand 
 Calling Erin's sons and daughters 
 
 On closer ties for motherland. 
 
 All together, friendship sealing, 
 
 A children's cause for Erin's weal; 
 Love sublime all past wounds healing, 
 
 One and all should happier feel. 
 In bonds of kinship now reborn 
 
 Thro' hearts that give with clasp of hand 
 A children's love to light the morn 
 
 In brighter hopes for motherland. 
 
 November, 1913. 
 
 59 
 
THEN HERE'S TO MOTHERLAND. 
 
 Wo cannot soon forget the friends — 
 
 The real friends and true, 
 And oft' we'll meet where pleasure lands 
 
 Its charms like morning dew; 
 And with God's help we'll see the day 
 
 When friendship's sterling band 
 Encircles thousands such as they, 
 
 Then here's to Motherland! 
 
 Yes, here's to her whose tender breast 
 
 Oft' felt the traitor's sting. 
 Aye, here's to her who yet is blest 
 
 With hearts that ever cling 
 To ideals by which mankind true, 
 
 Unflinchingly will stand. 
 Then here's a wish, dear friends, to you, 
 
 And here's to Motherland! 
 
 Ah, sure, 'tis only once we live. 
 
 And only once we die; 
 If of our all we cannot give. 
 
 Then nobly let us try; 
 Give of the best within us then, 
 
 And calmly take our stand 
 'Long with the fold-embattled when 
 
 'Tis here's for Motherland. 
 
 THE MOONBEAMS ON THE MOY. 
 
 I watched the silvery moon arise. 
 
 The sight it was entrancing; 
 It shed its beams from out the skies 
 
 And sent them madly dacing 
 Upon the river's rippling breast 
 
 With seeming indiscretion, 
 I thought the fairies, I'll be blessed, 
 
 Had come to take possession. 
 
 They danced along, I watched the while, 
 
 As there I sat in rapture; 
 Sure if the scene it would not spoil 
 
 I'd try a beam to capture. 
 God grant some day ere life is o'er 
 
 A trip I'll take with joy 
 To watch the moonbeams dance once more 
 
 Upon the rippling Moy. 
 
 60 
 
THE GIRLS FROM TIPPERARY. 
 
 (Respectfully inscribed to the Tipperary Ladies' 
 Association.) 
 
 Oh, cailins sweet I've met galore 
 
 Since I left the dear old sireland, 
 Fair as the skies that light the shore 
 
 Of their loved mother, Ireland, 
 And while they all were queenly fair 
 
 And winsome as a fairy. 
 I doff my humble caubeen here 
 
 To the girls from Tipperary. 
 
 Ah, sure their sparkling glance you meet 
 
 'Midst joyous throngs a-dancing, 
 As thro' jig and reel with flying feet 
 
 They go with style entrancing. 
 Then with soft voice and winning smile 
 
 Of Lizzie, Mag or Mary 
 Your wafted back to Erin's Isle 
 
 And brave old Tipperary. 
 
 Sure, 'tis o'er Galtee's noble crest 
 
 The sun's bright rays a-shining 
 E'er gird Suir's fair and rippling breast 
 
 With a gold and silver lining. 
 And 'tis there that Erin's sons, Machree, 
 
 Of the foe were never chary, 
 For they were always backed, you see, 
 
 By the girls of Tiperary. 
 
 And, yea, 'twas there that Kickham, he, 
 
 God rest his soul in glory, 
 
 . . 'er fought to set old Ireland free 
 
 From the tyrant, grim and gory; 
 And yet his spirit proudly lives 
 
 By lough and mountain dreary. 
 Aye, wherever Heaven offspring gives 
 
 To the homes of Tipperary. 
 
 This night we'll drink a silent toast, 
 
 Tho' far from Anner's waters. 
 That Erin well may proudly boast 
 
 "Tipperary's exiled daughters," 
 For tho' far away from motherland 
 
 Their hearts have ne'er grown weary 
 Of loving dear old Ireland, 
 
 Those girls from Tipperary. 
 
 —March 29, 1914. 
 
 61 
 
MONUMENT CLUB DAY AT CELTIC PARK. 
 
 (Respectfully dedicated to Martin Sheridan.) 
 Oh, hear it come a-rustling, a-whistling and a-bustling; 
 Oh, hear it come a-hurtling on the soft May morning 
 breeze; 
 See the crowds that off to Celtic Park to watch the games 
 are hustling. 
 Arrah, mocky baun, there's not a doubt, it surely is the 
 cheese. 
 Come along and see them go it in the three-mile race, ye 
 divil, 
 The champions of the world, ah, begob! I'm not content 
 'Till I see Pat Flynn of Ireland beat Kohlemainen on the 
 level 
 At the games this very Sunday of that club, the Monument. 
 
 They'll be running, aye, and jumping, sure, man, you'll be 
 delighted. 
 And the football games, ye divil — faith ye never saw the 
 like. 
 Sure, you'll think you are in Ireland when the old green flag 
 you've sighted, 
 And the cailins all a-dancing, 'tis a sight for eyes to strike. 
 
 Sure. I can't describe it all to you, you must be there to 
 see it; 
 It will only cost a quarter — better ne'er you money spent. 
 So take the car to Celtic Park, a crowd will sure be in it, 
 On their way to see the great games of that club, the 
 Monument. 
 
 ULSTERIA UP TO DATE. 
 
 What is that noisy hollering? says McPherson to McQuaid. 
 That's Boney Law a-speeching, the police sergeant said. 
 He's a-preaching factionism to the Carson-Craig brigade, 
 While they rave and curse, all law and order scorning. 
 Sure they're drilling, yes, the're drilling, with their deadly 
 
 wooden guns. 
 They're spoiling for a fight, begob, those brave and valiant 
 
 ones, 
 Whose motto is, the best man is the one who yells and runs. 
 Yet they'd whip the British lion in the morning. 
 
 What is that awful cursing? says the mother to the maid. 
 That's some Orangemen conversing, the police sergeant said. 
 Sure they curse the Pope a million times while they are on 
 
 parade. 
 Their rantings vile with blasphemy adorning, 
 And like yellow curs a-yelping their bark worse than their 
 
 bite. 
 'Tis to hell with all the Papists they are yelling day and 
 
 night, 
 While they rave and bluff and bluster that they're ready now 
 
 to flght. 
 And whip the British lion in the morning. 
 
 62 
 
What is that caterwauling says the jailbird to the jade. 
 
 That's the Loyalists a-cheering, the police sergeant said. 
 
 For Carson just delivered a windy, wild tirade, 
 
 Full of prejudice, a rascal's vile suborning. 
 
 And with hymns you hear them singing, they now try to fool 
 
 the Lord, 
 While McLean, the pious fakir, harrangues the Orange 
 
 horde. 
 Loyal to the King and Parliament, brothers all, and then he 
 
 scored. 
 But we'd whip the British lion in the morning. 
 
 What is that tune they're playing? says Home Rule unafraid. 
 That's some Orange donkeys braying, the police sergeant 
 
 said. 
 'Tis resistance day at Belfast, coventers on parade. 
 And they're howling to King George a timely warning. 
 That if he signs the Home Rule bill the act he'll surely rue, 
 For this handful of fanatics will th empire tear in two. 
 Yet 'tis peace they want! 0, what a joke; just hear this 
 
 bloody crew 
 Shout, we'll whip the British lion in the morning. 
 
 What is that note of revel? says Grattan's noble shade, 
 
 Some hellhounds of the devil, loved Parnell's spirit said, 
 
 Desecrating every inch of ground where patriots true are 
 laid. 
 
 Who fought to see o'er Erin freedom's dawning. 
 
 And like fiends they are yelling in Antrim and in Down, 
 
 That on acts of right and justice they will ever spit and 
 frown. 
 
 While they'd kick into the River Boyne the King of Eng- 
 land's crown. 
 
 And whip the British lion the same morning. 
 
 What is that mournful crying? says the merchant seeking 
 trade. 
 
 Old ascendancy is dying, the police sergeant said. 
 
 0, thank God for toleration now on broad lines undismayed. 
 
 In love and hope links us, all hatred scorning. 
 
 And we'll live in peace and plenty for the land that's all our 
 own. 
 
 Joining hands with Catholic brethren who all o'er this isle 
 have shown 
 
 A spirit free from malice, one and all we'll stand alone 
 
 For an undivided Ireland in the morning. 
 
 —October 26, 1912. 
 
 63 
 
OUR IRISH VOLUNTEERS. 
 
 From out a dream of bygone time 
 
 The soul of Erin woke, 
 And with a thrill of joy sublime 
 
 Her martial spirt spoke: 
 Praise God, I hear thy tread again. 
 
 Like music to my ears; 
 Oh, Heaven bless my manly men, 
 
 My Irish Volunteers I 
 
 Some thought my heart no longer beat 
 
 With pride for valiant Tone, 
 Nor that again I'd care to greet 
 
 Sarsfield at Garryowen, 
 That Emmet's epitaph would lie 
 
 Unwritten 'midst my tears. 
 The cause they died for ne'er can die 
 
 My dauntless VolunteersI 
 
 As queen I sit unconquered still, 
 
 My "Rebel" brood around, 
 And fmd a Rory of the Hill 
 
 Amongst them yet is found; 
 A dashing Dwyer, a Crowley bold, 
 
 A Stephens, too, appears; 
 Our fighting blood has ne'er grown cold, 
 
 My gallant Volunteers! 
 
 A mother's tears for you I shed, 
 
 My murdered Geraldine, 
 When down beside thy gory bed 
 
 I cast my mantle green 
 To catch the blood that from thy breast 
 
 Gushed out like rain of tears; 
 With it my rising brood I've blest, 
 
 My steadfast Volunteers! 
 
 They lied like Jade, who never knew shame, 
 
 My recreant traitor breed. 
 To fan once more disunion's flame 
 
 And pit creed against creed. 
 Yet from my breast loved patriots sprung 
 
 Like Orr, the brothers Sheare's, 
 Who freedom's song of yore had sung 
 
 "United" Volunteers! 
 
 Now, my heart beats high with pride again, 
 
 You've nailed their every lie. 
 And I have yet good sturdy men 
 
 Who'd proudly do or die, 
 And freedom's star is still a-light, 
 
 As 'twas in bygone years; 
 Praise God, you'll keep it ever bright, 
 
 My stalwart Volunteers! 
 
 ^June 15, 1914. 
 
 64 
 
MEMORIES THAT ENDURE. 
 
 (Dedicated to my sincere friend, P. J. McAvoy, a true son of 
 Carlow, and a sterling Irishman, a man whom to know is 
 to esteem.) 
 0, there's something, yes, there's something that the exile 
 
 keeps in mind, 
 'Tis the memory of the loved ones, and the scenes we left 
 
 behind. 
 The happy scenes of childhood and the tender touch of 
 
 hand 
 Of the friends of youth we cherished in our own loved 
 
 Ireland. 
 Sure, our spirits wander over the thousand leagues of foam. 
 Rambling through the loved elysium of our childhood's 
 
 happy home 
 Where in care-free days we wandered o'er hill and flowery 
 
 dell 
 Where the birds were hushed to stillness by the evening 
 
 vesper bell 
 Where the peasant meek and holy bowed his head and bent 
 
 his knee 
 In the praise of Him who suffered on the hill of Calvary. 
 0, the many years of exile makes our longing all the more 
 For a glimpse of surging waters on that rock-bound emerald 
 
 shore. 
 For a sight of hill and valley or the cot we love the best. 
 Where proud heart with deep devotion beats within an Irish 
 
 breast. 
 0, the meories sweet that linger tho' the happy days are 
 
 passed, 
 Memories fraught wifh love's emotion, dreams that cannot 
 
 be surpassed, 
 Of the rambles through the meadows by (he river through 
 
 the wood. 
 Would we not recall tliose moments, would wc not if but we 
 
 could? 
 Yea; they are passed recalling, memory sweet is all that's 
 
 left 
 Of the loving friends of childhood, we by fate have been 
 
 bereft. 
 But, our hearts in deep affection frame their pictures in our 
 
 mind 
 And we in turn in love or sadness to the loves we left behind, 
 Far behind in holy Ireland, 'neath her sacred emerald sod, 
 When the warm spirit had left thorn to appear before its 
 
 God, 
 The God of sainted Patrick, who in answer to his call. 
 Preached the word of Christ, the Saviour, to the Druids in 
 
 Tara's Hall, 
 And sent down through all the ages a love of faith sublime. 
 That in Irish hearts endureth to the very end of time. 
 O, there's something, yes, there's something, 'tis tha some- 
 thing rare and grand, 
 'Tis the loving link that binds us to our own dear Ireland. 
 
 —October 14, 1911. 
 
 65 
 
RESENTING AN INSULT TO THE OLD GREEN FLAG. 
 
 You lie I You British dog, you lie! 
 
 The flag you now behold, 
 Upon whose field of emerald green 
 
 There shines a harp of gold, 
 Is emblem of a land and race 
 
 Who ever have withstood 
 The tyrants' efforts to efface 
 
 Their rights to na*^onhood. 
 
 You lie again, you British dog! 
 
 Downtrodden we have been. 
 But conquered, no, I swear by God, 
 
 Who sees this spring day scene. 
 Of Erin's sons in proud array, 
 
 Of this great cheering throng; 
 Good hearts and true are keen today 
 
 To right their country's wrong. 
 
 You know you lie, you British hound! 
 
 The day will never dawn 
 When lies, deserted on the ground. 
 
 That flag God's sun shines on; 
 A million Colts their blood would shed. 
 
 Another in their place, 
 Would wade breast-high, through seas of red. 
 
 To save it from disgrace. 
 
 Oh! lying still, you cringing cur. 
 
 Our grandsires fought and fell, 
 'Gainst English brute and Scottish knave 
 
 And Hessian hounds of hell. 
 0! that's the chivalry you boast? 
 
 Gorged for rapine and guile. 
 You brought the scum of Europe's coast 
 
 To ravage our fair isle. 
 
 Ah! hang your head, you British dog; 
 
 The cry for vengeance still 
 Rings up to heaven, from moor and bog, 
 
 From plain and vale and hill; 
 For mother, wife — for maid and child, 
 
 Left sullied in their gore; 
 For homes by mongrel brute deflled. 
 
 On Erin's beauteous shore. 
 
 66 
 
Look up, you lying British hound, 
 
 And view a nation's pride, 
 Who crushed and battered to the ground. 
 
 Your base decrees defied. 
 You sought to kill our language old, 
 
 Our faith by you was banned, 
 You failed, we closer did infold 
 
 For our God and fatherland. 
 
 Just wait, you yelping British cur, 
 
 To Ireland, you but gave back 
 Some of the wealth you stole from her, 
 
 Wrung from you, on the rack 
 Of public opinion; still you owe 
 
 A greater, deeper debt, 
 The right to rule themselves, you know. 
 
 Is due the Irish yet. 
 
 Ah! you admit, you British dog. 
 
 That brighter shines her sun, 
 The landlord's leaving plain and bog. 
 
 His direful work's near done. 
 O'er hill and vale will soon be heard 
 
 The children's voices at play, , 
 
 Where sheep and kine and gaming bird 
 
 For years had held full sway. 
 
 Go. now, you lying British hound, 
 
 Sav not another word. 
 But leave my sight, get homeward bound, 
 My Irish blood you've stirred 
 With thoughts of Erin's martyi'od sons. 
 
 Her murdered patriots; yea. 
 The wrong done to our loved ones 
 
 Are fresh in mind today. 
 
 He's gone, the mongrel British cur, 
 
 While brighter grows the sheen 
 Of gold upon the flag he'd slur. 
 
 Our own immortal green. 
 With stars and stripes and green and gold, 
 
 Wave in the sun's bright ray, 
 Good hearts and true march 'neafh thy fold 
 
 On this St. Patrick's Day. 
 
 —March. 10! 
 
 67 
 
MAYO THOUGHTS. 
 
 Kind readers a moment I pray your attention, 
 
 While I send fond thoughts to some places I know, 
 'Tis some of you know well the names that I mention 
 
 Especially the daughters and sons of Mayo. 
 They're all situated way over in Ireland, 
 
 Where the nymphs of King Neptune in rocky caves play, 
 And the shamrock is blooming on mountain and mireland, 
 
 Sweetemblem we wear on St. Patrick's Day. 
 
 0, 'tis often in days of my boyhood I wandered 
 
 Round Balla, Ballina, Ballinrobe, Ballindine, 
 Where the RolDe and the Moy thro' the valleys meandered, 
 
 Castlebar, Crossmolina, Claremorris, Crossboyne, 
 Ballaghaderreen, Ballyhaunis, Ballyvara, Belcarra, 
 
 Clogher, Cloonkcn, Glaggan, Carvan and Gong, 
 Kiltimagh, Knock, Kilcolman, Kilvine and Killala, 
 
 Sure all of them famous in story and song. 
 
 Ballyglass, Ballyhean, Ballycastle, Belmullet, 
 
 Doonfeeny. Doogort, Derrycorrib, Drumkeen, 
 Men raised there ne'er feared British bayonet or bullet 
 
 In their efforts to right wrongs of Erin the green, 
 From Achill Head on to famed Aughadrinagh, 
 
 And Kilcummin down to the shores of Lough Mask 
 Were sons who e'er questioned the rights of the Sassenagh; 
 
 And perilous oft' made the oppressors task. 
 
 0, Boycott went down to defeat and dishonor, « 
 
 Tho' backed by the troops of our bloodthirsty foe. 
 And England not wanting his presence thrust on her 
 
 Soon shipped him away to far off Mexico. 
 You all know the story of how first was started 
 
 The Land League by Davitt at sweet Irish town. 
 And how Parnell the chief met Mayo's loyal hearted 
 
 At Westport, where shades of Croagh Patrick smile down. 
 
 From Newport across to the plains of Bellahy, 
 
 From Charlestown. Foxford. came men not afraid, 
 Killeaden, Kilkelly, Kilmaine, Neale and Partry, 
 
 To hear the grand words of our Davitt from Strade, 
 And now that his body God rest him is lying 
 
 In loved mother earth where the green shamrocks grow, 
 We'll treasure the words that he uttered ere dying. 
 
 Now that his dear Erin shines bright in the glow. 
 
 Of sweet liberty's light, he so ardently hoped for; 
 
 • And gallantly fought for, through sunshine and rain; 
 That Ireland, his darling, in proud queenly manner 
 
 Would grandly bloom forth a free nation again. 
 0. the day's not far off when once more in her glory 
 
 She'll smile o'er the graves of her patriots true. 
 Then in letters of gold will be written the story 
 
 Of those who ne'er faltered to die or to do. 
 
 68 
 
And Mayo at home or in exile united, 
 
 Will ever unflinching and fearlessly stand, 
 By the ideals of martyrs whose sacrifice righted 
 
 The centuried wTongs of our dear native land. 
 So now as we meet at this grand celebration, 
 
 In honor of him who is patron of all, 
 May Ireland's proud children, the best in creation. 
 
 Praise God who sent Patrick to famed Tara's Hall. 
 
 While that dear little plant emblematic of union. 
 
 So loved and revered by each true Irish heart, 
 Will tend e'er to draw us in closer communion 
 
 With the whole Thirty-Two acting one gallant part, 
 So thus do I issue a kind invitation 
 
 To children whom tyranny ne'er could enthrall, 
 To come and take part in one grand celebration 
 
 St. Patrick's night at the Mayo Men's Ball. 
 
 And if I've forgotten some loved spot to mention. 
 
 It isn't because I would mean to do so, 
 For on starting this rhyme it was my sole intention 
 
 To send back kind thoughts to loved County Mayo. 
 
 —March 2, 1913. 
 
 CHICAGO. 
 
 Chicago, Venus of the thriving marts 
 
 That dot the plains of this united land, 
 Lustily the veins that thrill thy heart of hearts 
 
 E'er pulse prosperous, vibrantly and grand, 
 Tho' Neptune's nymphs may lave the aspiring feet 
 
 Of cities east and westward 'neath our skies. 
 Their giant strides you proudly rise to meet. 
 Great beauteous daughter of fair Illinois. 
 
 Chicago, mecca of the vast mid-west. 
 
 Queenly you sit upon unrivalled throne, 
 Your fair limbs stretched with strength supremely blest 
 
 O'er a rich heritage thine very own. 
 Where avenue, boulevard and streets by miles 
 
 As fresh each morn you from the lake arise 
 Greet thee bedecked with heaven's sunkissed smiles. 
 Proud, bounteous daughter of fair Illinois. 
 
 —October 22, 1917. 
 
 69 
 
MY BEAUTEOUS MAYO QUEEN. 
 
 I met her first at even', when the sun in the west was low, 
 His sinking rays a-capping the hills of my sweet Mayo, 
 With the gleams of gold and ruby afringing the bluest skies, 
 Whose hue was only rivalled in the depths of her violet eyes. 
 And oh, how my hand did tremble as I helped her o'er the 
 
 stile. 
 My heart was madly beating as she gave me a winning smile. 
 She thanked me, and then I watched her trip lightly across 
 
 the lea 
 Sure the light of young love's awakening was born that day 
 
 to me. 
 That night as I tossed on my pillow, her visage before my 
 
 eys, 
 I saw her in every planet that dotted the moonlit skies. 
 And I swore in my heart I'd win her and woo her before the 
 
 year 
 Had changed from the glow of summer to the chill of the 
 
 winter drear 
 Oh, at morn the bright sun shining brought hope to me 
 
 sure and fast 
 I met her again by the river, and she gave me a smile as she 
 
 passed, 
 And ere the month was over she was tenderly clasped to m^ 
 
 breast 
 I had won the heart of a colleen, the fairest in Ireland's 
 
 west 
 A year and a half went quickly, and life was a beauteous 
 
 dream. 
 For love was the god that ruled us, and all was a bright 
 
 sunbeam, 
 But the ship of hope struck the breakers, and cupid was 
 
 storm tossed, 
 And the bonds of love that bound us in the waves of fate 
 
 were lost. 
 We parted. 0, God, that parting; while life last I'll ne'er 
 
 forget. 
 The charm of the kiss she gave me is clinging around me yet. 
 And tho' others may woo her nearer, and oceans between 
 
 us flow. 
 My heart will e'er keep a corner for her and my sweet Mayo. 
 And oft on the plains of Texas with my saddle under my 
 
 head, 
 While the snake with his noisy rattles was filling my broncho 
 
 with dread, 
 Would my spirit be wafted out yonder where my heart had 
 
 ever been, 
 And I'd dream I was once more roaming by the side of my 
 
 Mayo Queen, 
 
 70 
 
But I woke to find skies above me, were arching a Texan 
 
 plan, 
 Afar from the hills and valleys I never may see again, 
 Save in my dreams, for memory will ever keep green, I know, 
 The thoughts of those happy hours with my fair queen in 
 
 sweet Mayo. 
 
 — September, 1911. 
 
 MISS TIPPERARY. 
 
 Strike up the band for the finest, the best of them, 
 Where can you equal such colleens as they? 
 
 Sure 'tis in line you will find all the rest of them 
 When smiling Tipperary is leading the way. 
 
 Such a fine crowd, every one is the best dressed of them! 
 
 Happy, contented, light hearted and gay; 
 There's the North and the South and the East and the West 
 with them 
 
 When sweet Miss Tipprary is leading the way. 
 
 In the grand march, sure the boys will confess to them 
 
 That they're the finest of feminine clay. 
 And cheering the words that the thousands address to them. 
 
 When darling Miss Tipperary is leading the way. 
 
 Great is the throng that that evening will press to them 
 Of gossoons and colleens from Westport to Bray, 
 
 And from Belfast to Cork, taking in all the rest of them, 
 With gallant Tipperary a-leading the way. 
 
 Then strike up the band! Let the music ring blest to them, 
 While joyous they trip it till dawn of the day. 
 
 The cream of the Irish, the finest, the best of them, 
 With a Tipperary, a colleen dhas, leading the way. 
 
 — Chicago, February 5, 1916. 
 
 LOVE'S MESSAGE. 
 
 I plucked at eve a full blown rose. 
 
 Its blushing petals wet with dew, 
 Thgt it my secret might disclose 
 
 I sent it, lady fair, to you. 
 With it an ivy leaf you found. 
 
 Which told of love that close would cling; 
 The pansies, too, that decked it round. 
 
 Were thoughts that only love could bring; 
 And next I culled from out their bed 
 
 Forget-me-nots and daisies sweet; 
 Then Nature's message onward sped 
 
 To plead my cause at beauty's feet. 
 
 71 
 
AFFINITIES. 
 
 According to Pinney Earle. 
 
 What care we if the world with bitter scorn 
 
 Should point at us and brand our love a shame, 
 Must we whose love in heaven itself were born, 
 
 Be parted 'cause another bears my name? 
 Why should our paths in life be rent asunder. 
 
 Oh, why should time-worn customs us divide? 
 Gould man with voice control the rolling thunder, 
 
 Or with his finger stem the rising tide? 
 
 Why should our lives be empty, lone, forsaken? 
 
 Oh, why should narrow minds our hearts enthrall, 
 When through the blinding storm shines the beacon. 
 
 Love, the sublimest passion of them all? 
 There are no barriers moulded, woven, 
 
 Built strong enough to keep our lives apart, 
 For when the great god, love, our path has chosen 
 
 There's naught can keep fond heart from kindred heart. 
 
 When the small voice you hear above, about you, 
 
 Is ever whispering sweetly in your ear, 
 She loves you, 0, she loves, you, yes, she loves you, 
 
 What care I for the world's censure, dear? 
 Too many brothers, sisters' heart are breaking, 
 
 Must ours be crushed and broken just the same? 
 0, no, for heaven who watched young love's awaking, 
 
 Will angels send to bear away all blame. 
 
 Then let our souls in love's abandon meeting. 
 
 Forget all else in one sweet hour of bliss. 
 And with fond heart to fond heart wildly beating 
 
 Draw up love's challenge and seal it with a kiss. 
 The narrow world will wake and heed the warnmg, 
 
 And we no longer need our fetters wear, 
 When barriers grim and strong, true love is scorning. 
 
 Then you and I will both be happy, dear. 
 
 [P. S.— Nothwithstanding four such attempts, Pinney has 
 not yet found his soul mate, but if he keeps on he'll soon 
 outdistance that disciple of afFmitism, Henry VIII, of nause- 
 ous memory.] 
 
 LOVE'S SACRIFICE. 
 
 Farewell, my best beloved, forever more, farewell. 
 In death you'll know the story that in life I dared not tell- 
 How much I loved you; how I strove in vain 
 To crush within my pulsing breast that sweet but killing 
 
 pain ; 
 And how I lived on hope, and hoping still lived on, 
 Till life became a misery— my peace of mind was gone. 
 The world now seems hopeless, ambition, all, has fled. 
 Naught left me but a last retreat— my place amongst the 
 
 dead. 
 
 72 
 
THE BONNIE BANKS OF MOY. 
 
 'Twas from the old Etruria's deck one Sunday morn in June 
 I last saw Erin's emerald hills in beauteous summer bloom. 
 I kissed farewell to Queenstown while the tear stood in my 
 
 eye. 
 'Twas then I started roving from the bonnie banks of Moy. 
 
 Oh, I've had many a weary tramp upon the alien soil, 
 And often have my eyes been damp a-seeking honest toil. 
 Sure, all my simple pleasures have been tinged with false 
 
 alloy 
 Since I became a rover from the bonnie banks of Moy. 
 
 I often wander in my dreams thro' Mayo's verdant plains. 
 To spots beloved of childhood days that memory yet retains. 
 Oh, sure waking brings unhappiness — I'm 'neath an alien sky. 
 Far from the emerald meadows of the bonnie banks of Moy. 
 
 Oh, 'tis in sweet Tyrawley I'd love to lay me down 
 And gaze once more on Ballina, that famous Mayo town, 
 Where sleep the friends I loved of yore, in peacefulness to 
 
 die, 
 And never more to ramble from the bonnie banks of Moy. 
 
 Long years have passed since that June day and hope's now 
 
 left behind. 
 For I have been a-wandering like chaff before the wind. 
 And my soul is parched with longing for the spot where 
 
 when a boy 
 I gave my heart to Mary by the bonnie banks of Moy. 
 
 Adieu, Foxford, Manulla, Keltimagh and Charlestown, 
 Bohola, Straide, where they have laid our gallant Davitt 
 
 down; 
 Swinford, Balla, Killala, I bid you all good bye, 
 For I never more will ramble by the Donnie banks of Moy. 
 
 —New York June U, 1914. 
 
 LOVE'S HOPELESSNESS. 
 
 Hope until all is hopeless; then when the phantom's fled 
 Ask if this life's worth living after the heart is dead — 
 Dead to the world's pleasure, yet alive to the awful pain 
 Found in o'er-flowing measure by those who have loved in 
 vain. 
 
 73 
 
MOTHERLAND. 
 
 [The "Isle of Destiny", whose brave children are today 
 facing the blight of famine, and the pangs of starvation, 
 owing to lack of employment and the high price of the nec- 
 essaries of life due to the war and the fact that beneficent 
 Britain needs the foodstuffs of Ireland for English consump- 
 tion being willing to thus bestow on our Motherland the boon 
 of going hungry a benevolence of times meted out to weaker 
 peoples by the self-styled "Protector of Small Nationalities"; 
 let us, the children of that Motherland in Chicago on St. 
 Patrick's day be generous in our contributions to the Relief 
 Fund for our suffering kin in poor old Ireland.] 
 
 Let the eyes of the world gaze on her 
 
 And see her inmost soul, 
 With the galling chains that bind her 
 
 'Neath a tyrant's base control; 
 Let it ask then if we who love her 
 
 Can love her despot, too. 
 No! No! by the God above her 
 
 Our love is not England's due. 
 
 Go ask the scarps of her mountains 
 
 And her moorlands bleak and wild, 
 Yea, aske her lakes and fountains, 
 
 Her rivers and plains defiled 
 By the blood thirsty track of the Briton, 
 
 And they'll cry out at God's command, 
 May he to the dust be smitten 
 
 Who ravaged this beauteous land. 
 
 And you who would laugh to scorn 
 
 The fact that we can't forget, 
 With the soul of slave was born 
 
 And a slave will live till death, 
 Knowing naught of a God of Freedom, 
 
 The ruler of land and sea. 
 Whose hand is the star that leads them 
 
 Souls fitted for liberty. "" 
 
 Ah. sad is thy heart, acushla. 
 
 Our brave little proud "Dark Rose", 
 Though tears and blood thou art shedding 
 
 What carest thy ruthless foes. 
 But ne'er shall thy scattered children 
 
 Forget thee who wert the pride 
 Of the true, the noble, the dauntless. 
 
 Who through ages for thee have died. 
 
 — Februarv 22, 1917. 
 
 74 
 
PAT, YOU OWE NOT A DROP TO ENGLAND. 
 
 Why should your blood be shed, asthore, 
 
 Far from your native strand? 
 ^r why should sons from Erin's shore 
 
 Go die for base England 
 Let all of John Bull's braggards go 
 
 Fight for their Union Jack; 
 They'll meet for once a worthy foe 
 
 And few will e'er come back. 
 
 What has old Erin e'er received 
 
 Save treachery and shame 
 Since first by Saxon hounds deceived, 
 
 Cursed ever be their name? 
 Who placed upon thy emerald brow 
 
 The blight of tyrant hand? 
 Slave chains are clanking on her now, 
 
 Our poor, wronged Ireland. 
 
 Oh, may the might of German guns 
 
 Strike deep a vital dart 
 To heart of Erin's faithless sons 
 
 Who play the traitor's part. 
 Home is your place, oh, Gaelic race, 
 
 To face and fight the foe 
 'Neath Erin's flag, by heaven's grace, 
 
 Rise — strike proud freedom's blow. 
 
 Oh, are you slaves degenerate? 
 
 No spark within your soul 
 Of what made princely Owen great. 
 
 Whose legions held control 
 In gallant Ulster of the North, 
 
 The stronghold of O'Neill? 
 Benburb's dead heroes rally forth. 
 
 Loved Erin needs your steel. 
 
 God, what would Tone and Emmet say 
 
 Gould they from death arise. 
 But order Erin's flag today 
 
 Unfurled to her skies. 
 Then onward, freedom's standard drenched 
 
 Beneath your patriots stand; 
 The murderous tyrant never quenched 
 
 Our love for native land. 
 
 Think of the butchered Geraldine; 
 
 Go through the bitter years 
 Foul England's sword was never clean . 
 
 Of Irish blood and tears! 
 You've but a single life to live. 
 
 Then hark to freedom's song. 
 The blood in battle you should give 
 
 To Ireland does belong. 
 
 — ^January, 1915. 
 
 ?5 
 
THE GHOST OF OUR FORMER BEER. 
 
 Where is that old tin-can we rushed 
 
 In that bygone happy time, 
 That up to the brim with foaming suds i| 
 
 We got flUed for a dime? 
 Ah, sure it is gone and with it the days 
 
 Of free lunch and ten-cent cheer. 
 So good-bye, old can, you're an also ran, 
 
 For they've boosted the price of beer. 
 
 Oh, where is that schooner of white and gold? 
 
 Glorious foam-topped suds, 
 That nickel bought wherever you sought. 
 
 No matter what style your duds 
 Ah, it's disappeared, and a little shrimp 
 
 Of a glass with unfriendly leer 
 Says, "A dime a throw is my price, you know; 
 
 I'm the ghost of your former beer". 
 
 Ah, where is that stein, old friend of mine, 
 
 That always held full measure, 
 Of hope for the thirsty wayfarer 
 
 A-seeking cooling pleasure, 
 When the sun was high and mighty hot, 
 
 In the summer time of the year 
 Ah, poor old stein, too, has hit the decline 
 
 From that high-priced, weak-kneeed beer. 
 
 Ah, where is that good, old, ten-cent shot 
 
 Of regular bar ball booze, 
 We used to quaff with roystering laugh, 
 
 That drove away the blues. 
 And made a lad, while a dollar he had, 
 
 Feel rich as a millionaire 
 Ah, 'tis gone the route of the free handout. 
 
 And the nickel schooner of beer 
 
 Bad luck to the meddling "Prohib" cranks- 
 Preachers, old maids, and the like, 
 
 Who never knew the joys that we gay boys 
 Found on Amber Pike, 
 
 When those great big scoops at a nickel a throw, 
 We quaffed with laughing cheer. 
 
 Oh, how I sigh as I cast my eye 
 On this ghost of our former beer. 
 
 'Tis no use at all, with a glass so small, 
 
 A-trying to lift a load. 
 For, with price so high, 'fore you bat an eye. 
 
 Your broke on Amber Road. 
 And faith all I can say is bad luck to the day 
 
 That they canned the scuttle of cheer. 
 The high hat scoop and the steaming soup 
 
 For this damn little ghost of a beer. 
 
 — February, 1919. 
 
 76 
 
"RATS." 
 
 Get out your snare, your trap and cat, 
 
 And load your blunderbuss. 
 War's been declared on Kaiser Rat, 
 
 Let's rally to the fuss. 
 Our foe is legion and his strength 
 
 In cunning sure's immense, 
 And judging by his tail at length, 
 
 He shows great common sense. 
 
 Entrenched in breast of Mother Earth 
 
 His armies e'er increase; 
 And from the moment of their birth 
 
 'Till death they never cease 
 To take their toll, in devious ways 
 
 From daily store of man; 
 And such has been this pirate's craze 
 
 Since first the world began. 
 
 When you see this bewhiskered gent 
 
 With shifting, beady eyes, 
 Sneak 'cross your path with fell intent, 
 
 And speed that's truly wise, 
 Just trail him to his chosen goal, 
 
 Like scout 'termined and grim, 
 And with the wrath within your soul 
 
 Knock daylight out of him. 
 
 A menace to our larder e'er 
 
 Has been this despot king. 
 And from the confines of his lair 
 Death-dealing germs bring 
 To scatter o'er our beef and beans, 
 
 Our corn meal, and cake, 
 Our spinach, and our mustard greens, 
 
 While he his fill doth take. 
 
 Now when we've vanquished Kaiser Rat, 
 
 And put him on the bum, 
 We then can pension General Cat, 
 
 And hymns of joy may hum 
 Because at night when moon doth shine, 
 
 And sleep our eyelids weigh, 
 That caterwauling loud and fine 
 
 Won't cause us leave the "hay". 
 
 Ah I we've forgot in tearing down 
 
 This lordly rodent's house, 
 His ally's guns still on us frown 
 
 From lines of old Prince Mouse. 
 So we must fight the battle o'er; 
 
 Hark! hark! I hear the cats; 
 My wife has started now to snore, 
 
 'Tis 1 A. M. "Aw, rats"! 
 
 July, 1917. 
 
 77 
 
IRELAND, DEAR OLD IRELAND, FAR AWAY. 
 
 ■■* 
 
 (Sincerely inscribed to James Boylan, the Irish Steamship 
 
 agent.) 
 Where the valleys woo the sunshine and the green hills 
 
 greet the dawn; 
 Where a thousand silvery streamlets kiss the emerald banks 
 
 along, 
 There my fancy ship is speeding with a treasure trove of 
 
 love 
 For Ireland, dear old Ireland, far away. 
 
 Oh, I see thy brow, alanna, with its silvered crown of years 
 A-glistening in the distance through a diadem of tears. 
 And my heart goes out, a-throbbing, full of sympathy and 
 
 hope. 
 For Ireland, bonnie Ireland, far away. 
 
 Sure, I hear the lark a-singing o'er yon moorlands purple 
 
 brown, 
 And I see the daisies springing by the boreen leading down 
 To the little straw-thatched cabin where in childhood oft I 
 
 played, 
 In Ireland, cherished Ireland, far away 
 
 Oh, the years can't still the longing nor distance lull the 
 
 pain 
 In the exiled heart that's aching for a sight of you again. 
 But the grief is sweet, acushla — 'tis a casket full of love 
 For Ireland, poor old Ireland, far away. 
 
 Sure, 'tis many an eye is dimming for the lads that are no 
 more; 
 
 Whose nameless bonos lie bleaching upon Europe's war- 
 swept shore; 
 
 'Twas thy brawn and brain, acushla — oh, thrice cursed be 
 the day 
 They marched from Mother IrelanJ, far away. 
 
 In the broil of nations' quarrels what had you, dear isle, to 
 
 gain. 
 Save another sheaf of sorrow to thy legacy of pain, 
 For 'tis many a wreath of mourning hovers o'er the hallowed 
 
 hearths 
 Of Ireland, holy li'cland, far away. 
 
 Sweet isle of fi-ibulation, though your star of hope's o'er- 
 
 cast 
 By glowering clouds of sorrow that are crowding o'er you 
 
 fast, 
 God's will the gloom dispelling, you yet will wear a nation's 
 
 crown, 
 Staunch Ireland, brave old Ireland, far away. 
 
 — ^January 9, 1916. 
 
 78 
 
WHAT CAUSED THE WAR. 
 
 Mammon and Mars in a palace grand 
 
 Met one fine summer's day 
 And they wined and dined on the fat of the land 
 
 Like hungry birds of prey. 
 From Humanity's breast they filled their cups 
 
 With a vintage rich and red, 
 And greedily chewed between the sups 
 
 The hearts from which 'twas shed. 
 
 Said Mammon to Mars with a drunken leer, 
 
 "We must stand by our friend Commerce, 
 Our comrade true of many a year 
 
 Who speaks in a language terse. 
 Many a thrilling jaunt had we 
 
 Over the seas of spoil. 
 In our good ship Ark of Hypocrisy, 
 
 Our fuel the sons of toil. 
 
 "What care we for the widow's moan 
 
 Or the hungry orphans' cry? 
 We must get what we claim is our own 
 
 Though millions of toilers die. 
 'Tis we must keep the parasite's crown 
 
 Tight on his royal head, 
 Even though God on our actions frown, 
 
 And we reek of the blood thus shed." 
 
 Said Mars to Mammon, "Let's drink the toast: 
 
 Here's to Diplomacy, 
 Our first, our last, our proudest boast 
 
 Who rules the democracy. 
 Give him his way and he'll win the day 
 
 O'er the millions who toil and spin, 
 And while I gird on my sword for the fray 
 
 You lure the toilers in." 
 
 "Well said," quoth Mammon, "the die is cast, 
 
 Now let us drink our fill. 
 The sons of toil from first to last 
 
 Must stand for, and pay the bill, 
 While we, with Commerce by our side. 
 
 In a sea of blood and gold, 
 O'er the turbulent waves of war will glide. 
 
 Old Hypocrisy full in each hold." 
 
 79 
 
JOHNNY BULL TO fflS DEAR FRIEND PAT. 
 
 Ah, Pat, my boy, 'tis well I know you are a friend of mine, 
 
 For, sure, for seven hundred years I've trimmed you good 
 and fine. 
 
 I've scattered you o'er all the earth, far from your native 
 land, 
 
 And often on your brow, you know, I've stamped the felon's 
 brand. 
 
 'Twas all because you dared to love the soil where you were 
 born, 
 
 A fact that e'er brought down on you Britannia's smile of 
 scorn. 
 
 But, don't mind, Pat; just help me now to whip proud Ger- 
 many, 
 
 And I'll still be master of the waves and ruler of the sea. 
 
 Aye, 'twas with chains I bound you, Pat; yea, shackles hard 
 
 and strong, 
 Then like a pirate bold I stole what did to you belong. 
 I purchased from the renegades and paid them with your 
 
 gold — 
 The precious thing they had to sell; 'twas you and yours 
 
 they sold. 
 And, sure, I ever crushed you down beneath an iron heel, 
 While with bare hands you e'er did strive against my flash- 
 ing steel. 
 But we'll forget it all now, Pat, and tackle Germany, 
 So's I'll be master of the waves and ruler of the sea. 
 
 I tried to kill your ancient tongue^ — ^sure, that you can't 
 deny. 
 
 I sought to lure you from the way you worshiped Him on 
 high. 
 
 Your blood I spilled with every chance that ever I did get. 
 
 Oh, I'm aching for the time when I can spill more of it yet. 
 
 I stole your loaf, but sure, I gave you back some crumbs of 
 bread. 
 
 What cared I when my gut was filled that you were un- 
 derfed? 
 
 But now we'll stand together, Pat, and beat -proud Germany, 
 
 And I'll still be master of the waves and ruler of the sea. 
 
 There was a traitor, Pat, you know his name was Castlereagh, 
 He was a deep dyed scoundrel, too, the truth I now must 
 
 say. 
 But there were others of his like came right along the Ime. 
 And treachery to Ireland's cause has ever thus worked fine, 
 Sure, Tim and Bill and Jack and Will and little Joe and 
 
 Steve, 
 Are all recruiting now for me — they'll get paid, too, believe. 
 But old Home Rule will feel very sick ii we trim Germany 
 •And I'm still master of the waves and ruler of the sea. 
 
 — January 1915. 
 
 80 
 
COME, HUNT THE WREN AT DONOVAN'S UPON ST. 
 STEPHEN'S NIGHT. 
 
 (Respectfully inscribed to James J. Harte, Chairman of Re- 
 ception at St. Stephen's night celebration in Grand Circle 
 Halls.) 
 
 Now, boys and girls, bear in mind the tidings I relate, 
 That all of you shall be in line and help to celebrate 
 The good old country custom reminiscent of each glen, 
 And Yuletide times in Ireland as we live them o'er again 
 When we hunt the wren at Donovan's upon St. Stephen's 
 
 night. 
 Yes, hunt the wren at Donovan's 'mid scenes of real delight, 
 The music's ring true, joys will bring and our hearts will all 
 
 be light 
 As we hunt the wren at Donovan's upon St. Stephen's night. 
 
 There'll be wrens from every county in the dear old Emerald 
 
 Isle, 
 Birds from Sligo, Cavan, Donegal, all native of the soil; 
 From Wicklow, Wexford, Cork and Clare, the royal birds 
 
 will hail. 
 Faith, sure, they'll be as Gaelic as our own dear granua- 
 
 waile. 
 The wrens we'll hunt at Donovan's upon St. Stephen's night, 
 When the cage doors are opened the birds will all take flight, 
 And we'l chase them all around the halls; 'twill be a glorious 
 
 sight, 
 As we hunt the wren at Donovan's upon St. Stephen's night. 
 
 The Kerry wren came all the way from famous Eagle's Nest; 
 Tipperary's wren once flew around old Slieve-na-mon's 
 
 proud crest. 
 Then the Galway wren, the Dublin wren and a wren from 
 
 sweet Mayo — 
 Sure, thirty-two birds will be loosed, all Irish wrens, you 
 
 know, 
 When we hunt the wren at Donovan's upon St. Stephen's 
 
 night, 
 And every one feels happy as the yule log burns bright 
 To music sweet the tripping feet will spell the word delight, 
 As we hunt the wren at Donovan's upon St. Stephen's night. 
 
 The wren, the wren, the king of all birds, tho' small, is truly 
 
 great, 
 And in a bed of Irish moss we'll lay him out in state, 
 With Irish laurel o'er his head, a canopy of green. 
 Sure, fitting for the kingly dead must be the royal scene, 
 As we wake the wren at Donovan's upon St. Stephen's night. 
 And all the wren boys gather around decked out in green and 
 
 white. 
 Oh, boys and girls, all be there to view the thrilling sight 
 And help hunt the wren at Donovan's upon St. Stephen's 
 
 night. 
 
 — December 11, 1914. 
 
 8i 
 
THE HOUSE OF ALL NATIONS. 
 
 Respectfully inscribed to my old friend John F. Downey 
 of the Cork Men's Ass'n who was Chief Mixoligist at Egan's 
 Hall, 64th Street and Amsterdam Avenue, New York, when 
 the writer gave it the title House of All Nations. 
 
 In New York there's a hall that's well known to us all, 
 
 Sure its door ne'er a thirsty soul passes, 
 
 For, 'tis there you can feast, while you sip golden yeast, 
 
 In a desert 'tis true an oasis. 
 
 And there's always a welcome awaiting you there. 
 
 No matter how humble your station 's. 
 
 For when once you're inside 'tis in joy you abide , 
 
 With the boss of the House of All Nations. 
 
 There's Boss Egan, himself, like a Hercules stands. 
 
 As handsome and fair as Apollo, 
 
 While his blue eyes they shine with a light that's divine 
 
 As the trend of debate he does follow: 
 
 Then the glasses we clink and the amber we drink, 
 
 'Midst a scene of majestic elations, 
 
 For, faith Ireland was freed from the Sassanagh's greed 
 
 Every night in the House of All Nations. 
 
 You'ld find German, Pole, Jew and Italian, too, 
 
 The Frenchman, Swede, Dane and the Yankee, 
 
 The Irish, the Dutch, the Russian, Turk, Scotch, 
 
 And the Negro who smiled you his thank'ee, 
 
 Sure they all quaffed the beer and partook of the cheer; 
 
 And by my soul one of Bacchus' creations 
 
 Was that elegant soup Pat McDonough would scoop 
 
 From the pots, in the House of All Nations. 
 
 Ah, 'tis many an hour in days long gone past. 
 
 When Downey 'hind bar there was tending, 
 
 I spent neath that roof and dull care ne'er o'er cast 
 
 A shadow o'er Bacchus joy blending; 
 
 And 'tis many a pleasant mind picture I paint, 
 
 Day dreaming midst later sensations. 
 
 Of the scenes to which grossness ne'er added a taint, 
 
 To the mirth in the House of All Nations. 
 
 June, 1916. 
 
 TO A LADY FRIEND. 
 
 A sunbeam fell on my path one day. 
 And made all in the world seem bright, 
 For, it lit up a heart with its golden ray. 
 That 'till then was as dark as night; 
 And I tried to catch it and hold it there, 
 But it laughed sis it danced away, 
 For there was a heart that it loved more dear. 
 Than the one it had met by the way. 
 
 82 
 
THE CITY OF LONDON. 
 
 (Written in answer to a boasting Britisher.) 
 
 Deck with dreams this soulless monster. 
 
 Why a God, Himself 'twould take, 
 
 To cast a veil of glamour 
 
 O'er this pile of filth and fake, 
 
 Where the reapers of dishonor 
 
 Glory in the spoils of shame, 
 
 And base junkers thrive upon her 
 
 Cloaked in civilization's name. 
 
 Grown her with a beauteous rainbow, 
 Hide the stench that reeks within, 
 Bid your muse weave cloak of beauty 
 O'er this pit of crime and sin; 
 Art of man had ne'er yet power 
 To make o'er and beautify 
 In a day or in an hour 
 Such a hideous living lie. 
 
 Some might truckle to the tempter, 
 And a phantom halo cast, 
 Built upon weird imagination, 
 Too unstaple thus to last 
 'Fore the foul ungodly vapors 
 That from out this cesspool rise, 
 Where the worshipers of Mammon 
 Filthy lucre deifies. 
 
 Fling fantastic clouds of legend 
 O'er a pool of wild desires, 
 Hide the vile disgraceful orgies 
 Of her pampered sons and sires, 
 Aye, and gird her towering sepulchres 
 In a mantle pure and white, 
 That their feted hellish denizens 
 May be hidden from the light. 
 
 Tell her splendid shining rivers 
 
 All their secrets to unfold. 
 
 Why the dawn would sink to sunset 
 
 Ere it were an hour old. 
 
 Did those placid flowing waters 
 
 Tell the stories gone and past. 
 
 Of the murdered sons and daughters 
 
 That into their depths were cast. 
 
 Monster built on human traffic. 
 Raised on perfidy and crime, 
 Boastful of an architecture 
 That ne'er graced a given time; 
 011a Podrida of stone and iron 
 Breeding sin, disease and shame, 
 Who could hide with cloaked illusion 
 All the horrors of thy name 
 
 83 
 
HE'S ONLY AN ULSTER LAD. 
 
 "Here in this favored land we call the West, 
 And gazing out upon the silvery sea, 
 I'm thinking of some spot I love the best, 
 A place that holds a deathless charm for me. 
 
 Perhaps my thoughts are wandering to Gweedore, 
 Or from Lough Swilly's banks I hear the call 
 
 That brings me back again to days of yore, 
 Then all my love goes out to Donegal. 
 
 May be my spirit's roaming by the Foyle, 
 
 Or perhaps in Streeve I hear the music merry, 
 
 That oft I heard at evening after toil 
 
 In some loved spot in County Londonderry. 
 
 Or then again a picture holds my mind, 
 I'm waiting now in Ballymena's street 
 
 To see again the girl I left behind. 
 And County Antrim's lying at my feet. 
 
 The scene is changed — by Strangford Lough I stand, 
 Or else 'neath Eagle Mount midst heather brown; 
 
 Some colleen fair I'm clasping by the hand, 
 I'm dreaming now of dear old County Down. 
 
 By Callan's silvery waters now I stray, 
 
 'Tis market day once more in sweet Rich Hill; 
 
 I ramble through the street of Killylea 
 0! County Armagh how I love you still. 
 
 'Tis Clontibret now bursts upon my view 
 Who dares tell me I'm not an Irishman; 
 
 Tho' far away my heart is ever true 
 To those I left behind in Monaghan. 
 
 The sun now on the famed black water shines 
 It crowns Benburb like king upon a throne; 
 
 O'Neill's red hand seems tracing deathless lines 
 Upon thy loving soil my sweet Tyrone 
 
 I'm resting now on Erne's grassy bank 
 I gaze once more on Enniskillen town; 
 
 Fermanagh in my heart now holds first rank, 
 In Monea's vale I'd love to lay me down. 
 
 Near Bally haise I hear the rippling rill, 
 I see once more the silvery Annalee, 
 
 From Cavan town I go on to Gootehill, 
 A Cavan lad before you now you see. 
 
Now all through gallant Ulster I have been, 
 Her sons have ever nobly stood the test; 
 
 When Ireland needed true and valiant men, 
 She never asked in vain; you gave your best. 
 
 Then let the Dutchman's followers have their day, 
 A country's cause they'd sell, if one they had; 
 
 For prejudice the ignorant minds sway. 
 Thank God, we've still our Irish Ulster lad. 
 
 —July 1, 1911. 
 
 GOD HELP THEE, MOTHERLAND! 
 
 If Erin's only hope is that her stalwart sons shall die 
 
 On foreign fields 'neath Britain's flag, then well may Erin 
 
 sigh, 
 For when bereft of manly men and hearts both true and 
 
 brave, 
 Her sacred cause is trusted to the craven serf and knave, 
 Who will uphold her long-claimed right — a nation free to 
 
 stand ? 
 Oh, hear the winds a-crying out, God help poor Ireland! 
 
 Yea, Heaven help her, thus betrayed by those she thought 
 her friends, 
 
 By cunning methods foully laid to gain their own vile ends. 
 
 Poor wreck upon unfriendly shores, dismantled and un- 
 manned, 
 
 A prey to pirates, as of yore, poor trusting motherland! 
 
 Oh, what would gallant Sarsfield say, or yet the brave Wolfe 
 
 Tone? 
 Would Emmet humbly answer, "Yea, we'll uphold Britain's 
 
 throne?" 
 Or would the murdered Geraldine as meekly take his stand 
 Beneath the English Union Jack, the curse of motherland 
 
 Now, would the voice of Parnell urge his countrymen to go 
 And fill the gaps in Britain's ranks, old Erin's direful foe? 
 Would Michael Davitt call upon the gallant Fenian band 
 To help the British rule the wave? No, no, dear motherland! 
 
 Why, it would even be beyond the foul leech, Castlereagh, 
 To call upon old Erin's sons their country to betray 
 By pouring into Mar's hell fire the bravest of her blood 
 While gnawing at her very heart the brutal lion stood. 
 Ah, me! 'tis children that thou nursed and fed with tender 
 
 hand 
 That thus would sacrifice then! Oh, God help thee, mother- 
 land! 
 
 —March 5, 1916. 
 
 85 
 
THE SONG THAT REACHED THE SKIES. 
 
 I gazed upon the camping ground, the rows of tents along, 
 The air was filled with melody, a medley sweet of song; 
 The soldier boys were resting after first drill of the day, 
 And the singers of each company were trolling some sweet 
 
 lay. 
 One sang of home and mother in his own beloved west; 
 Another of a blue-eyed lass, the one he loved the best. 
 But one song rang above them all in thrilling melody, 
 'Twas "The Star-tipangled Banner" of this land of the brave 
 
 and the free. 
 
 The sun shone brightly in the west above the Rockies grand. 
 Its golden rays seemed smiling down upon our beauteous 
 
 land. 
 Before me lay the verdant plains and rivers smiling fair, 
 While up above the Stars and Stripes in glory floating there. 
 Flung to the sky its gleaming folds free as eagle in his flight. 
 Its colors and the firmament a-blending in the light. 
 While from the camp ground floated up a flood of melody 
 'Twas "The Star-Spangled Banner" of this land of the brave 
 
 and the free. 
 
 I've heard songs sung in many tongues in days that have 
 
 gone by 
 But none had power to thrill me like that song that reached 
 
 the sky; 
 For well I knew each soldier lad whose voice rang out so 
 
 sweet. 
 On battle field beneath that flag the foe would bravely meet. 
 So thus I stood til shades of night enwrapped the camp 
 
 ground there 
 While angel voices from the skies seemed chanting that 
 
 sweet air, 
 I prayed to Him who reigns above and rules both land and 
 
 sea 
 For that loved "Star-Spangled Banner", emblem true of 
 
 liberty. 
 
 PATRICK W. NALLY, IRISH PATRIOT AND MARTYR. 
 
 Done to Death in Mount joy Prison and Interred in a Name 
 less Grave in Glasnevin Cemetery. 
 
 Oh, must Erin weep whie her patriot slumbers, 
 
 Unhonored, unknown in the cold, silent grave, 
 'Till the Goddess of Freedom in loud swelling numbers 
 
 Emblazons a name on the tomb of the brave. 
 Oh, no, for her children, e'er proud of her story. 
 
 Forgetful may be 'till her spirit shall call 
 For a mark o'er the last bod of him who for glory 
 
 Of Erin, his loved one, gave life — gave his all. 
 
 8G 
 
MAYO PICNIC AND GAMES. 
 
 Gome where the boys of the west will make merry, 
 
 Come where the colleens of Mayo will smile. 
 Laughing bright eyes and lips red as a berry, 
 
 Banteringly sweet will your hours beguile. 
 Sure, they're the lassies can trip light and airy, 
 
 Beating good time to the piper's quick tune. 
 Graceful and neat, with the ease of a fairy, 
 
 You'll find her there on the 16th of June. 
 
 Come where the spirit of Granuaile's leading, 
 
 Come where the hearts will be lightsome and gay. 
 If you've the blues, sure, they'll quickly be speeding, 
 
 When Carroll's band on the field starts to play. 
 Then full of joy you'll a colleen be seeking. 
 
 Oh, such a change will come over you soon, 
 Jigging and reeling, sly glancing, soft speaking, 
 
 A real Irish time on the 16th of June. 
 
 Come where a caed mile failthe awaits you, 
 
 Come where the Gaels will assemble, you know, 
 Aud sure their prowess will simply elate you. 
 
 Records will fall at the games of Mayo, 
 Such running and jumping and Gaelic diversions, 
 
 You never have seen since you first saw the moon. 
 Be sure you're one of the thousands of persons 
 
 At old Celtic Park on the 16th of June. 
 
 —June, 1912 
 
 THE MOTHER OF THE MAN 
 
 I will not sing of queens with hair of gold, 
 
 With rows of pearly teeth and eyes of blue. 
 But of the woman whose smile is never cold. 
 
 For there you'll find a heart that's good and true. 
 She may be plain, aye homely, if you will, 
 
 But when she speaks, ah, me, the beauty's there. 
 Each soft word spoken has the power to thrill 
 
 And opens up a maze of wonders rare; 
 The world which seemed so dull and commonplace 
 
 Becomes at once a glowing, living thing, 
 The chill of winter vanishes apace 
 
 And life becomes like one long smiling spring 
 Such is the power a good, true woman, wields 
 
 God knew it when He drew the world's plan' 
 He madethe lakes, the mountains and the fields 
 
 And woman made as comrade to the man, 
 So 'till the last call of the trumpet sounds 
 
 For all bnforo Gnd's judgment seat to stand. 
 Good woman, and the earth with her abounds, 
 
 Will ever be the bulwark of each land. 
 
 87 
 
THE TINKER'S KINGDOM. 
 
 It was just as the sun in the month of July 
 
 Had caused a great drooth that made everything dry, 
 
 That Mohan the tinker of no fixed abode 
 
 Pitched his tents by the side of the old county road; 
 
 To the north was a hill with a spring on its crest 
 
 To the east was a wood, miles of bog to the west, 
 
 While the south showed a village 'mid rich smiling lea 
 
 "Ah, this is the spot", said bold Mohan "for me." 
 
 Then around him he called the men of his band, 
 
 And resting his chin on the palm of his hand, 
 
 Said, "here sure at last to the fairest I've come 
 
 Of the many bright spots in a tinkers kingdom" 
 
 And where is the monarch who sits on his throne 
 
 Is as happy as I with a crown all my own, 
 
 The sky, that in daytime with sunlight e'er beams. 
 
 And at night radiant shines with the moon and star gleams." 
 
 "Now I do not rule you with despotic hand, 
 
 I'm the chief of this tribe and I simply command 
 
 You to do what is best for our clan one and all. 
 
 And I know there's not one but will answer that call. 
 
 See here in the wood there is plenty of game 
 
 And timber to give to our camp fires flame 
 
 While there's turf in yon bog, would a man of you spurn 
 
 The glow from such fuel so bright does it burn?" 
 
 "Then here in this stream that flowes down from the spring 
 There are Jackpike and eels fit for emperor or king, 
 While food for our horses and donkeys you see 
 Is plentiful down in that rich smiling lea, 
 And what more does man want save what Nature e'er gives 
 To the folks who will forage the wherewithal he lives? 
 So with God as our law and the earth as our plan 
 No tinker e'er bows to the mandates of man." 
 
 If the fowl of our neighbors grow lesser by time, 
 
 So long as they cannot charge us with the crime, 
 
 Let the banquets be rich with the spoils you will bring 
 
 To the tents of your fathers where Mohan is king, 
 
 Aye, king of the tinkers who number this clan 
 
 Of fifty stout fellows and each one a man 
 
 Fit for fun or for frolic a gambol or fight 
 
 And all of whom know that Chief Mohan is right." 
 
 88 
 
Now set up the tents on this green grassy pitch, 
 And tether the beasts where the clover is rich 
 While the youngsters go forth as the order is said 
 To the bog for some heather for cot and for bed 
 And some turf aye, and wood for the fire's and such 
 Other things as are needed, so put each one in touch 
 With their duties and have them go quickly and brin^- 
 The supplies for the camp where the tinker is king." '^ 
 
 "Let the women get busy, tell some of them go 
 
 With the tinware we have to the village below, 
 
 Let their hands be as quick as their eyesight is keen 
 
 And when they return we'll banquet I ween- 
 
 Now to work all my subjects you've heard the command 
 
 So I'm off on a ramble to study the land, 
 
 For tonight we will hunt and some prime game we'll bring 
 
 To the tent halls where Mohan the tinker is king." 
 
 In a twinkling all hands were as busy as bees, 
 No soldiers on earth were more well trained than these. 
 From the six-year-old lad to the wrinkled old crone 
 Seemed to think that success lay in their work alone 
 (\?uM^H?.^ hauling and pulling was ne'er seen before,' 
 While that village of canvas continued to soar, 
 Until forty-tive homesteads on wattles did stand 
 lo shelter the members of Chief Mohan's band. 
 
 All along the green sward the young tinkers did plav, 
 While stretched all around their elders did lay 
 The women were busy, some. tending the pot,"' 
 For a tinker gets hungry that can't be be forgot- 
 And while cooking and tending the babes of the t'ribe 
 ihe wives and the sisters each other did jibe 
 Faith a happier lot sure the sun ne'er shone on 
 Than those tinkers encamped the roadside upon. 
 
 As a lad, troth 'tis often I danced with delight 
 
 At the prospect of seeing an elegant fight, 
 
 For I knew when the Mohan's arrived in the town 
 
 They'd get drunk ere the sun in the West would go down 
 
 And some brave of the clan in his tinkerish way 
 
 Claims he was the best man and thus start the fray 
 
 For the honor of tinkers in clan lore was might ' 
 
 Of the fist that could vanquish a foeman in fight 
 
 89 
 
So the gauntlet was picked up by Mike, Tom or Pat, 
 As he quickly casts off his coat, vest and hat, 
 And in pugihst pose he trips out on the street 
 Saying, "Gome on my bucko this here is your meat." 
 How the lads of the town howled in accents of glee 
 At the thought of the scrap they were going to see, 
 Never dreaming that thus they were viewing but some 
 Of the ups and the downs of a tinkers kingdom. 
 
 Quick a lightening this first pair of bucks come to blows, 
 
 The challenger stops a hard fist with his nose, 
 
 And the blood of a Mohan by Mohan is shed 
 
 As down in a stream pours the blood, claret red, 
 
 Then his woman steps forth in defense of her man, 
 
 That's the signal for action by all of the clan, 
 
 And so fathers and mothers and daughters and sons 
 
 Have entered the fray and are going "great guns." 
 
 Such mauling and brawling, such wrestling and strife, 
 A city bred youngster ne'er saw in his life, 
 'Twas a real battle royal where woman and man 
 Were upholding the prowess and pride of the clan, 
 To the end that they cared not for British made laws 
 A fight they were into no matter the cause, 
 Nor the ,nish that usually to the clan come 
 Full of worry and woe for the Mohan kingdom. 
 
 Who is the best man? Ah, hard to decide, 
 Interference has suddenly come from outside, 
 For alas and alack when the scrap's at its height 
 A bunch of damn bobbies rush in left and right. 
 And the blood besmeared tinkers both women and men 
 Soon find themselves prisoners the town jail within. 
 And the J. P. next morning in sentence doth say 
 "Ten days for each one or ten shillings each pay." 
 
 'Tis then there's a hustling to see if the coin 
 
 Is forthcoming to pay for each prisoner the fine, 
 
 So the purses and wallets are searched for the "cush" 
 
 While over the whole Mohan gang falls a hush, 
 
 As in whispers they count out the shillings and pence 
 
 Left from the debauch, the cause of their offense 
 
 'Gainst the law of Queen Vic' which defines crime outright 
 
 Is being drunk and disorderly and indulging in fight. 
 
 90 
 
After counting, the tinkers find three quid is all 
 They can scramble together, so then comes the call 
 As to whom are the ones to be freed there and then 
 To go out and try scrape up the rest of the "tin" 
 By selling whatever good coin will command 
 The horses, the donkeys or aught that the band 
 Has in treasure or store it can offer for sale 
 And thus keep the freeborn Mohans from jail. 
 
 'Tis done six are free and fast campward they fly, 
 
 Bad luck to the drink they dare get tho they're dry 
 
 And sick in the head from that cursed day before 
 
 When whiskey was blended with proud Mohan gore; 
 
 Now 'tis bargains they offer the good people round, 
 
 For they must raise the fine and that means seven pounds; 
 
 There are fourteen good Mohans awaiting the train 
 
 That will take them to prison ten days to remain. 
 
 Thus the kingdom of tinker's progresses thro' life. 
 From friendship, peace, gladness, to battle and strife, 
 To prison, to freedom, now carefree, now sad. 
 E'er taking from life both the good and the bad 
 With a gypsylike penchant and outlook they claim 
 Nature owes them a living and they get that same 
 By toiling, by scheming and by trafflcing some 
 All according to the laws of a tinker's kingdom. 
 
 THE SHIRKER. 
 
 He was a man to nature true, 
 
 His wants were simple, aye, and few, 
 
 Life's troubles for him had no fear. 
 
 So long as he could get his beer, 
 
 And quietly he went along thero life 
 
 'Thout friend or sweetheart, child or wife. 
 
 His fellowman he would not cheat 
 So long as he had lots to eat, 
 Simple his way and plain his talk, 
 And sure he'd rather ride than walk. 
 For exertion he would never shirk 
 So long as he had not to work. 
 
 91 
 
WHAT DID THEY DIE FOR. 
 
 What did they die for, the true and the brave 
 
 Who gave to Erin all that Martyrs could give? 
 
 They died the soul of a nation to save 
 
 And that truth, right, justice and freedom might live. 
 
 As the heritage true of all sons of mankind, 
 Not the vested right of a privileged few, 
 So the Christlike men are the meh we find 
 Who for right, truth, justice will die or do. 
 
 What did they die for, the men whose names 
 
 Are linked with Ireland and Eastertide? 
 
 A cause that gleams with the noblest flames 
 
 Of human rights, for which men have died. 
 
 So we who glory in Christ the man 
 
 And the death He suffered to make men free, 
 
 If true to principle, creed and clan, 
 
 Must stand for justice and liberty. 
 
 What did you die for, loved Padraig Pearse? 
 What did you die for, brave James Connolly? 
 Was it that traitors might thus reverse 
 Your cause, to their scheme of perfidy? 
 
 Clarke, McDonagh, Plunkett, McBride, 
 
 Mallon, Colbert, the brothers Kent, 
 
 Was it for this gross fraud you died. 
 
 You, whose life blood was for freedom spenf^ 
 
 Young Kevin Barry, why did you die 
 A felon's death on the scaffold tree? 
 All true men know well the reason why, 
 Twas for right, for justice and liberty; 
 And Daly, McDermott and Heuston too. 
 They died that a nation's soul might live, 
 Ever to Erin and freedom true 
 Their martyr blood did they freely give. 
 
 Tom Ashe you suffered before your soul 
 Went forth to meet in the Great Beyond, 
 The martyrs brave who had reached that goal, 
 For being to Erin true, fervent and fond, 
 And why did the tyrant murder you? 
 Ah, we who are true to our race can tell, 
 It was not because you were false, untrue, 
 And the cause of Motherland willing to sell. 
 
 Let foul Brixton Prison rise up before 
 
 Those of our race who would censure the brave, 
 
 Then ask if the fight for freedom is o'er, 
 
 The freedom for which Terence MacSwiney gave 
 
 92 
 
All that a pure true soul could give, 
 With a Christlike patience thro tortured days, 
 That the cause of Erin and freedom would live, 
 And the struggle be crowned with victor's rays. 
 
 What did they die for, one and all 
 Who since Easter week for Ireland died. 
 The lads who answered proud freedom's call, 
 The women and children killed, sacrificed? 
 By the hireling brutes of the tyrant old, 
 Whose empire reeks of the blood and tears 
 Which that pirate shed in his lust for gold 
 All over the earth for a thousand years. 
 
 Shame, Shame on you men of the Gaelic race, 
 Who for mess of pottage, would compromise 
 A nation's rights which should hold first place, 
 In all hearts where the spirit of justice lies; 
 If martyrs have suffered and died in vain. 
 And gold not principle rules the world, 
 Then well might the wrath of God again 
 Like on Sodom of old, be earthward hurled. 
 
 July, 1922 
 
 MANKIND. 
 
 Some men to wealth are born and bred 
 
 Some to that end aspire. 
 Some to the heights of fame are led 
 
 To seek their heart's desire, 
 And others still on glory's field 
 
 Find there a deathless crown; 
 To death a fruitful harvest yield 
 
 The seekers of renown. 
 The painter o'er his canvas raves, 
 
 The poet woos his muse, 
 The author sails o'er fiction's waves 
 
 Its mysteries to diffuse. 
 The actor, doctor, each in turn, 
 
 Play their allotted parts. 
 The gambler honest toil will spurn 
 
 While games of chance he starts, 
 And so in all the paths of life 
 
 Each one his groove does find 
 While joy and gladness, care and strife, 
 
 Rules what is called mankind. 
 
 93 
 
UPON MEETING SOME FOLKS FROM HOME. 
 
 When old friends meet in foreign lands 
 As we tonight have met 
 And in the friendly clasp of hands 
 Find memories linger, yet 
 Around the dear old childhood home 
 Mid scenes that still are dear 
 That wheresoe'er from them we roam 
 Our thoughts will drift back there 
 Back to the land of our childhood 
 Erin, the gem of the wave 
 Back to the mountain and wildwood 
 The lakes and the rivers that lave 
 The emerald turf of our Sireland 
 Or flow thro her bogs purple-brown 
 So here's a fond wish to Old Ireland 
 From some gaels from Sweet Clarenorris Town. 
 
 November, 1914. 
 
 'TIS NOT FOR YOU AND 'TIS NOT FOR ME. 
 
 An Irish lass and an Irish lad 
 
 Sat in a mossy dell, 
 
 A story sweet tho' old he had 
 
 The maid that day to tell. 
 
 And a red, red rose in his hand he held, 
 
 Then gave it to the maid. 
 
 For her love's story sweet it spelled, 
 
 As thus he softly said. 
 
 Chorus: 
 
 Ah, 'tis not for you and 'tis not for me, 
 
 That all this world goes round; 
 
 But all my world is in your eyes 
 
 And by your sweet face bound, 
 
 Ah, the years may come and the years may go, 
 
 And those eyes less bright may be, 
 
 But still the earth and heaven, also, 
 
 Will shine in them for me. 
 
 One day they wed and the golden sun 
 
 Shone brightly in the sky, 
 
 And the lad smiled on his dearest one. 
 
 As she stood blushing, nigh, 
 
 So the months rolled on and the years elapsed. 
 
 Now they both are old and staid, 
 
 But ever to his heart she's clasped. 
 
 And to her softly said: 
 
 94 
 
IRELAND, MY OWN LOVED MOTHERLAND. 
 
 Ah, Motherland, the ocean's wide divide us 
 'Tis more and more my love doth grow for thee; 
 Fd happy be no matter what betide us 
 If you were a nation once more free. 
 The stars all seem into thy loved name falling, 
 The waves all seem to sing it to the strand, 
 I hear £^ nightingale, and he seems calling 
 Ireland, my own loved Motherland. 
 
 Ah, Motherland, I'm often sad and lonely. 
 As I dream of scenes long, long ago; 
 My spirit's ever hovering about you, 
 Thy hills I see no matter where I go. 
 Hear my soul cry out across the ocean, 
 God bless thee little isle so green and grand. 
 For you I have a wealth of deep devotion, 
 Ireland, my own loved Motherland. 
 
 June, 1906. 
 
 LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 
 
 I oft'times think of you, dear heart, when some old melody 
 Rings in my ear and seems to bring those old days back 
 
 to me. 
 The days when you and I, dear heart, were care free, young 
 
 and gay. 
 And love's young dream did ever seem to both of us to say: 
 
 Dream on, young love, young love, dream on, for life 'tis 
 
 but a dream. 
 You're building castles in the air; things are not as they 
 
 seem. 
 The present's here, the future's near, the past's forever 
 
 gone; 
 You'll soon have naught but memories. Dream on, young 
 
 love, dream on. 
 
 The seas divide us now, dear heart, of each we are bereft. 
 Our paths in distant lands now lie, and memory's all that's 
 
 left, 
 But still I think of you, dear heart, no matter where I be. 
 And often wonder if at times you ever think of me. 
 Dream on, young love, young love, dream on. This life 'tis 
 
 but a dream. 
 We still build castles in the air; find things not as they seem. 
 The present's here, the future's near, the past's forever 
 
 gone. 
 And all that's left is memory sweet. Dream on, young love, 
 
 dream on. 
 
 95 
 
CASEY ON THE HIGH COST OF LIVING. 
 
 You talk of the high cost of living 
 
 Said Casey to Mrs. McFaul, 
 Sure I've got a serious misgiving 
 
 There isn't no such thing at all, 
 For sure we are only existing, 
 
 As to living ma'am what do you mean? 
 That your body is merely resisting 
 
 The fact that you're just a has been 
 
 Now let us for instance decipher 
 
 The various costs of our grub, 
 For 'tis we who must e'er pay the piper, 
 
 We are only the other man's dub, 
 For he boosts up the price of potatoes, 
 
 He boosts wheat and corn sky high. 
 Then he cans all the beans and tomatoes 
 
 And claims that the crop has been shy. 
 
 Then he sends flour up to the limit, 
 
 And our bread costs us double the dough. 
 As to oatmeal and rice we're not in it, 
 
 Their prices he's boosted also, 
 Why, even the peanut is soaring 
 
 And seeking a place in the sun. 
 What cares he if our insides are roaring 
 
 And our pocket book's down on the run. 
 
 So long as he piles up the greenbacks 
 
 And waters his stock to high tide, 
 While through various channels he makes tracks 
 
 To evade all the law on our side 
 Sure we're ground 'neath his heel every minute, 
 
 Just whether we're living or dead, 
 As his chattels and serfs we're right in it, 
 
 Now truer words never were said 
 
 I tell you ma'am that you are dreaming 
 
 Of the high cost of living- that's all, 
 While some men with millions are teeming 
 
 What's the status of Mr. McFaul? 
 Why he's getting the same weekly wages 
 
 That he drew twenty-five years ago, 
 And it doesn't need wisdom of sages 
 
 To know what to do with his dough 
 
 For the eats for the table cost double 
 
 What they did when you first were a bride. 
 And to make ends meet now is the trouble, 
 
 Aye, a hard one for us to decide 
 For a luxury faith is the plainest 
 
 Of grub that a body can eat, 
 Sure the soup bone the butcher's maintain is 
 
 Worth just quite as much as the meat. 
 
 96 
 
Now democracy truly is bleeding 
 
 To death out of every pore, 
 While fhe prices of all things we're needing 
 
 Have been boosted sky high more and more. 
 Sure the problem's the high cost of dying, 
 
 And to solve that we might just as well 
 As to listen to some people lying 
 
 About lowering the H. G. of L. 
 
 —August 20, 1917. 
 
 THE IRISH HOVEH S WISH. 
 
 0, to lay me down where the ivy creeps 
 
 O'er the ruined walls where the roses bloomed, 
 Where my spirit ever fond vigil keeps, 
 
 With the memories dear that are there entombed. 
 Oh, oft had I watched the sparrows nest 
 
 'Neath the eaves where the thatch warm welcome gave; 
 There a mother's love my childhood blest — 
 
 To my every whim she was e'er a slave. 
 
 'Tis often I saw her, with tender touch 
 
 Bind up the rose stem the wind made fall; 
 Her cheeks suffused with as fair a blush 
 
 As the roses red by that white-washed wall. 
 Long years since she went to her last retreat, 
 
 And a hapless roamer on earth am I, 
 Ah, 'tis gladly I'd kiss the Reaper's feet 
 
 If within those ruins he'd let me die. 
 
 Sure, it's often at night 'neath the alien sky, 
 
 As lonely I lay me down to sleep. 
 My thoughts drift back to the days gone by, 
 
 Then in sadness my soul flies o'er the deep 
 To that white-washed cot, where I learned to lisp 
 
 My prayers in our grand old Gaelic tongue, 
 Of the thatch sure now there is not a wisp, 
 
 Dia Linn, 'tis long years since I was young. 
 
 But 'tis there 'midst the ruins I'd love to lay 
 
 My poor old bones at life's even close, 
 And I'd thank the Virgin in my mother's way 
 
 That 'tis there at last I had found repose. 
 Sure that acushla 'u'd be all that I'd ask, 
 
 For 'twould bring me close to my mother's knee. 
 And again in the light of her eyes I'd bask, 
 
 Tho' it was in death's vision, asthore Machree. 
 
 97 
 
IF FOR BUNKEM THEY WOULD VOTE. 
 
 Ben Bunkem was a foxy guy, from o'er the sea he came; 
 Once on these shores he plied his oars to reach the sea of 
 
 fame. 
 His barque was the Political, a light draught kind of boat, 
 Propelled by windy bellowed sails, thro' social streams to 
 
 float. 
 
 His log book tells as follows, the course he would pursue, 
 The benefits that to mankind would from his voyage accrue; 
 Elect me, boys, and you will rise from out environ's moat, 
 For all of you will live at ease if for me you will vote. 
 
 I'll change your present mode of life; all ills I will efface; 
 I'll cause a great upheaval that will change the world's face. 
 And when I'm worth a million, won't I be a man of note 
 Oh, you'll all be that, my brothers, if for me you only vote. 
 
 I'll jail the grafters one and all, corruption I will kill. 
 All municipal offices with brothers I will fill; 
 And work I'll find for every man, ashore, aye, and afloat; 
 I'll mould a model government if for me you wil vote. 
 
 You'll ride to work in autos, own steam yachts by the score. 
 In monoplanes, like eagles, thro' the air you'll grandly soar; 
 And you'll care less for ten dollars than you once did for a 
 
 groat. 
 Oh, you'll all be mighty moguls, if for me you only vote. 
 
 You'll be governors and mayors, legislators, congressmen; 
 And regulate the hour when a day's work should begin; 
 Utopia's glorious banner over every place will float 
 In our international kingdom, if for me you'll only vote 
 
 You'll drink champagne 'fore your breakfast, Chianti 'fore 
 
 your lunch; 
 Eat of everything the choicest, wash it down with claret 
 
 punch 
 You'll become as wise as sages ,and from great men's lives 
 
 will quote. 
 Idolized by future ages, if for me you only vote 
 
 You'll own all your present bosses, and can make them shine 
 
 your shoes, 
 Light your clear Havanas and mix your cocktail booze 
 You'll be the great dictators and can shout, "Come here, you 
 
 bloat". 
 And the bosses will come crawling, if for me you only vote. 
 
 With ten bones a day, the smallest pay for any man who 
 
 works, 
 And a hundred to the superman who all honest labor shirks, 
 While he plans out vast improvements that thro' all his pipe 
 
 dreams float. 
 
 98 
 
0, I'll plan a wondrous universe, if for me you will vote. 
 
 You'll make love to all the ladies; have sweethearts by the 
 score; 
 
 Free beer and free tobacco you'll find find everywhere ga- 
 lore. 
 
 And the man who doesn't use them with the "big stick" we 
 will smote; 
 
 Queens will call ye "Rex", my brothers, if for me you only 
 vote. 
 
 Now, cheer up, the day is coming when real freemen ye 
 
 will be. 
 And graft will be a dead word; just take it straight from me. 
 Everybody will be honest, there won't be a jarring note; 
 But remember my Utopia depends upon your vote. 
 
 To conclude this happy picture, now to all of you I say: 
 Keep on working like the devil; don't anticipate the day. 
 And 'twas not a William Shakespeare, nor a Longfellow, who 
 
 wrote 
 Al those pleasant things about the time when Bunkem gets 
 
 your vote. 
 
 OUR GRAND OLD FLAG. 
 
 Silent the night and the moon brightly shining. 
 
 As I and my pipe solemn company keep. 
 While the stars up above the blue firmament lining, 
 
 Are glistening like tears that an angel might weep. 
 The smoke up ward curling makes pictures fantastic, 
 
 That rise 'fore my vision in phantom array. 
 From a simple home scene, to a war tableau drastic. 
 
 That no sooner are born than faded away. 
 
 But one 'midst them all seems recurring more often. 
 
 Ah! longer its charms the smoke ringlets hold, 
 And the rays of the moon seems the background to soften, 
 
 By framing it in, in a circle of gold, 
 'Tis a flag red and white, with a star-spangled corner, 
 
 Of blue, that blends fine with the white and the red. 
 And it waves, 0! so grand, 'tis a perfect adorner 
 
 For the crown that sits fair on Miss Liberty's head. 
 
 'Tis Columbia's proud emblem, may God ever bless them. 
 
 With men to defend them, forever and aye. 
 That the fair winds of freedom may ever caress them. 
 
 And victory e'er bring to our loved U. S. A 
 Ah, stay there grand picture, I'll smoke until morning. 
 
 Myself and my pipe sure, are old friends and true. 
 And faith there is none dare look on you with scorning 
 
 Whilst one lover is ready to die or to do. 
 
 99 
 
IN SWEET COUNTY MAYO. 
 
 Oh, Acushla baun, there are pretty spots 'way out here in 
 the west, 
 
 And Dame Nature in her own sweet way in beauty has them 
 dressed; 
 
 But with all their wondrous charms, sure they can't com- 
 pare, you know 
 
 With the old haunts of our childhood in Sweet County Mayo. 
 
 Sure, the States can boast of rolling plains and mountains 
 
 simply grand, 
 While wooded tracts immense, indeed, are scadcred o'er 
 
 this land; 
 But there's something missing in them to the exiled heart, 
 
 you know, 
 That recalls some spots he knew, dear, in Sweet County 
 Mayo. 
 
 Ah, around dear old Claremorris ,there are emerald hills 
 
 and dells. 
 And smiling bits of forest where the kindly fairy dwells 
 Midst the nymphs of music thrilling, as the breezes softly 
 
 blow 
 From the Moorlands brown and purple in Sweet County of 
 
 Mayo. 
 
 Faith the Yellowstone is wondrous and the Rockies giant 
 
 high, 
 While the prairies vast of Texas are a sight to thrill the 
 
 eye. 
 Where for days and days you'd travel and not meet or hear, 
 
 you know, 
 Folks to greet you with a blessing like you would in Sweet 
 
 Mayo 
 
 They can have their parks and mountains, their cities and 
 
 their plains, 
 Not that I do belittle them, but the fact at least remains. 
 That I'd rather see Croagh Patrick and the Nephin range, 
 
 you know. 
 And the bogs and smiling meadows of Sweet County Mayo. 
 
 Ah, sure God is kind to every land and beauty scatters wide. 
 And well may free Columbia look upon her soil with pride; 
 But that little isle unconquered, panting 'neath the tyrant's 
 
 blow 
 Has a thousand spots of beauty just as dearly loved, you 
 
 know 
 
 100 
 
By the steadfast sons and daughters of each hamlet and each 
 town, 
 
 Who, with hearts a-beating proudly, sing of Innisfail's re- 
 nown; . 
 
 Then don't blame my muse for roaming where the Robe and 
 Moy e'er flow 
 
 Through the loved haunts of our childhood in Sweet County 
 of Mayo. 
 
 Oh, God bless our brother exiles and our Irish colleens 
 
 fair; 
 Sure, I love (o hear (hem sing the praise of Motherland so 
 
 dear, 
 And I know that she'll feel better if their thoughts drift 
 
 back, you know, 
 With the same old love that we have for Sweet County of 
 
 Mayo 
 
 —April 12, 1919. 
 
 FOR THE FLAG THAT WE LOVE. 
 
 Come stand by your guns, 'neath the flag that we love, 
 Whose blue but reflects God's fair skies up above, 
 Whose white is as purity, shimmering bright, 
 In each stripe and each star tried and true in the right. 
 While its red shows the blood of the patriot warm, 
 Who'd uphold it forever tln^o sunshine and storm. 
 Oh, long may it wave, emblem loved of the free, 
 Who its shelter has sought from the world's tyranny. 
 
 Then free let it wave, while beneath it we stand, 
 To defend it 'gainst might both on sea and on land. 
 The hand of no despot must sully its folds, 
 While the love and respect of our manhood it holds. 
 And that is while life gives us power to strike. 
 Fast and fell 'gainst the foe from first to last dyke, 
 Until death brothers all, for the blood of the brave 
 Must be shed ere that flag ceases proudly to wave. 
 
 Then rally around it as quick as you can. 
 Let its folds proudly speak for the manhood of man; 
 To the ends of the earth ever vibrant and true 
 Humanity's emblem, our read, white and blue. 
 Let it fill full the heart of the despot with fear, 
 That the end of his inhuman methods are near. 
 While tho fiag of our love still in freedom shall wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 
 
 —Chicago, April 19, 1917. 
 
 101 
 
"CLAREMORRIS." 
 
 (Dedicated to my friend and townsman, T. Quinn of 
 
 Ouray, Colorado. 
 
 • 
 
 Ah! when that sweet name caught my eye, 
 
 Old memories fast came thronging 
 Adown the road of days gone by, 
 
 So fraught with love and longing. 
 And scenes that well my boyhood knew. 
 
 Like phantoms rose before me; 
 'Till I forgot as oft' I do, 
 
 That alien skies were o'er me. 
 
 The "Goods Store", "Bohergarra lake", 
 
 The "Crossroads at the quarry". 
 And there is Mayfield's bog and brake, 
 
 Ardroe fort, and Lough Carra. 
 Sure all of them are pictured now 
 
 In one vast panorama. 
 With faces of brave men I vow. 
 
 Who played in that night's drama. 
 
 T. Q\ D. K', and well I see 
 
 O'K himself, poor fellow! 
 And boys whose names began with B, 
 
 Hearts with no tinge of yellow. 
 P. W., Balla's martyred son, 
 
 God rest his soul in heaven; 
 On Erin's breast a bed he's won. 
 
 He sleeps in old Glasnevin. 
 
 Tho' lad I was when matchless brains 
 
 Their skill with "Carter's" measured. 
 In memory's book those true men's names, 
 
 I sacredly have treasured. 
 And when at night with pipe I keep, 
 
 A thought-fest still and solemn. 
 From out the wreaths of smoke will creep, 
 
 A never-ending column. 
 
 The forms and faces, friends so dear; 
 
 Some famed in song and story; 
 While over all shines bright and clear, 
 
 A dazzling crown of glory. 
 And Mayo, proud of sons who gave 
 
 Their best to Mother Erin, 
 Stands beaming on her true and brave 
 
 The old green flag uprearing. 
 
 102 
 
Now you and I, dear friend, can go, 
 
 In fancy soft and tender, 
 O'er graves of men who faced the foe. 
 
 Their slogan "No surrender". 
 And hirelings backed by British gold. 
 
 Found brute force ne'er could sever, 
 The rights of Erin nation old. 
 
 To stand a nation ever. 
 
 On Barnacarroll's wind-swept hill. 
 
 Friends well beloved are lying, 
 The breeze at even' calm and still, 
 
 Around their graves a-sighing. 
 Some sleep in old Kilcolman, too, 
 
 In Ballinsmall's more resting, 
 While sweet Grossboyne holds quite a few. 
 
 Their mounds the fair Robe breasting. 
 
 And others found in alien soil. 
 
 Their final bed of slumber; 
 Ah! you and I when freed from toil. 
 
 May be amongst that number. 
 But tho' we're here in exile bound, 
 
 There yet is reason for us. 
 To praise once more that hallowed ground, 
 
 Our own, beloved "Glaremorris". 
 
 —March 2, 1913. 
 
 MOLLY MULQUEEN. 
 
 Molly Mulqueen is a gal of mine. 
 
 Mighty fine, simply divine. 
 
 We're to be wed in the summertime, 
 
 'Tis happy then we'll be; 
 Oh, no more will I have to roam, 
 Or eat free lunch with a mug of foam. 
 For I'll stick close to my happy home, 
 
 Now, say, don't you envy me? 
 
 I'll furnish a neat little Harlem flat, 
 Never spat, just think of that, 
 Molly and I and the pussy cat. 
 
 Just us three, 
 Until some day comes a little heir. 
 With golden hair and face so fair, 
 Just like Molly Mulqueen, so there, 
 
 Now, say, don't you envy me? 
 
 103 
 
"HANDS ACROSS THE SEA." 
 
 Herald of Freedom, blow thy trumpet., let its blast blow loud 
 
 and long, 
 O'er Columbia's vales and moiuitains and her children's 
 
 homes among, 
 'Till the echoes of its sounding, wakes the Eagle in his nest 
 To the shadow glooming darkly o'er our nation's pulsing 
 
 breast. 
 
 Spirit of Liberty, awaken, lot thy torch more brightly glow, 
 'Till the ideals of the fathers gleam as in the long ago. 
 When for death or glorious freedom, patriots girded on the 
 
 sword, 
 And 'gainst Tory traitorous workings faced the British 
 
 mongrel horde. 
 
 Winds of Freedom, catch "Old Glory", emblem of our loved 
 
 land, 
 'Till each stripe and star a legion calls, to staunch and 
 
 proudly stand 
 For that self-determination, keystone of democracy 
 A republic, now and forever from the wiles of Britain free. 
 
 Goddess of Liberty, remember, how you thrust in days of 
 
 yore, 
 By the aid of dauntless freemen, Britain's vandals from 
 
 thy shore, 
 While the Tory Jackals, purchased, worked as now doth 
 
 work the knave 
 To hitch to George's chariot, thee proud land, as object 
 
 slave. 
 
 All who worship kings and princes know not true democracy, 
 They are but the willing flunkies bowing to autocracy, 
 And be they of wealth the owners seeking coronet to buy, 
 England always has such bauble, for the serf who'll bribe 
 
 and lie. 
 
 I 
 In "God let's trust" and in no other, save ourselves your 
 
 children true, 
 Lot us toll our would be "Mother" that we still can die or do. 
 To keep grand "Old Glory waving o'er this great republic. 
 
 free. 
 Answer thus Goddess of Freedom to their "hands across 
 
 the sea." 
 
 104 
 
Listen to the propaganda, 0, Columbia listen well. 
 'Tis a demon's luring tactics and your ruin plain doth spell. 
 Vipers fatten on thy bosom, no allegiance owe they thee, 
 For another flag they worship in an empire o'er the sea. 
 
 And the handclasps which they offer, are each a fetter for 
 
 thy brow 
 That would chain thee loved Columbia to the pirate vessel's 
 
 prow 
 Shorn of state, of pride and glory, that since Washington, 
 
 were thine 
 Slave to might that misrules millions, claiming right by God 
 
 divine. 
 
 Goddess of Liberty turn the pages of our nation's history, 
 Tear the mask from alien sages, show their bland hypocrisy 
 In its snakelike treacherous trailing, o'er thy cities, towns 
 
 and plains 
 In the cot where lives the toiler, in the hall where Mammon 
 
 reigns. 
 Like a thief in darkness — prowling, robbery his fellsome end 
 Ready if the chance should offer to betray his very friend. 
 What is truth and right and justice to hireling of a king 
 Junker of a tribe of Junker's honored for the loot he'll bring. 
 
 To the coffers of the despot dreaming of a world-wide sway, 
 Grinding 'neath the might of Britain freemens souls as law- 
 ful prey. 
 
 Bird of Freedom, heed the warning that on westward winds 
 
 now fly, 
 With a dovelike cooing chatter, each soft word a living lie, 
 Death traps baited with a poison, sweetened with that Tory 
 
 sting, 
 Which would change "Star Spangled Banner" into tune *'God 
 
 Save the King." 
 
 And with blood guilt, gory, scattering Carnagie and Rhodes 
 
 bribe gold, 
 Seeking thus to knife Columbia and lay one more republic 
 
 cold 
 In Britain's morgue where flit the spectres of nations that 
 
 like thee were free 
 'Till they lent ear to that siren, calling "Brothers, Hands 
 Across the Sea." 
 
 July, 1919. 
 
 105 
 
MEMORIES. 
 
 01 Erin, Mavourneen, my poor heart is aching, 
 
 I'm thinking of loved spots I'll never see more, 
 A picture so fair through my day dream is breaking, 
 
 In fancy I wander by Liffey's dear- shore; 
 And had fate but been kind, now 'tis there I'd be roaming 
 
 The bright days of youth, how I'd gladly recall — 
 When my barque danced the wave in the midsummer gloam- 
 ing, 
 
 E'er I said farewell to sweet Dublin's North Wall. 
 
 From the pigeon-house fort looking out o'er the waters 
 
 There's Blackrock, there's Kingstown, while north lies 
 Clontarf, 
 Then the quays you can see like a fair row of daughters 
 
 All stretching right back from the Custom-house wharf; 
 And there is the Dodder, its bright surface gleaming. 
 
 There muscle and brawn oft met victory — downfall, 
 The bright sun on Ringsend and Sandymount beaming 
 
 I seem now to see from sweet Dublin's North Wall. 
 
 Dublin asthore, sure wherever I wander 
 
 Ashore or afloat, faith I'm thinking of thee. 
 My spirit's now rambling three thousand miles yonder 
 
 To where once more this rover is longing to be, 
 A-watching the smoke of the ships upward curling 
 
 To join the blue sky that's o'erveiling them all, 
 And see the gray seagulls their light wings unfurling 
 
 Round that loved spot, sweet Old Dublin's North Well. 
 
 —September 2, 1911. 
 
 CALL ME AT EVENTIDE. 
 
 'Twas in the golden Summertime at eventide dear heart. 
 You said you loved me only and from me ne'er would part, 
 But you left me lonely, crossed the "great divide,'" 
 And I'm waiting still dear heart for you each eventide. 
 
 Chorus: 
 
 Yes, waiting for you dear to call me 
 
 Out to the realms above. 
 
 Where with my darling I ever be 
 
 Floating on wings of love, 
 
 Where parting will be never more, dear, 
 
 No matter what may betide. 
 
 So dearest, I'm waiting to hear you 
 
 Call me at eventide. 
 
 Ah, I'm sad with longing, life seems cold and drear. 
 
 For I miss you dear one, tho' thy spirit's near, 
 
 As I fain would have you ever at my side. 
 
 So I'm waiting still, dear heart, for you each eventide. 
 
 106 
 
TO A YOUNG RUSSIAN JEWESS. 
 
 Mildred, fair child of the far off land and old world ways, 
 How quickly hast thou grasped the true significance, 
 Of trend and thought, now governing the highways 
 Of Progress, aye, the realms of advance 
 In all that tends to betterment in life. 
 Where more of brain and less of body strife 
 Bespeaks success, to those who dare to tread 
 The broad, broad road to fortune or to fame, 
 A rough, hard road to travel. Miss Mildred, 
 But one upon which all of us have claim 
 Because the great Creator gave to all 
 The right, to journey towards whence comes the call 
 Of life, no matter what the flnal guerdon be, 
 Each one has right to seek one's destiny- 
 According to one's own expressed desire, 
 For the mind, trammeled or free makes life's eternal fire 
 Burn which ever way the trend of thought may guide. 
 For good or evil both flames spread so wide 
 And not one whit beyond the mark fate sets 
 As boundary for the child, a mother's womb begets. 
 
 JUST AN ATOM. 
 
 While the world goes round there will always be found 
 
 Amongst human kind many who are foolish, 
 
 And, others in whom too much good sense abound. 
 
 Many of the same cranky and mulish, 
 
 Now life is too short, sure, why worry or fret? 
 
 For your faults are of life but a feature, 
 
 You may be rich, affluent, poor or in debt. 
 
 But of Nature, you're just one small creature. 
 
 TO THE CORK LADIES. 
 
 Fair daughters of Cork, sure 1 see by The Advocate 
 
 That your ball will come off on this Saturday night. 
 May the music that rings in the Lyceum generate, 
 
 'Midst the greatest of crowds all the joys of delight. 
 Sure this is a wish from a friend who's not new to ye, 
 
 Fair, grand, gallant daughters of brave Rebel Cork; 
 May the girls from the Lee and the Blackwater flock to ye 
 
 And all Rebel sons in that dear old New York. 
 
 May pleasure and joy crown your efforts with wonderment 
 And a smiling big crowd dance rings round on the floor. 
 
 May success shine that night on a great and grand element 
 Of cailins and gossoons round King Terpischore. 
 Faith the Rebel men proud, sure, I know will be there 
 with ye. 
 
 With thousands of exiles from outside of Cork, 
 
 If my wish and God's blessing from out west can get to ye. 
 
 Grand, fair Rebel daughters in dear old New York. 
 
 107 
 
HOW JOHN INN NEARLY FREED IRELAND. 
 
 The table with glasses was litered, the booze had been freely 
 
 passed round, 
 And John Inn, the braggart and boaster, his tongue at this 
 
 moment had found. 
 Hould on, byes, O'll tell ye a story, a blood curdling story. 
 
 begob. 
 It dails wid the freein' uv Oireland, an' Oi wus the man on 
 
 the job. 
 Ye know Oi was in the militia, an' Oi wore the red coat uv 
 
 the Queen, 
 But it wasn't because Oi wus traitor to the land uv the harp 
 
 an' the green. 
 0, no, Oi wus there fer a purpose, me chance Oi wus waitin'. 
 
 ye see. 
 Fer shure Oi belonged to the Fenians, an' Oi swore to set 
 
 Oireland free. 
 How ould am I? Throth, faith, Oi'm thirty. Oi was born 
 
 in '72. 
 An' Oi am an ould sixty-sevener that e'er to the oath has 
 
 been true, 
 Fer ever since then Oi've been planin' to drive out the Saxon 
 
 spalpeen, 
 An' unfurl the flag uv me country once more over ould Col- 
 lege Green. 
 0, Oi wus the bhoy that could do if, if courage could do it, 
 
 you bet. 
 But me plans they were foiled. Are ye listening? 0, that 
 
 night shure Oi'U never forget. 
 Well, to tell ye what Oi had intended, don't laugh now, it 
 
 won't take me long. 
 'Twas to capture the blame magazine, lads, and there's where 
 
 me plans all went wrong. 
 That night Oi was on sentry duty; 'twas so dark ye could 
 
 not see yer hand, 
 And this wus the night Oi had wished fer, to do the great 
 
 things Oi had planned. 
 The hour wus way 'fore reveille, as Oi crept to the closed 
 
 guard room door. 
 Oi rushed in an' soon had the corporal an' the guard all tied 
 
 upon the floor, 
 Oi gagged them as well, byes, begorrah, by stuffing in each 
 
 mouth a sock. 
 And said, lay there, ye spalpeens, till morning, then turned 
 
 the key in the lock. 
 The magazine now was before me; it stood in a corner 
 
 alone. 
 'Twas down in the ground fifty feet, lads, cut out uv the solid 
 
 limestone. 
 And the only way you could get in there was down three long 
 
 flights uv stone stairs, 
 
 108 
 
Through three massive doors made uv iron, that stood there 
 
 fer hundreds uv years. 
 Oi went down the steps with a bound, byes, an' Oi burst the 
 
 first door with a shove, 
 But, ah, Oi had made a mistake, lads, fer Oi left me good rifle 
 
 above. 
 But, arrah, shure, nothin' could daunt me fer vengeance me 
 
 blood was athirst, 
 An' the next iron door that Oi met, byes, went down just as 
 
 quick as the first. 
 Then groping me way in the darkness Oi found the third 
 
 door and the last. 
 I wus now in the magazine room, byes, an' out through a 
 
 back window Oi passed. 
 Rifles and swords be the dozen, powder and ball be the 
 
 ton. 
 And Oi smiled to meself as Oi thought, byes, that the freedom 
 
 uv Oireland was won. 
 But, ah, what's that noise on the stairway, a bright light 
 
 approaching, Oi see, 
 An' behind it a hundred militia, with guns trained directly 
 
 on me. 
 Oi says, fler, ye cowards, yes, fire, an' down came a shower 
 
 uv lead, 
 But Oi bounded out through the window an' off through the 
 
 woods, faith, I sped, 
 An' the divel a bit uv them caught me, from that day to this, 
 
 do ye see, 
 But that's how I missed the great chance, lads, uv setting 
 
 ould Oireland free. 
 Hold on, John, said Kelly, the wise one, I've list to the story 
 
 you've told, 
 And I know that the best of good liars on memory have not 
 
 a good hold. 
 You said you belonged to the Fenians and in '67 a member 
 
 was sworn. 
 You're the first man I knew was a Fenian full five years be- 
 fore he was born. 
 And now of the magazine window where you threw out the 
 
 powder and ball. 
 Full fifty feet down in the earth, John, solid limestone sur- 
 rounding it all, 
 And the woods you escaped through, where were they? Why 
 
 John, you're a bagful of mirth. 
 Finding windows and woods in the limestone 'way fifty feet 
 
 down in the earth. 
 But your story it surely was great, John your prowess no 
 
 man can deny, 
 You faced a whole hundred militia and they shot at your 
 valiant defy. 
 
 109 
 
0, that dream was a wonderful dream, John; it was vivid, of 
 
 that there's no doubt, 
 But the next time you go to free Ireland put the whole 
 
 British army to rout. 
 Ah, many's the chance did ye have, John, when England was 
 
 brought to her knees. 
 But a corporal's guard ye ne'er sent, John, who would fight 
 
 to set Ireland free, 
 And you and the bunch of bunk heroes who speak of the 
 
 sword and the gun 
 Stood passively by while the true and the brave the land for 
 
 the people have won, 
 And ye slandered the memory of true men as their souls 
 
 through the golden gate pass. 
 Why your skull would be cracked did you whisper your 
 
 story to Doran's jackass, 
 And if for the freedom of Ireland real fighting we still have 
 
 to do, , 
 
 Her war cry will bring 'neatn her standard the valiant, the 
 
 brave and the true. 
 The men who have ever been faithful to her interests when 
 
 put to the test, 
 And the roll call of battle will muster in her legions the gal- 
 lant and best. 
 So cling to your ancient ideas, dream on while the fighting is 
 
 done, 
 But sing dumb, you dastards and cowards when Ireland her 
 
 freedom has won. 
 
 —October 28, 1911. 
 
 TIPPERARY LADIES. 
 
 Tip your hats to Tipperary, Tipperary cailins sweet. 
 
 As to music light and airy ye trip with flying feet. 
 
 Soft as breezes from the Galtee's thrilling as the wild bird's 
 
 hum 
 Will be glad caed mille failthes at Imperial Lyceum. 
 
 Wake me from dull care's alarms till I dance a jig and reel 
 
 With a cailin in my arms let me through polka spiel. 
 
 Ah, there's Limerick's Walls, 'Mavourneen, Waves of Tory, 
 
 hear the hum 
 Of the dancers gaily turning at Imperial Lyceum. 
 
 Tip your hats to Tipperary, Tipperary cailins grand, 
 
 Of them sure We'll ne'er grow weary, they're a credit to our 
 
 land. 
 Cailin dhas who knows no beating till they know you've 
 
 beat them some, 
 Thousands will respond your greeting at Imperial Lyceum. 
 
 110 
 
SING US AN IRISH SONG. 
 
 Sing us a song that will cheer our hearts up a bit, 
 
 One with a tune that has got a soul ring to it, 
 
 Why, in God's name, should we gloomily thinking sit, 
 
 When we've a key that can brighten it all 
 
 Melodies sweet we have got by the score, 
 
 In praise of the land that we e'er will adore, 
 
 Erin, we pride in thee, brave sons have died for thee, 
 
 JFrom Gove of Cork up to sweet Donegal. 
 
 Sing us "Killarney." Ah, sure, there's a thrill in it; 
 
 Or the sweet ''Shandon Bells," with the Lee's rippling 
 
 rill in it. 
 And old "Dublin Bay," let's have our hearts' fill of it, 
 0, Ireland is soulful of music, agra. 
 "Ballyporeen" and the "Town of Athlone," 
 The "Vale of Avoca" and "Old Garryowen," 
 Joyous and sound of them, gladness abounds in them, 
 Grand are the songs of green Erin Go Bragh. 
 
 The "Blackberry Blossom," how lightsome the air of it. 
 The "Connaught Man's Rambles," what rollicking cheer 
 
 to it. 
 And then, sure, there's "Erin the Smile and the Tear" in it, 
 Songs, 0, acushla, that never will die. 
 With the "Boys of Kilkenny," "The Men of the West," 
 And the neat "Cruskeen Laun," e'er smiling its best, 
 Erin inspiring them, love for her firing them, 
 Songs of the brave, like the bold "Minstrel Boy." 
 
 "Brian Boru's March." A real royal ring to it, 
 "O'Donnell Abu" has a dash and a swing to it, 
 "The Dear Little Shamrock," we lovingly cling to it, 
 Green little emblem of Erin, the grand. 
 That "Limerick is Beautiful," every one knows, 
 And the "Wexford Boys" never would yield to her foes. 
 Great is our store of them, sing us galore of them. 
 Sweet are the songs of our dear native land. 
 
 Then here's a health to the land of our birth, 
 Where can its equal be found oup earth? 
 Emerald the sod of it, tyrants have trod on it. 
 But the spirit of freedom is virile there yet. 
 
 lil 
 
ON THE ANGLO-AMERICAN ALLIANCE AGAINST 
 
 GERMANY. 
 
 Jolin Bull lo Miss Columbia. 
 
 Ow h'are you, Miss Columbia? Ho, 'ow beautiful you look; 
 Don't blyme me hif I tell you that hon you H'im now dead 
 
 stuck. 
 My dear daughter. Miss Britannia, said hask cousin would 
 
 she please 
 Take ha sail with me, to show some folks H'im ruler h'of 
 
 the seas? 
 Kaiser Willie's getting chesty, h'and more ships 'e's going to 
 
 build. 
 Hand Hi ham hall hexcited, fearing my pet plans are killed. 
 Ho, wouldn't hit be hawful hif my dear ones were made 
 
 slaves? 
 But hof that there his no danger, hif Britannia rules the 
 
 waves. 
 
 Columbia to J. B. 
 
 Well, really, Mr. Bull, you quite surprise me, don't you 
 
 know, 
 For I heard you were no friend of ours a hundred years ago. 
 Then we were poor and weak, I was much younger than I 
 
 am, 
 So before I give an answer I will ask my Uncle Sam. 
 
 John Bull. 
 
 Ho, my dear niece Miss Columbia, now listen hunto me. 
 You hare han Anglo-Saxon, just the same has Uncle B. 
 We ad ha family quarrel in 1776, 
 
 But Huncle Sammy now hand hi hare just has thick has 
 bricks. 
 
 Columbia. 
 
 Hold on, there, Mr. Bull, there is no doubt you think you're 
 
 wise 
 But you can't so easy pull the wool down o'er my eyes. 
 Uncle Sam looks very easy, but you bet he's mighty slick, 
 So I leave you all the honor of being thicker than a brick. 
 
 John Bull. 
 
 That's ha good joke, Miss Columbia, but will surely make 
 
 ha it 
 Hat the palace bin dear Lunnon, where King Heddie says 
 
 H'im hit. 
 Hand the bloomin' bleedin' Henglish, ho, ow they'll laugh 
 
 hat that, 
 Tho, hit leaves them bin ha pickle han' they don't know 
 
 where they're hat. 
 
 112 
 
Columbia. 
 
 Now, Mr. Bull, I see my Uncle Sam, he comes this way. 
 So I'll tell him of your message, and see what he will say. 
 Oh, Uncle, there's a man here, by the name of Johnny Bull, 
 Who claims he is a friend of yours, and with you has a pull. 
 
 Uncle Sam. 
 
 Ha, ha! why, he's no friend of ours, ne'er was, nor ne'er 
 
 shall be. 
 But he'd like to drag the Stars and Stripes, the emblem of 
 
 the free, 
 Into his selfish quarrels, and get me in the mix. 
 Does he think I forget his acts in 1776, 
 Or later on in 1812, when you he tried to mar, 
 And what he did in '63, during our civil war 
 
 You've read that little story of the spider and the fly, 
 
 So, Columbia, dear, have naught to do with this here English 
 
 guy. 
 He's fawning now upon you, till he gets you in a trap, 
 Then in your neck his bloody claws he'd very quickly clap. 
 
 John Bull. 
 
 Don't say that, Sam, you know Hi ham forgiving has can be, 
 Hand you hand Hi must now ally to keep down Germany. 
 
 Uncle Sam. 
 
 What would my German citizens say, five and twenty mill- 
 ions strong? 
 
 And twenty million Irish cits would shout now that's dead 
 wrong, 
 
 I find no fault with Germany; I think that she's all right. 
 
 So if trouble you want with her, 'tis alone you have to fight. 
 
 John Bull. 
 
 Hoh, Miss Columbia, Hi himplore hupon my bended knee; 
 Speak to Uncle Sam hand do please hintercede for me. 
 
 Columbia. 
 
 Good day to you, Mr. Johnny Bull, your invitation I decline. 
 Europe, and not England, is the parent head of mine. 
 You're to sweet to be wholesome, your whining on me grates, 
 You can't have an alliance with my grand United States. 
 
 [P. S. — Take notice that I've used the h's in whatever 
 John Bull says. J. P. R. 
 
 —June 12, 1909. 
 113 
 
THE LASS FROM CASTLEBAR. 
 
 Tim Kelly was a fine gossoon, 
 
 With heart so light and gay, 
 The way he'd lilt an Irish tune 
 
 Would drive the blues away. 
 But sure you'd leave the gayest throng 
 
 And journey miles afar, 
 To hear him sing that sweet old song, 
 
 "My lass from Castlebar." 
 
 REFRAIN. 
 
 Light of my life, he'd gaily sing, 
 
 Come be my guiding star, 
 And reign supreme where love is king, 
 
 Sweet lass from Castlebar. 
 
 0, joy knew never greater bounds 
 
 That when I'd sit and hear 
 Tim Kelly start the first glad sounds 
 
 Of that sweet, well known air, 
 I'd close my eyes and dreaming go 
 
 Across the seas afar, 
 While out the voice rang soft and low 
 
 Dear lass from Castlebar. 
 
 REFRAIN. 
 
 You by my side I'd love to ride 
 
 On Collins' jaunting car. 
 And show with pride my bonnie bride. 
 
 Dear lass from Castlebar. 
 
 You well might call it melody 
 
 To hear Tim Kelly sing. 
 With charming voice so fresh and free 
 
 He'd make the welkin ring. 
 When done the boys would cheering call, 
 
 Tim, sing 'bout love's bright star, 
 And one who is the queen of all. 
 
 Fair lass from Castlebar. 
 
 REFRAIN. 
 
 Who can surpass my bonnie lass. 
 My soul's bright guiding star? 
 
 0, gra machree, my cailin dhas, 
 Fair queen from Castlebar. 
 
 114 
 
years have passed since last I heard 
 
 Tim sing that sweet old song, 
 But often has my heart been stirred 
 
 As years have rolled along. 
 From out the past so rich and rare 
 
 A sweet voice from afar, 
 Sings, sure like sunshine was her hair 
 
 Dear lass from Castlebar. 
 
 REFRAIN. 
 
 With heart so true and eyes of blue, 
 
 Bright as the evening star. 
 Dame nature never fairer knew 
 
 Than my lass from Castlebar. 
 
 —January 26, 1913. 
 
 WORRY. 
 
 Oh, life's too short to worry much 
 O'er mundane things or troubles such 
 As on our daily pathway touch 
 From daybreak round to dawning. 
 
 'Tis worry binds the souls of men 
 And oft' leads to disgrace and sin. 
 So cast the shackles off you, then. 
 This very morning. 
 
 And if just now your feeling blue 
 Go smoke a pipe of weed or two, 
 And bid your worries join the crew 
 In Satan's region. 
 
 While you go on o'er life's highway 
 A new-made man, light-hearted, gay, 
 'Midst those who live their lives each day. 
 And they are legion. 
 
 January 25, 1914. 
 
 115 
 
MAYO DREAMS. 
 
 Oh, Erin, Acushla, tho' far from thy shore, 
 O'er the wild foamy ocean my spirit will go, 
 
 And with boyish delight I revisit once more, 
 The scenes of my childhood in County Mayo. 
 
 I see the bright sun o'er Groagh Patrick's blest head, 
 
 And wander again as I did when a boy 
 O'er the green sod that shelters my own beloved dead. 
 
 That sleep by the banks of the Robe and the Moy. 
 
 From dear old Glaremorris I wander afar, 
 
 Through HoUymount, Ballinrobe, and Westport I go; 
 
 Then wing my way onward to loved Gastlebar; 
 Oh, memories sweetest of Gounty Mayo. 
 
 Sure 'twas there many bright happy hours I spent, 
 With one who now wings with the angels above. 
 
 And my spirit with feelings of joyous content, 
 
 Kneels there by the shade of my boyhood's young love. 
 
 Then a prayer will go up from my wandering soul, 
 And is joined by my angel in heaven, I know, 
 
 It asks the Greator who all things control, 
 To bless thee forever, sweet Gounty Mayo. 
 
 Then I'm off through Manulla, Foxford, Ballina, 
 And a trip to the far-famed Killala is made. 
 
 When turning again I go onward, for Ah! 
 I must visit the grave of my hero at Straide. 
 
 Oh, Davitt, thy place sure can never be filled, 
 How Erin will miss thee, oh, well do I know, 
 
 But the lessons of freedom thy grand voice instilled. 
 Will live on forever, loyal son of Mayo. 
 
 Now onward and o'er hill, mountain and rock, 
 To Keltimagh, Swinford and old Gharlestown; 
 
 Then I fly to the shrine of our Lady at Knock, 
 And pray God's blessing on Erin send down. 
 
 Then over the wide plain of Bekan I fly, 
 And through Ballyhaunis next moment I go. 
 
 So thus every night, on my pallet I lie, 
 And dream of each loved spot in Gounty Mayo. 
 
 Oh, 'tis deep in my heart sure each place I enshrine. 
 
 And all bid me welcome as I roam along. 
 Through Gastlemagarret to Sweot Ballindine, 
 
 Then across to the ArdiUum Caslle at Gong. 
 
 116 
 
Sure I visit the Neale, thn I go to the place 
 
 That the hated name Boycott to history sent down, 
 
 Then on lightning-hke wings I am wafted through space, 
 To where started the land league, the famed Irish town. 
 
 Then I hear the bells ring and I awake with a start, 
 
 To find myself far from the Emerald Isle, 
 Of the hustle and bustle I'll soon be a part, 
 
 In a city that's built on American soil. 
 
 O, Erin Alaunna Acushla Machree, 
 
 Of the rest of thy counties 'tis little I know, 
 
 But it's happy forever and ever I'd be. 
 Just to live and to die in sweet County Mayo. 
 
 —June 19, 1909. 
 
 LEAL AND TRUE. 
 
 [As our race has ever been when freedom was the watch- 
 word and liberty the lamp that lit the way to battle.] 
 Good-bye, Nell, dear, I'm going away, said Pat to his colleen. 
 
 Columbia calls; we now must do or die, 
 And sure no son of Erin's Isle has ever faltered when 
 
 'Tis freedom's flag to war goes waving by; 
 Beneath its starry folds once more sons of the "Fighting 
 Race" 
 
 For truth and right will rally to the fray. 
 So 'tis to France we now will go the ruthless foe to face, 
 
 And victory win for our loved U. S. A. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 So bye-bye, dearie, do not sob nor cry, 
 
 As our troops march by on their way to France 
 
 To help our brother Yanks advance; 
 
 Smile on us, dearie, and ever proudly glance 
 
 Oh Columbia's emblem, grand Old Glory, dearie. 
 
 The colleen gazed with pride upon her Yankee soldier brave, 
 
 And answered 'tis in faith I'll nightly pray 
 That you and your staunch comrades the hand of God will 
 save. 
 
 While you're fighting 'gainst the fierce foe day by day. 
 And sure I know Old Glory ne'er had men more leal and 
 true 
 
 Than those of our race, Pat, when freedom calls, 
 So go and 'tis God's blessing and my love I send with you, 
 
 And I'll do my part, no matter what befalls. 
 
 So good-bye, dearie, I'll ne'er sob nor cry 
 
 As our boys march past on their way to France 
 
 To help their brother Yanks advance; 
 
 I'll smile on them, dearie, and ever proudly glance 
 On Coumbia's emblem loved. Old Glory, dearie. 
 
 117 
 
PADDY'S ADDRESS TO ENGLAND. 
 
 Oh, long have you bluffed it, England, you bloodthirsty 
 
 buccaneer, 
 But we're wise to your game and hate for your name is the 
 
 proudest badge we wear; 
 And your boast that the sun never sets on your flag can be 
 
 met with one as true — 
 That the hand of an enemy there is found awaiting to strike 
 
 at you. 
 
 It may be amongst the Australian bush or in Africa's torrid 
 
 clime. 
 On India's plains where the Ganges flows and the Hymalaya's 
 
 rear sublime, 
 Or else in the depths of Canadian woods, or wherever your 
 
 foul flag flies, 
 There's an enemy there, a-nursing a hate with a hatred that 
 
 never dies. 
 
 And here in Columbia, land of the free, are thousands who, 
 
 hand in hand, 
 Are awaiting the day that must surely come when before 
 
 you with guns they'll stand 
 And help to wipe out the heavy debt of atonement you owe 
 
 our race. 
 So keep your concessions, England; they cannot that debt 
 
 efface. 
 
 Go tell to the craven Irish who kneel at the foot of thy 
 throne. 
 
 A-begging a few concessions instead of demanding their 
 own. 
 
 Yes, theirs that you stole, you pirate, with your murderous 
 hireling crew, 
 
 That we who are j^rue to our land and race ask no conces- 
 sions of you. 
 
 'Tis only a knave and polthroon who is willing to take a 
 
 part, . 
 
 Accepting your mess of pottage with thanks m his coward 
 
 heart 
 But, damn you, you thief and tyrant, and damn him, the 
 
 willing slave. 
 Who'd square for a small concession all the blood of the 
 
 brave. 
 
 118 
 
Oh, no, let us tell you, England, foul murderer, now so 
 
 bland, 
 We want what is ours, and ours only — Erin, our native land. 
 And we're willing to fight to gain it; ah, you know how our 
 
 race can fight. 
 So, damn you and your concessions — ^what we want is but 
 
 our right. 
 
 We forget not we had a Sarsfield, an Emmet, Fitzgerald, 
 
 Wolfe Tone, 
 And their spirit is still amongst us, yea, and England, not 
 
 theirs alone. 
 The Sheare's and the Fathers Murphy in memory are here 
 
 today. 
 And the dauntless sons of the fighting race are anxiously 
 
 awaiting the fray. 
 
 The spirit of murdered Crowley comes out of Kilclooney 
 
 wood. 
 And Dwyer, the Wicklow rebel, speaks up as a rebel should, 
 While they ask, is the Gael decadent? Have the sons not the 
 
 same desires? 
 Has the light on the altar of liberty died that was lit in the 
 
 blood of our sires? 
 
 Oh, no; it is shining brighly; there's blood yet to feed its 
 
 flame. 
 And fearless the hearts who'll shed it in liberty's holy name; 
 And, England, our hands are against you, relentless for you 
 
 our hate. 
 We want not your damned concessions; 'tis only our day 
 
 we wait! 
 
 The day when the fighting Irish from over the world wide 
 In seried ranks shall muster strong as the ocean's tide. 
 Demanding by force of arms the right that they ever claim — 
 A free, independent Ireland; a nation in rank and name! 
 
 —May, 1914. 
 
 119 
 
THE ROAD OF OUT AND DOWN. 
 
 When traveling o'er life's pathway, lad, in youth's bloom gay 
 
 and free, 
 Forget not that a time will come some day 
 When all the joy you ever had will be a memory. 
 Maybe you'll be a man then, old and gray. 
 Of friends you may have many, of wealth may have full 
 
 store. 
 Or perhaps like thousands friendless you may roam, 
 A stranger poor, uncared for, upon some foreign shore 
 Far from that dear old spot your chilhood home. 
 
 Then while you've health and plenty 
 
 Turn not your head aside 
 
 From him who's met with fortune's blighting frown. 
 
 Remember he was once like you, 
 
 A mother's joy and pride, 
 
 Tho wrecked now on the road of out and down. 
 
 Give him a word of sympathy, a smile if nothing more, 
 
 'Twill cheer the weary traveler on his way 
 
 A bite to eat, a drink perhaps, oft helps the heart full sore 
 
 And sheds into his dark soul one bright ray. 
 
 Hope from it long hath vanished and the world seems cold 
 
 and drear. 
 Seek not the cause to find, it may give pain, 
 But make him feel that tho he's down, a friend is standing 
 
 near 
 To help him take a grip on life again. 
 
 Then tho his clothes are ragged 
 
 Don't idly pass him by, 
 He may have once been man of high renown, 
 A father's fair haired darling, 
 The light of mother's eye, 
 This wreck now on the road of out and down. 
 
 A right good fellow perhaps he'd been when he was in his 
 
 prime, 
 Was well to do, had friends and plenty, too, 
 And often helped a fellow man, ne'er thinking that a time 
 Would come for him when friends, alas, are few. 
 For when misfortune's gloom oercasts your star once shin- 
 ing bright. 
 And storm tossed you are, tis sad to find, 
 The friends you would have sworn by have vanished with 
 
 the light 
 And left you lone, a broken wreck behind. 
 
 120 
 
Speak, tho some call him oufrasf 
 
 And others dub him bum, 
 
 God knows, but yet he wears a marfvr's crown 
 
 h or many are the causes 
 
 That drive a man to rum. 
 
 And wreck him on the road of out and down. 
 
 February, 1913. 
 
 THOSE DEAR, SWEET DAYS OP OLD. 
 
 When in the shadow land of memory meeting 
 
 A.^^^-h!'^.l!^^^,^5"^s t^^e days of old recall, 
 And with the gladsome thrill of spirit greeting- 
 
 In dreamland, where love rules god over all 
 We tread agam o'er paths we loved in childhood 
 
 Our sky once dark is sparkling now like ^-old ' 
 As midst the leafy music of the wildwood ' 
 
 We live again those dear, sweet days of old. 
 
 ""^nZ J^^^^^^ht comes with silvery shades of evening 
 A.^^'^y.'^^^ "^'^^^^^ "^®^^e i^to loved scenes of yore 
 
 fIiS^n'^i''";v.'^^P' ^^^^j^ ^^^^^^ treasures teeing,' 
 Th^n Pii fh^. ^f^^ ^^^f ^^ Y^'^P ^h^^'s ^one before. " 
 
 Come foHh^a?/^^' «^i«nde^ we have treasured 
 A ^o^e torth and pamt the secrets they enfold 
 And m the mystic realms by Cupid measured ' 
 
 We live again those dear, sweet days of old. 
 
 ^aS!5 fi!^ l^® ^l""^^'^ ^" dreamy silence sleeping, 
 Tht^^r!^^-^''^7 ^""^ of day is hushed to rest, 
 
 ^? Cupid er our thoughts fond vigil keeping 
 A ^T^^^"" ^^'"^ ^^e souls that love the best ^' 
 And distance fades before the mystic stranger* 
 \xTu!! ■ ^"^^^^ our ships into the phantom fold 
 Wherein our spirits free from earthly danger ' 
 
 Live once again those dear, sweet days of old. 
 
 September 8, 1912. 
 
 121 
 
COUNTY LEITRIM'S P., S., B. & A. ASSOCIATION. 
 
 (Respectfully inscribed on receiving an invitation to their 
 nineteenth annual ball on St. Patrick's night at the New 
 Star Casino, 107th street near Lexington avenue.) 
 
 Oh, 'tis wondrous to think where the Connaught man ram- 
 bles — 
 
 You'll find him wherever on God's earth you go. 
 And, faith, 'tis on top of the heap, sure, he scrambles, 
 
 For divil a place else will suit him, you know. 
 And that's quite the style with the sons of old Leitrim — 
 
 On top sure they'll be or not in it at all. 
 At the New Star Casino, begorra, you will meet them 
 
 On March 17 at their annual ball. 
 
 Fitzpatrick's Orchestra the music will furnish, 
 
 And that's enough said, now I'm telling you straight, 
 The floor like a looking glass new done with burnish 
 
 Would actually teach you to dance— faith, 'tis great. 
 Keep this to yourself, for a secret I'm telling, 
 
 And don't let a mother's son know it at all, 
 The best jig and reelers in New York now dwelling 
 
 Will cut fancy steps at the Leitrim Men's ball. 
 
 So make up your mind that 'tis there you'll be hieing; 
 
 Oh, lads, aye, and lassies, remember the place 
 Where on St. Patrick's night every one will be trying 
 
 To make shamrocks grow round old Terpischore's face. 
 -Now, look at the ad of this organization — 
 
 P., S., B. and A. Leitrim men one and all. 
 Irishmen well known all over the nation 
 
 You'll see there St. Patrick's night at the ball. 
 
 YOU'RE A GRAND LITTLE NATION. 
 
 Up, up ith your flag, fling its folds to the breeze, 
 From beneath it no true son e'er turns and flees. 
 No, his face to the foe, ever fighting he'll be 
 For the freedom you wish for, Acushla Machree. 
 
 Oh, they plundered, they robbed you and bound you with 
 
 chains. 
 But the spirit within you defiant remains; 
 Unswerving your cause as the waves of the sea, 
 Unconquered, unbeaten, Acushla Machree. 
 
 122 
 
From Dublin 'way o'er to the plains of Mayo, 
 From Cork up to Antrim, wherever you go, 
 Your brave Volunteers every place you can see, 
 And they'd die to defend you, Acushla Machree. 
 
 Your sons facing danger are fearless and brave. 
 Oh, well may we call you the gem of the wave; 
 Sure, you've suffered and bled seeking sweet liberty. 
 You're a grand little nation, Acushla Machree. 
 
 You're a wonder to all who your story has known 
 For the pluck you've displayed — aye, the valor you've shown. 
 Undismayed and unconquered, you yearn to be free, 
 You're a brave little nation, Acushla Machree. 
 
 —New York, June 22, 1914. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN ON MICHAAEL DAVITT. 
 
 Why, why do I weep? Oh, don't ask me so! 
 When Ireland is groaning with anguish and woe; 
 Oh, whisper it gently from shore unto shore, 
 Mayo's noble son Michael Davitt's no more. 
 
 Let's loving sighs send o'er the grave where he's laid 
 'Neath the green sod he loved in his own native Straide, 
 For the poor and oppressed 'twas a great love he bore; 
 Oh, woe to thee, Ireland, thy Davitt's no more. 
 
 His was the soul that was noble and grand, 
 And great was his will that no tyrants command; 
 The fight for his country ne'er made him give o'er: 
 I grieve with thee, Ireland, thy Davitt's no more. 
 
 Oh! Davitt, thy place sure can never be filled, 
 But the lessons of freedom thy grand voice instilled 
 Will be taught Erin's children the whole world o'er, 
 Tho Mayo, sweet Mayo, they Davitt's no more 
 
 Let's build o'er the green sod that he loved so well 
 A monument fitting his life's work to tell, 
 And around it the shamrock will lovingly grow 
 In remembrance of Davitt, true son of Mayo. 
 
 —June 10, 1906. 
 
 123 
 
MAYO'S DAY AT CELTIC PARK. 
 
 Were you at the May games, boy? No! 
 
 Oh, you don't know what you missed! 
 
 The day was fine and dandy, 
 
 The green sward was sun-kissed, 
 
 And finer lads and lassies 
 
 You or I have never seen 
 
 Than on Sunday represented 
 
 The little isle so green. 
 
 We had girls there from Kerry, 
 
 And dashing boys as well, 
 
 All the way from old Kilorglin, 
 
 And Killarney's lakes and fells; 
 
 There were beauties from sweet Limerick, 
 
 From the River Shannon's side. 
 
 Wurra, wurra, if you knew, boy, 
 
 What ye missed, ye'd rather died. 
 
 Then there was Martin Sheridan, 
 
 O, ain't that the dandy boy! 
 
 When the discus leaves his hand, sir, 
 
 Sure, 'tis like a bird 'twill fly 
 
 Through the air and o'er the green sir, 
 
 A hundred and forty feet or so. 
 
 Ah, Martin, you're a credit 
 
 To the County of Mayo. 
 
 We had Johnny Joyce from Galway, 
 
 A blazer staunch and true; 
 
 Run, begorra, that he can, boy, 
 
 Run he did, and he won, too. 
 
 There was great big Matt McGrath, boy, 
 
 'Tis the hammer he can throw. 
 
 Poor Tom Collins wasn't well, sir — 
 
 There's a good boy from Mayo; 
 
 And he ran a dandy race, boy, 
 
 Came in second in the field — 
 
 Lee and all. but Johnny Joyce, sir 
 
 To Tom Collins had to yield. 
 
 The steeplechase was won by Daly, 
 
 Who was next? Ah, now you're on. 
 
 Why, Crowley, the old war horse, 
 
 He who won a marathon. 
 
 Oh, begorra, there were boys there 
 
 With the muscle and the brawn, 
 
 The finest bunch of athletes 
 
 That e'er God's sun shone on. 
 
 Now I think 'tis nearly time, boy, 
 
 That I'd say a word or so 
 
 About our own fair lassies 
 
 From the County of Mayo. 
 
 They were there in all their glory, 
 
 And they came from near and far. 
 
 From Balla and Ballinrobe, sir, 
 
 124 
 
Westport and Castlebar, 
 
 Ballyhaunis and Claremorris, 
 
 Ballina, Belmullet and the borders of Sligo, 
 
 They were there, my boys, with bells on, 
 
 Were the people of Mayo. 
 
 The Nallys and Delaneys, 
 
 The Barretts and the Clynes, 
 
 The Rooneys and O'Garas, 
 
 The Gibbons and O'Briens, 
 
 The Ormsby's from Westport, 
 
 Clan Tucker and Clan Ansbro, 
 
 And a damn fine bunch of patriots 
 
 From the County of Mayo. 
 
 Wurra, wurra, ain't you crazy 
 
 That you wern't there that day? 
 
 Faugh a Ballagh, you're too lazy; 
 
 Come, get out, be on your way. 
 
 And the next time we have games, boy, 
 
 If of manhood you've a spark. 
 
 You'll be there to meet your Mayo friends 
 
 In good old Celtic Park. 
 
 —June 26, 1909. 
 
 O, KATHLEEN ASTOIR. 
 
 0, Kathleen, astoir, sure as onward I wander, 
 
 Day dreaming I seek out a spot dear to me. 
 And the farther I go on through life I grow fonder 
 
 Of Erin, sweet Erin, my land o'er the sea. 
 In memory I ramble o'er paths through the wildwood. 
 
 The haunts of my boyhood I cherish so dear. 
 The glens and the valleys, fair scenes of my childhood. 
 
 There's naught in the world with them can compare. 
 
 0, Kathleen, astoir, sure I see the blue mountains 
 
 Away in the distance a-beckoning to me, 
 And there is the river that gushed from the fountains, 
 
 Meandering its silvery way through the lea. 
 And memory brings back all unchanged to my vision 
 
 The bog and the moorland, the lake and the dell. 
 A green ivied cot, 0, a picture elysian, 
 
 That holds for me riches words scarcely can tell. 
 
 0, Kathleen, astoir, that green gem of the ocean. 
 
 Has lovers by thousands more constant than me. 
 Who'd kiss her dear soil in their heartfelt emotion, 
 
 A-wishing their darling once more to be free 
 From the thrall of usurpoi-. I he hand of the spoiler. 
 
 Once more in her beauty sublimly and grand, 
 A-nurtured and wooed by Ihe arms of the toiler. 
 
 Who loves every inch of his dear native land. 
 
 125 
 
TO MOTHER ERIN. 
 
 (In loving memory of her dauntless sons who won a glorious 
 death nobly fighting beneath the flag of Irish freedom, 
 April, 1916) 
 
 To the list of thy deathless heroes 
 
 On the lustrous scroll of fame, 
 'Midst the gems of thy soul immortal 
 
 Add each dauntless rebel's name 
 Whose blood has poured into freedom's 
 
 Lamp and made brighter its sacred light. 
 That thou as a nation may ever live, 
 
 Unconquered, undimmed and bright. 
 
 Not all the wiles of the traitor, foul 
 
 Filthy and rank as hell, 
 Nor all the might of the tyrant, nor 
 
 The British siren's spell, 
 Could still in thy pulsing bosom thy 
 
 National hope and pride; 
 You called and they proudly answered. 
 
 And 'twas nobly they fought and died 
 
 While the spots on the leopard are changeless, 
 
 While the tiger's hide is barred, 
 The wreath of hope which crowns thee 
 
 Thou never can discard, 
 But proudly thou e'er must wear it 
 
 While raised on an Irish breast 
 Is the son of an Irish mother, by 
 
 Heaven's free winds caressed 
 
 Then clasp to they emerald bosom the 
 
 Chalice of rebel blood, 
 Fresh filled from the hearts of heroes 
 
 Who freedom's voice understood, 
 While their souls in the life immortal 
 
 Will gather around the shrine 
 With the rest of thy patriot martyrs 
 'Neath liberty's flag divine. 
 
 —May 14, 1916. 
 
 126 
 
THOUGHTS OF ERIN. 
 
 Oft' I've heard the thrush a-thrilling in the woodlands long 
 ago, 
 When the trees with buds were springing, and all nature 
 seemed to smile, 
 While the blackbird's notes made answer with a piping clear 
 and slow, 
 From where primroses were blooming in the field beyond 
 the stile; 
 How those days come back to memory of the rover far 
 away 
 From the sacred isle that gave him birth, far o'er the 
 ocean blue, 
 And I see it all in fancy, and I hear the roundelay 
 
 Of the robin, who seemed singing songs of love old land 
 to you. 
 Oh, before me lie the moorlands stretching out beyond the 
 lea. 
 And I hear the bog-lark warbling as he wings it towards 
 the sky. 
 Sure the wild-duck and the bald-cote on the glistening lake 
 I see 
 Dipping, diving all suspicious, as they did in days gone by. 
 When they sailed the placid waters, as I strolled along the 
 shore, 
 Of the well-known lough that bordered the graveyard on 
 the hill, 
 Outside Gastlebar, acushla, 0! those dear loved hours of 
 yore. 
 Of my boyhood days in Mayo, how the thought my pulses 
 thrill. 
 Ah, 'tis oft' in my dreaming 'neath the cloudless alien skies, 
 Does my soul from exile wander to traverse each well- 
 known scene, 
 Whether in New York, in Texas, or the plains of Illinois, 
 I am wafted back to Erin, where my thoughts have ever 
 been. 
 And I thank the God of Patrick for the kindliness He shows 
 
 To a simple son of Mayo, in a far and distant land. 
 From where all his dreams are centered 'round the stead- 
 fast hearts he knows. 
 Will keep freedom's flame e'er burning on green Erin's 
 shelving strand. 
 
 —June, 1916. 
 
 127 
 
WAR! 
 
 War, dreadful war! thy portals open wide, 
 
 Beckoning within thy realms Mar's gore-mad human tide 
 
 On seething wings of hate to wildly ride. 
 
 To maim, to slay, like fiends to devastate 
 
 Where peace beamed bright and plenty smiled of late. 
 
 Ah, steep, steep now will be the war gods' rate; 
 
 There, there he rules the sea, the land, the air, 
 
 While death stalks ghastly, gloating, ever>n;vhere. 
 
 Yea, where the eagle screams, where growls the bristling 
 
 bear. 
 Where, civilization, where's thy proudest boast? 
 Gaze where thou wilt on Europe's mongrel host, 
 All drink from the cannon's mouth Mar's bloody toast — 
 "I am the ruler now, both Emperor and King 
 Are merely slaves, who from rich gardens bring 
 Targets of flesh and blood 'gainst which my bullets wing. 
 I who in peace was raised with tender care; 
 Petted by rich and poor, I'd luxuries to spare, 
 And now I deal death round me everywhere." 
 Hear now that rumbling sound; see where the vultures fly? 
 There brain and brawn in one vast tangle lie. 
 Woman has raised sons thus in that hell-hole to die. 
 For what, and why? That spawn of knave or fool 
 From God divine shall claim the right to rule 
 O'er man and make of him a willing tool. 
 See, yonder the sky is red, like rain of blood, 
 Pouring its share unto the rising flood 
 Of hate its victims never understood; 
 But yet they nurse it midst the din of strife, 
 More tender cared for than the child or wife; 
 Aye, dearer held than e'en is very life. 
 Yea, such is war Mar's smiles upon his braves 
 And blood lust fills the eye; the beast heart craves 
 A game of chance with death o'er yawning graves. 
 For glory passing as the noonday sun 
 For gilt that glitters brighter e'er 'tis won 
 Such bauble leaves the word's task undone — 
 Aye, more; undoes most what was done before 
 Mounts ruin rampant on a field of gore 
 And laughs man back to savage days of yore 
 Where is the dove of peace a-resting now 
 Not on the cruiser's mast nor warship's prow, 
 And far from the frown that marks the kingly brow. 
 Who prides on legions who, with steady tread, 
 March past, his standards flying overhead 
 What cares he who are numbered with the dead 
 If but his august wish becomes a law 
 And men and nations speak of him with awe? 
 Someone must play the part; must be cat's-paw — 
 And yet, what if they fail and all is lost? 
 He's but the skipper of the ship storm tossed. 
 But they, poor fools, have dearly paid the cost 
 
 128 
 
His armaments less great than what it seemed, 
 His eagle turned to crow e'er thrice it screamed, 
 And all was false save conquest that he dreamed. 
 There now before him lies a nation's wreck; 
 War's red blood hand clouds ever foreknown speck 
 Of smiling verdure that the land did deck, 
 And town and hamlet all deserted lie 
 Grim ruin naked 'fore the azure sky; 
 No sound save now the buzzards' startled cry 
 Or else the slinking fox's whining yelp. 
 The she-wolf calling to her mate or whelp, 
 Mar's feast is on; the vulture now has help. 
 Bestrewn the earth as never 'twas before, 
 It reeks with stench of carnage red with gore. 
 Oh, what a holocaust mankind calls War! 
 
 — ^August 4, 1914. 
 
 THE VOICE A-CALLI\G. 
 
 What is that voice a-calling, a-calling soft and low? 
 I hear it on the morning winds as westerly they go. 
 And in the silence of the night it whispers in my ear, 
 "Out in the mystic dreamy realms I'm waiting for you, dear", 
 0, how the words keep ringing and they fill my very soul, 
 With weird, unearthly singing, until I lose control 
 Of self, and wildly rush thro space, seeking to reach the side 
 Of her who calls from out the maze, my long-lost spirit 
 
 bride. 
 And as I travel onward I hear the banshee's cry 
 And see the fairies playing as swift my soul goes by 
 Each rath and slope and hill and fort by lake and stream 
 
 and fell, 
 Through sun-kissed vale and wooded plain and daisy-dotted 
 
 dell, 
 And yet the voice enchanting sweet seems calling from afar, 
 I search it in the vault of heaven around the evening star. 
 And pray the moon whose silver rays burst thro the clouds 
 
 of night 
 To lend a shaft of brilliancy to aid me in my flight. 
 Yet on I go thro spiritland like flashing meteor flung 
 By giant arms t-liro worlds of space and ages still unsung, 
 While mystic monarchs smile upon my soul now passing by 
 The realms of Hope and Love and TnUh, where all enchant- 
 ments lie; 
 Hark! there's that voice 'way down below, 'tis calling from 
 
 the plain. 
 And I must turn and wing my way to Mother Earth again. 
 But some time in the future years my soul full freedom 
 
 given 
 Will seek that voice when thus it calls from out the poets' 
 
 heaven. 
 
 129 
 
NEATH THE ORANGE, WHITE AND GREEN. 
 
 Ah, my fancy ship's saihng the ocean, Astoir, 
 
 Walt by love of our "Rosaleen Dhu", 
 And its hold is packed full of good wishes galore 
 
 For her children so valiant and true, 
 Who 'gainst tyranny's might mode so gallant a stand. 
 
 Noblest patriots ever were seen. 
 That they soul still would rally at Freedom's demand, 
 
 'Neath thy standard. White Orange and Green. 
 
 Aye, my spirit ship's sailing the ocean, Agra, 
 
 To Glasnevin 'tis making its way, 
 And I see once again the loved graves that I saw 
 
 On that ne'er can be forgotten day 
 When I walked round the circle, O'Gonnell's you know, 
 
 As a boy with an Irish mind keen, 
 And I felt that before me an emblem did glow — 
 
 'Twas the Orange, the White and the Green, 
 
 0, my spirit ship's landed in Ireland, Machree, 
 
 And once more in Glasnevin, I roam. 
 Here's the mound where loved Parnell's buried you sec, 
 
 Just this side of O'Gonnell's last home, 
 And down this way, Alanna, Pat Nally is laid. 
 
 Not a stone o'er his grave to be seen; 
 He, the staunch and the brave, who'd ne'er be afraid, 
 
 'Neath the Orange, the White and the Green. 
 
 Ah, my fancy ship's trembling, Alanna, Mavrone, 
 
 For it misses the chance for to kneel 
 At the graves of Pat Pearse and his comrades, ohone. 
 
 They whose hearts were far truer than steel; 
 But the prayer that I say, sure, will reach them, I know. 
 
 Though the tyrant is standing between, 
 Just the bodies he murdered three Easters ago. 
 
 And the Orange, the White and the Green. 
 
 For their souls will march onward with liberty's light, 
 
 As the beacon of Ireland a nation. 
 And the children of Erin must stand by and fight 
 
 Till Freedom her legions awaken; 
 And strikes down the despot whose foul, bloody hand 
 
 At the throat of our "Dark Rosaleen" 
 Seeks to strangle the national life of our land, 
 
 And her emblem, White, Orange and Green. 
 
 —April 21, 1919. 
 
 130 
 
SWEET ISLAND OF SONG. 
 
 Erin, thy bards tho' for centuries sleeping, 
 
 Live yet in thy music all soulful and sweet; 
 Their spirits in song grand traditions are keeping, 
 
 That in ages to come thy proud children will greet 
 With the tale of thy glory in times past, Mavourneen. 
 
 And Ah! thrilling the story thy harp strings can tell 
 When the mantle of freedom unto the returning 
 
 Rings forth once again with thy soul's magic spell. 
 
 Sure, Musa herself makes her home in thy mountains 
 
 And rides on the breeze through thy emerald vales. 
 While her nymphs at thy rivers, thy lakes and thy fountains 
 
 E'er herald her coming through woodland and dales. 
 The wind bearing onward in loud swelling motion 
 
 Nature's song that still sweeter in cadence growls 
 Till it joins the soft murmuring croon of the ocean. 
 
 And over the earth it a-caroling goes. 
 
 Sure, that is the reason why every one calls thee 
 
 Sweet island of song, acushla machree. 
 For e'en tho the chains of the tyrant enthralls thee, 
 
 The shackles but heightened thy soul's melody. 
 For all through the ages, in sunshine and sorrow. 
 
 Thy children, rejoicing or weeping in song. 
 In the past, through the present, and ever the morrow, 
 
 Will tenderly ever thy soul bear along. 
 
 And music's thy soul, 0, Niobe of nations. 
 
 Long, long wert thou dead were it not for the charm 
 Heaven born in thy breast, pulsing proud animations, 
 
 Putting hope in they heart, giving strength to thy arm. 
 So then let thy song, diadem of thy glory, 
 
 Ring out thro' the ages vast, coursing along. 
 Till it tells to the unborn millions thy story. 
 
 Green Erin, Alanna, sweet island of song. 
 
 —February 18, 1914. 
 
 131 
 
LOVED COUNTY MAYO. 
 
 The green shores of Erin I see in my dreaming, 
 The emerald sod gleaming besparkled with dew, 
 The sun o'er the valleys and hills brightly beaming 
 Make beauteous the scenes that my infancy knew, 
 As I lay me to sleep with my head on the pillow, 
 My soul o'er the billow a roaming will go, 
 Seeking haunts where it first saw love's light awaking, 
 Far o'er the wave in loved County Mayo. 
 
 REFRAIN. 
 
 Tho' fate be unkind and those fond ties may sever, 
 As wanderers afar from thy soil we may go, 
 0, who would forget thee, thy children, No, never; 
 They'll love you forever, sweet County Mayo. 
 
 My fancy ship winging its flight o'er the ocean. 
 
 The lamp of devotion e'er lighting the way, 
 
 Wafts onward its sails filled with heartfelt emotion, 
 
 Till safely it anchors in dear old Clew Bay, 
 
 And there is Croag Patrick like sentinel standing, 
 
 A-watching the foamy wave play down below, 
 
 With proud crest upreared like a leader commanding 
 
 The winds to blow softly o'er County Mayo. 
 
 REFRAIN. 
 
 Then a picture of beauty lies open before me, 
 Thro' wild scenes of grandeur the Robe and Moy flow. 
 O' who that has know thee could e'er but adore thee. 
 Thou queen of by heart, loved County Mayo. 
 
 I love every foot of that green little island. 
 
 Its valleys and dells, hills and mountains sublime, 
 
 Rivers and lakes, sylvan woods purple mireland, 
 
 O. Erin, acushla, thou'rt Eden of mine. 
 
 Blame, blame not the bard if in memories tender, 
 
 O'er pathways of childhood he'll lovingly s:o, 
 
 His heart beats for you, else he'd never remember 
 
 In exile he came from the County Mayo. 
 
 REFRAIN. 
 
 Then here's to thy shores tho' afar I may wander, 
 With heart growing fonder as years come and go; 
 O'er hopes for thy future I lovingly ponder. 
 Like every true son of County Mayo. 
 
 Let Switzerland boast of her snow-clad Alp mountains. 
 Let Germany sing of the Danube and Rhine, 
 France rave o'er her vineyards, Italy her fountains, 
 Spain pride in her olive, Portugal her wine, 
 But I simply chant of the gem of the ocean, 
 Where nature a vista of beauties can show. 
 From Bray Head across to where wildly in motion 
 The waves kiss the rocky bound shores of Mayo. 
 
 132 
 
REFRAIN. 
 
 Then out let our voices in chorus be ringing, 
 Fresh wreaths ever bringing in pride to bestow 
 On Erin, whose praises we ever are singing, 
 Proud exiles who hail from loved County Mayo. 
 
 To our brothers a welcoming hand e'er extending, 
 'Tis shoulder to shoulder we ever will stand. 
 Each rent in thy proud robes with love ever mending. 
 Our motto "God bless thee," dear, dear native land. 
 A nation unconquered, like Phoenix uprising, 
 Undaunted queen, smiling in face of her foe. 
 The hopes long she cherished at lengh realizing, 
 Heaven crown you, say all the brave sons of Mayo. 
 
 REFRAIN. 
 
 Then in unity standing, the green flag uprearing, 
 Thy proud standard bearing aloft as we go, 
 We'll meet in the glow of the dawn now fast nearing, 
 Like Irishmen true from loved County Mayo. 
 
 — Decmber 29, 1912. 
 
 NEATH ERIN'S AZURE SKIES. 
 
 I'm thinking now of other days, 
 
 'Mid scenes across the foam, 
 Of mountain paths and woodland braes 
 
 Around my childhood's home. 
 And fancy pictures doubly sweet 
 
 To wearied Exile eyes. 
 The old thatched cottage white and neat, 
 
 'Neath Erin's azure skies. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 The lark his wild notes singing 
 
 Midst the purple bogs I hear; 
 A cailin's voice comes ringing 
 
 From the meadows, fresh and clear; 
 The ripping rill's soft murmuring 
 
 Where oft I passed along 
 I hear in my day dreaming, 
 
 Sure, 'tis love's sweet, sweet old song. 
 
 In spirit thus I wander o'er 
 
 Each meadow path with joy, 
 And meet the dear old friends of yore 
 
 I loved when but a boy; 
 While memory's voice, enchanting sweet, 
 
 Calls 'fore my tired eyes 
 That old thatched cottage, white and neat, 
 
 'Neath Erin's azure skies. 
 
 —June 14, 1915. 
 
 133 
 
MY NATIVE TOWN. 
 
 (Sincerely inscribed to Patrick J. Hoey, the well-known Irish 
 
 tailor, of No. 941 Sixth avenue, New York, the friendship of 
 
 whom will ever be esteemed.) 
 
 Dear, dear old town, I hold you in my arms 
 
 An view through dreamy mists your countless charms, 
 
 While fairy voices musically tell 
 
 Old tales of haunts friend memory paints so well . 
 
 There are the lakes where smiling waters sleep 
 
 And golden sunbeams laughing vigil keep; 
 
 To joyous sounds of woodland melody 
 
 The wild birds' daily chant, old town to thee. 
 
 Dear, dear old town, in lap of smiling hills, 
 With tender thoughts of you my memory thrills, 
 As mystic hands with loving touch portrays 
 Each well-known street before my anxious gaze 
 No scene in all this world were half so fair, 
 For all the friends of youth are gathered there. 
 Ah, happy past! Alas! They're scattered wide, 
 'Tis few of them within thee now abide. 
 
 Dear, dear old town, though 'tis in dreams I see 
 The charms with which Dame Nature wreathed thee. 
 All to the exile's heart are doubly dear, 
 From hill to hill, by lake, through street and square 
 And winding lane that passed from there beyond 
 To moorland bleak, but yet to memory fond. 
 From there the lark his morning song sent down 
 As sun rays bathed thee, dear, dear old town. 
 
 Dear, dear, old town, accept my humble lay 
 
 As tribute snatched from hurrying life's highway. 
 
 Crude though it be, 'tis yet sincere and true, 
 
 And all its simple lines are meant for you. 
 
 Fain would I fashion halo for thy brow, 
 
 But fate decrees this humbler method now; 
 
 Though in my pulsing heart you ever wear a crown 
 
 Of golden hopes, my dear old native town. 
 
 —January 23, 1916. 
 
 134 
 
ONE OF NATURE'S NOBLEMEN. 
 
 In boyhood days, 'twas well I knew 
 
 A nobleman of nature true! 
 
 Humbly he lived, upon "The Square", 
 
 Manly and kind, straight and sincere. 
 
 Not all the wealth that Britain boasts could buy 
 
 His loyalty to Erin, no! he'd rather die 
 
 Than to desert her cause, or to betray a friend, 
 
 And leal was he ever to end. 
 
 In BarnacarroU now his body lays; 
 
 No pillared column answers in his praise. 
 
 Round him the free winds sing sweet nature's song. 
 
 While those he fought for careless pass along. 
 
 Ah! years gone by they'd gladly grasp his hand 
 
 And cheer him, as his voice rung o'er the land, 
 
 Bidding them firmly stand and fight the cause 
 
 Of Erin, crushed by Britain's tyrant laws. 
 
 Who was that man Why once all knew him well, 
 Loved Davitt knew him, and the great Parnell. 
 He did brave work when started the Land League, 
 And in the cause knew not what was fatigue, 
 To help the poor oppressed, he'd travel far. 
 "Kilmainham" knew him, aye! and "Gastlebar", 
 Because of his belief in man's free speech 
 And that their landed rights he'd to the tenants teach. 
 
 I knew him, yes, and knew him thus to be 
 Whole-souled and true; yea, all sincerity. 
 Lord keep his soul, 0! may it ever wing 
 Through heavenly lanes where angel choirs sing. 
 And to posterity may his name go down, 
 Patrick J. Gordon of Claremorris Town. 
 
 —April 6, 1913. 
 
 135 
 
THE "VOICE FROM GALWAY." 
 
 (Respectfully inscribed to Stephen M. Faherty.) 
 
 Hearken to our brothers calling, 
 
 From where Corrib's waters flow 
 And the mountain dew is falling 
 
 On the verdant plains below, 
 Where the cattle of the grazier 
 
 Fatten on the grassy ground, 
 And the scarlnt-coated blazer 
 
 Urges on the horse and hound. 
 
 But where Erin's faithful children 
 
 From the bare, bleak mountainside 
 Get but just a scanty living. 
 
 While the yelling huntsmen ride 
 O'er the valleys, rich and smiling, 
 
 Where the grazier's cattle roam; 
 Where you see no spadesmen toiling, 
 
 Whore you see no cottage home. 
 
 Ah! 'twas God made Erin's mountains, 
 
 And He made the plains, as well. 
 Long 'fore Cromwell forged the Slogan 
 
 "Go to Connaught or to hell!" 
 And God made them, aye, and blessed them 
 
 For the childrc^i of the Gael. 
 And with heaven's smile caressed them 
 
 Hills and dells of Innisfail. 
 
 Sure 'twas ne'er decreed in heaven 
 
 That the toiling sons of man 
 Should be up on the mountains driven. 
 
 While the sheep and bullocks ran 
 O'er where God meant man to labor, 
 
 Digging deep the fruitful earth. 
 Living peaceful with his neighbor, 
 
 There of plenty being no dearth. 
 
 Rout the cattle; keep on driving, 
 
 On those plains homes must arise. 
 From whence fires of peasants thriving 
 
 Waft their smoke to heaven's skies 
 As an incense softly floating 
 
 To the throne of Him above, ^ 
 
 Who all earthly deeds is noting, 
 
 King of kings, I he god of love. 
 
 Hearken to our brothers' calling, 
 
 "Gome and aid us in the fray. 
 Help us burst the chains enthralling 
 
 That encircle us today." 
 
 130 
 
Irish exiles, hear the pleading 
 
 Of the Connemara Gael, 
 'Tis our aid they're sadly needing, 
 
 In this fight they must not fail. 
 
 Connaught's valiant sons were never 
 
 Backward answering the foe; 
 'Neath her standard ready ever, 
 
 Leitrim, Sligo, Ross, Mayo 
 And the Tribal County's manhood, 
 
 All united for the fray; 
 And today as one they'll answer 
 
 Through "a voice from old Galway." 
 
 December 28, 1913. 
 
 THE COMING OF THE DAWN. 
 
 0! the dawn it is robing my "Dark Rosaleen," 
 
 And the scarps of her mountains are catching the sheen; 
 
 The emerald and azure atinted with gold; 
 
 Shining bright as the sceptre that decked her of old. 
 
 And fresh o'er the graves of her sages it brings, 
 
 The herald of freedom a-spreading its wings, 
 
 A-fllling the valleys with gladness and song. 
 
 Like an angel of hope bearing tidings along, 
 
 The tidings that into a soul sheds a gleam 
 
 That is lighting thine now, 0! my "Dark Rosaleen!" 
 
 For centuries long, 0! my little "Dark Rose," 
 
 Has been ruthlessly plundered and wronged by her foes. 
 
 But her soul over lit with the holiest light, 
 
 Nurtured hope in her breast through the long darkening 
 
 night, 
 And the embers kept burning in cottage and fane, 
 Oft blazed up but to vanish in ashes again. 
 There to slumber in tears until happier days. 
 When the tongue that she loves sings again in her praise, 
 And her children in rapture are hailing their queen, 
 In the blush of the dawn 0! my "Dark Rosaleen!" 
 
 At last you are smiling, my "Dark Rosaleen!" 
 
 And beauteous thou art in thy bright robes of green. 
 
 Tho' the traces of sorrow are yet on thy brow; 
 
 0! who that has known thee could not love thee now? 
 
 Thou rarest of mothers! thou fairest of isles! 
 
 May heaven now bless thee with liberty's smiles. 
 
 And thy children will greet the© in thundering tone, 
 
 With a caed mile failthe again to thine own 
 
 While their thoughts will drift back from whever the've 
 
 been 
 With hearts filled with love for their "Dark Rosaleen." 
 
 October 5, 1913. 
 
 137 
 
MA BRIT ANN TO HER STEPSONS IN IRELAND. 
 
 Dear Patsy and Micky, come, put on your brogues 
 
 And grab yer-shillalialis to slather the rogues 
 
 That are lambasting Ma Brity with cannon ball pogues. 
 
 Every loyal stepson to his duty! 
 I've a shilling right here to stick in your fist, 
 Loved stepsons of mine should step up and enlist. 
 Tho' 'tis often, ye divils, yer necks I did twist 
 
 You're quite welcome now as a recruity. 
 
 And tho' Micky and Patsy, ye're thick and ye're blunt, 
 'Tis a nice place I've got for ye out at the front, 
 Where the fighting is fiercest, let ye bear the brunt, 
 
 And if ye're not kilt I'm a beauty. 
 Sure, as scrappers ye're famous both near and afar; 
 Oh, the devil may take ye wherever ye are; 
 To ye'er fond aspirations I've oft put a bar. 
 
 And I stole from ye millions of booty. 
 
 Ah, Patsy and Micky, yer hearts are so kind 
 That all me wrongdoings have long left yer mind. 
 What yer patriots died for ye know 'twas but wind. 
 
 Arrah, darlings, ain't Stepma the cuteyl 
 Sure, 'tis valiantly ever yer blood ye did spill, 
 For, faith, 'twas myself did a lot of ye kill. 
 May the Germans do likewise, I'll pray that they will. 
 
 Then who'll cry for my Irish recruitey? 
 
 Ah, throth, Micky and Patsy, 'tis Erin will weep 
 When in trenches of France in death's arms ye sleep. 
 Oh, may sweet desolation o'er all yer race creep 
 
 To comply with Ma Brit's sworn duty. 
 So step right out now, boys, and tackle my foe, 
 For the quicker ye leave 'tis the faster ye go. 
 And my own dandy chappies can stay home, ye know, 
 
 When I've fools like the Irish recruitey. 
 
 — December 2, 1914. 
 
 138 
 
DID YOU EVER GET A FIT. IF NOT, THEN HOEY'S 
 
 YOUR MAN. 
 
 Did you ever get a fit? A proper fit at that? 
 
 I do not mean a pair of shoes, a collar or a hat, 
 
 But a fit of nobby scenery, an overcoat or suit. 
 
 There's one swell tailor in this town, faith, he's the boy can 
 
 do it — 
 For style, for quality and fit, patterns quiet and showy; 
 Go, leave your orders and be pleased by Tailor Patrick Hoey. 
 
 Now, Hoey is an Irishman, of that there is doubt, 
 And he's an artist in his line, he fits the lean or stout. 
 His prices are within the reach of every workingman, 
 Although his clothes are built upon the best and surest plan. 
 No matter how the weather is, let it be warm or blowy, 
 You're comfortable if your duds are made by P. J, Hoey. 
 
 The man that's square and up to date is worthy of your trade 
 And no one can deny the facts the're strictly true as said. 
 For who that knows this tailor man and who that him has 
 
 met 
 But ever found in every way he's fair and square, you bet? 
 So here's a tip, go get a fit and life will seem more glowy 
 When you're decked out in scenery made by Tailor Patrick 
 
 Hoey. 
 
 Five thousand styles you can select, the fabrics — nothing 
 
 finer; 
 There's cut and fit and fashion, too, all by a crack designer. 
 And, sure, they say clothes make the man — 'tis true and well 
 
 you know it. 
 A well-made suit and overcoat on any figure show it. 
 So by car or 'bus 'thout any fuss, to Fifty-fourth street go ye, 
 Then at 941 Sixth avenue find the store of Padraig Hoey. 
 
 139 
 
LOON-NA-MORE. 
 
 (Respectfully inscribed lo the Mayo Men's Association.) 
 
 'Tis thro' the miles that lie between 
 
 With spirit hands we clasp, 
 And face the maze of might have been 
 
 In friendship's manly grasp. 
 O'er memory's cup we'll drink the toast: 
 
 "She never feared a foe," 
 Who of loyal sons has raised a host — 
 
 Our own beloved Mayo. 
 
 Let's stand in fancy on the crest 
 
 Of famous Loon-na-More, 
 And gaze upon those brave and best — 
 
 The comrades true of yore. 
 Eight thousand of as loyal men 
 
 As ever faced the foe, 
 Who sealed the doom of tyranls Ihen 
 
 In valiant old Mayo. 
 
 They were prepared to do or die, 
 
 No quarter would they ask 
 Nor give. They swore by Him on high. 
 
 Their hearts were in their task. 
 That Dempsey held his little cot 
 
 Was due to them we know\ 
 A deed like this can't be forgot 
 
 By men of brave Mayo. 
 
 Two baronies were called upon 
 
 To send their Fenian sons. 
 Well to the order did respond 
 
 Those true and dauntless ones, 
 They marched all night o'er hill and dale. 
 
 At dawn drew up before 
 A cabin in that sheltered vale 
 
 'Neath famous Loon-na-More. 
 
 Men of Claremorris and Kilmaine, 
 
 Who duty did that day. 
 Proved British forces were in vain 
 
 And Blosse ne'er said them nay. 
 Tho' backed by England's armed men 
 
 He feared his strength to show 
 'Gaint Irish sons who marshaled then, 
 
 Would speak for old Mayo. 
 
 140 
 
Oh, honor to fhosc I rue and brave, 
 
 The Fenian rank and file, 
 Some sleep within the green-turfed grave 
 
 In their own loved native isle; 
 And some, they rest in other lands — 
 
 Scattered the wide world o'er, 
 May God bless all true hearts and hands 
 
 Like those at Loon-na-More! 
 
 The above poem is written on one of the first evictions 
 slated to take place after the Land League was launched 
 by the immortal Davit t. Sir Robert Lynch Blosse, who 
 owned a large estate in and around the town of Balla, took 
 up the gauntlet and boasted he would break the power of 
 the League and put it out of business. He therefore served 
 notice of eviction on one of his tenants, Anthony Dempsey 
 who, owing to illness, was in arrears for rent. The chief 
 center of the Mayo L R. B.'s, who were the real backers 
 of Davitt's "desperate scheme," called upon two baronies to 
 furnish men to prevent the eviction, and four thousand 
 men from the Baronies of Glaremorris and Kilmaine re- 
 sponded. Though the British government lent all the aid 
 possible for the purpose, the garrison at Gastlebar being 
 ready to furnish soldiers, Dublin Castle, hundreds of the 
 Royal Irish Constabulary, for some reason or other. Sir 
 Robert never carried out the eviction. This was the first 
 victory for the Land League, and those of the Irish people 
 who own their own farms today can, in all justice thank 
 the Irish Revolutionary Brotherhood of Mayo for what 
 has been accomplished. J. P. R. 
 
 141 
 
A TRIBUTE. 
 
 (Dedicated to Mrs. Teresa G. Brayton.) 
 Proud daughter of our sore tried land 
 Fair woman with the poet's soul, 
 Thou've sought the caves of knowledge grand, 
 And inspiration was thy goal; 
 Thou found it in the magic maze 
 Of memories sweet of long ago, 
 'Midst scenes and forms of other days, 
 The dear true friends you used to know. 
 And round it you a wreath have wove, 
 Of tender thoughts, in accents sweet, 
 Then bound it o'er with bands of love, 
 And laid it at thy idol's feet. 
 Thy idol yes, thy joy, thy pride 
 The sainted isle, loved Innisfail, 
 Fair emerald on the ocean's tide. 
 The home of Shamrock and of Gael, 
 To know thee is but to admire 
 Thy sentiments, so leal, so grand, 
 'Tis only love could thus inspire 
 Thee with such thoughts of our dear land. 
 I've met thee once, thy voice I heard, 
 I saw thy proud bosom rise and fall. 
 The soul within thee plainly stirred. 
 And love for Erin backed it all. 
 These lines, fresh from my humble pen, 
 I dedicate fair bard to thee, 
 With hopes that Innisfail again 
 Will stand, a nation once more free. 
 
 CLAREMORRIS MEMORIES. 
 
 He was only a simble cobbler, with the heart of a man 
 within, 
 
 And love of the land that gave him birth was his beset- 
 ting sin. 
 
 How he loved to read to his cronies old, who cheered with 
 true applause 
 
 Some passage bold that in language told the advance of the 
 good old cause. 
 
 0, I was only a youngster then — a small little shaver lad, 
 But to sit on the hob as Pat read out was enough to make 
 
 me glad. 
 And now through the lapse of bygone years I can see that 
 
 grand old face 
 Light up, 'till he seemed to my boyish mind like a chief of 
 
 our Gaelic race. 
 
 142 
 
Oh, ^hose ^indeed were the happy days, tho' little I thought 
 
 ^""^ ^^l^.'in''^ '^'^^ ^^"^ ^^^""^ ^^ "^y "^e to have them back 
 Just ^-,,«^-^|^^P^the^^ane w^ his cottage stood and gaze 
 
 ^'^^ hfs b?nch''he' sa?'''''^^' ^-"^^^^^"^ ^^^^s, as there at 
 
 'Tis well, then, do I remember how Malachy, Dick and Tom 
 James, and Jim, and the staunch P. j., discusse.^ the S 
 and wrong ^ xisuu 
 
 In Pat Canton's cottage, up Chapel Lane, at eve as the sun 
 went down 
 
 In a golden blaze— oh, those good old days in sweet Glare- 
 morns town! 
 
 SWEET ISLAND OF MY DREAMS. 
 
 To you my heart with fondest love 
 
 Will e'er revert, "Dark Rosaleen," 
 
 No matter wheresoe'er I rove 
 
 I cling to thee, my Emerald Queen, 
 
 And tho' the alien land may hold 
 
 A home for m6 where freedom gleams, 
 
 My pulsing heart could ne'er grow cold 
 
 To you, sweet island of my dreams. 
 
 And tho I lent a willing ear 
 To wanderlust's alluring call, 
 'Midst all the shores I trod on dear, 
 Yours were the fairest of them all. 
 Or when in Neptune's arms I tossed 
 Awake, asleep, it ever seems 
 My soul the pathway never lost 
 To -you, sweet island of my dreams. 
 
 I only wish the day had come 
 When freedom's crown again you wore, 
 And of the wealth you had but some 
 The tyrant stole from you, Asthore 
 From o'er the earth a shout of joy 
 Would flashing go in thundering screams, 
 Proclaiming the dark night's gone by 
 For you, sweet island of my dreams. 
 
 REFRAIN. 
 
 Of my night the sun at morrow. 
 Of my hopes the star that beams 
 In the midst of joy or sorrow, 
 Through my soul in freshing streams 
 Memory's magic river flowing 
 Fills my life with heavenly gleams. 
 When in fancy o'er you going, 
 Sweetest island of my dreams. 
 
 —October, 1912. 
 143 
 
ISLAND OF SAINTS AND SCHOLARS. 
 
 Isle of the West, where the Druid and Gael 
 
 And chiefs of old held high wassail, 
 
 Where art and science and warriors bold 
 
 Were nurtured and lived in the days of old, 
 
 Where scholars learned, and saints sublime, 
 
 Shed light on the nations of that clime, 
 
 And spread civilization's brightest ray 
 
 O'er a world of darkness and decay. 
 
 Nobly thou've weathered the gale and storm 
 
 That crushed and oppressed you in every form; 
 
 Onward you've plodded long weary years 
 
 While the orphan's cry and the widows' tears 
 
 Welled up from thy bosom. Oh, dear, dear land, 
 
 Hard-pressed by the tyrant's bloody hand, 
 
 But sorrow and trouble did only cleave 
 
 The bonds of love, tho' thy heart did grieve 
 
 For thy children brave, by the tyrant slain, 
 
 'Cause their God and their rights they would maintain. 
 
 Isle of tradition, and history grand, 
 
 Thy children scattered in every land. 
 
 Still woo thee, and give thee undying love 
 
 And blessings ask thee from above. 
 
 What other land in the world can say 
 
 My children's love is as strong today 
 
 As it was when chieftain with chieftain vied 
 
 In a game of kings on the mountain side. 
 
 And deeper and deeper it ever grows, 
 
 Like a river, as on to the sea it flows. 
 
 Gathering fresh triumphs and wreaths to lay 
 
 On thy brow with love that shall live for aye? 
 
 Dear, dear old land of the proud, proud Gelt, 
 
 Oh, deep are the wounds by the Briton dealt — 
 
 Spilled thy best blood, but could ne'er efface 
 
 Thy language old, nor thy pride of race. 
 
 'Tis spoken today, and they've multiplied 
 
 Strong as the waves on the ocean's tide. 
 
 Thy rockbound coast where the waves beat high, 
 
 Sending the white spray towards heaven's blue sky, 
 
 Wondrous and wild is the ocean's lay 
 
 'Midst thy crags and caves where the wild fowl play. 
 
 Round thee the voice of the tempests ring 
 
 From the ocean's sweep the free winds sing 
 
 Nature's old song, while the lightning's flash 
 
 Illumes the rocks, where the wild waves dash. 
 
 Thousands of years you have thus withstood 
 
 The action of wind and wave and flood. 
 
 Hoary thy head, but a hand unseen 
 
 Has placed on thy brow a crown of green, 
 
 lU 
 
An mantled thee fresh as a blushing bride — 
 An emerald pure and the ocean's pride. 
 Beauteous thou art to the passing eye, 
 Veiled with a gold and azure sky, 
 Blooming as fruitful as Aaron's rod 
 Blessed by the true and the living God. 
 Dear, dear old land, how I long to see 
 Thee a nation again, and once more free. 
 
 —September 11, 1909. 
 
 ERIN ASTOIR. 
 
 0, Erin, acushla, the cloud's disappearing 
 
 That shadowed thee, loved one, for centuries past. 
 The bright star of freedom the firmament's clearing, 
 
 Thy dark night of sorrow forever has passed. 
 Sure, over thy bosom a glad change is sweeping, 
 
 The tongue of the Gael in sweet cadence once more 
 Is heard everywhere, for again in the keeping 
 
 Of thy children is centered thy loved soil, asthore. 
 
 0, Erin, alanna, thy valleys are smiling 
 
 With verdure fresh springing and wet with the dew, 
 And with cots dotted o'er 'tis a picture beguiling, 
 
 Sure, nature seems beaming her best smiles on you, 
 While the voices of children o'er hill and dale singing, 
 
 Their gladsome notes ringing from center to shore, 
 In praise of high heaven, that surely is bringing 
 
 The bright dawn of freedom to crown thee once more. 
 
 0, Erin, mavourneen, the exile returning 
 
 Is struck with thy beauty, entranoingly sweet. 
 You've oast off the pall of thy long night of mourning. 
 
 And the friend and the" stranger you smilingly greet. 
 0, God bless you, Erin, may bright be your morning, 
 
 Prosperity crowning your days evermore 
 With plenty and peace, hill and valley adorning, 
 
 That's the wish of thy children, green Erin, asthore. 
 
 145 
 
IN LOVING MEMORY 
 
 (Of the martyr patriots of the Irish Republic who so nobly 
 fought Easter week, 1916, that the soul of Ireland might 
 live forever.) 
 
 Let humble rhymer pen a verse 
 In memory of the brothers Pearse, 
 McDonogh, Connolly and Clark, 
 Whose souls alight with Freedom's spark, 
 Burst forth in manhood's true array 
 In Dublin town Easter Monday. 
 
 Of McDermott, Daly and McBride, 
 
 Who as freemen fought, like heroes died; 
 
 Of Plunkett, Tom and Edmund Kent, 
 
 All faced the foe in heart content ^ 
 
 That Erin's soul might live alway; 
 
 In Dublin town Easter Monday, 
 
 'Twas for death or glorious liberty 
 Did fight the brave O'Rahilly. 
 'Neath Freedom's flag he proudly stood 
 And gave his all, a true man's blood. 
 That Erin's soul might pride alway 
 Of Dublin town that Easter day. 
 
 'Twas 'gainst fearful odds, not man to man, 
 Stood Henston, Mallon, O'Hanrahan, 
 Their comrades Erin's truest sons; 
 Fate placed them 'midst the deathless ones. 
 For a martyr's crown they bore away 
 From Motherland that Easter day. 
 
 The tyrant's blood thirst ne'er appeased, 
 The gentle Skeffmgton was seized 
 And done to death in lawless mood 
 At hands of Britain's mongrel brood 
 For tho' innocent, he murdered lay 
 In Dublin town that Easter day. 
 
 King of all men, God of our sires, 
 'Twas Thy hand lit the quenchless fires 
 Of freedom in the soul of man 
 Through ages since the world began 
 Then make the ruthless tyrant pay 
 For Dublin town Easter Monday. 
 
 146 
 
Foul hypocrite, devoid of shame, 
 
 Besteeped in greed yet makes the claim; 
 
 "Protector he of nations small" 
 
 And He blood guilty of them all. 
 
 For hell's own game his cubs did play 
 
 In Dublin's town each Easter day. 
 
 In silence let a nation's tears 
 Bedew the soil where freedom rears 
 Its standard nurtured in dauntless hearts 
 Of men who nobly played their parts 
 And fought and died 'neath freedom's ray 
 In Erin's Isle each Easter day. 
 
 —March 27, 1917. 
 
 THOU QUEEN OF THE ISLES, IRELAND. 
 
 Ah! Ireland, my beautiful Ireland, 
 
 Mother gra, milish machree. 
 Sure 'tis over your mountain and mireland 
 
 My soul's ever longing to be. 
 For the years and the miles that divide us 
 
 Ne'er could make me forgetful of you, 
 And tho' tyrant and foe may deride us, 
 
 'Tis the core of heart tells you true. 
 
 REFRAIN. 
 
 In my dreams when at night I am sleeping, 
 
 In my thoughts thro' the whole day long, 
 I grieve for your proud soul a-weeping 
 
 You so tender, who ne'er did a wrong 
 To the tyrant who has ravaged, defamed thee; 
 
 Pure, fair little mother so grand, 
 Whose bosom still pulses so proudly, 
 
 Thou queen of the isles, Ireland. 
 
 01 Ireland, acushla, Mavourneen, 
 
 Were endearments a thousand times more 
 To spring forth from my soul fondly yearning, 
 
 For a glimpse of you, aulin astoir. 
 Sure, I'd send them all over with gladness. 
 
 With my prayers to high heaven for you. 
 If they only would banish the sadness 
 
 That is yours, for I now tell you true. 
 
 147 
 
ACUSHLA GRA MACHREE. 
 
 The sons of other lands may boast, 
 
 That their land is the best, 
 
 And with a children's love will toast 
 
 The soil those footsteps blest, 
 
 But I will sing of one green isle, 
 
 So true and fair is she, 
 
 May heaven freedom on her smile, 
 
 Acushla gra Machree. x 
 
 Where can you find in other lands 
 
 Killarney's lakes and fells. 
 
 Bray's purple head and silvery strands 
 
 Avoca's vale and dells. 
 
 The lordly Shannon, Smiling Suir 
 
 Grand LifTey, beauteous Lee? 
 
 'Tis proud of you we can be, sure, 
 
 Acushla gra Machree. 
 
 Where is the other land can boast 
 
 A mount' like Eagle's Nest 
 
 Or road like that by Antrim's coast 
 
 Or hill like Tara, blest 
 
 A Glonmacnoise, Gap of Dunlow 
 Or lake like famed Lough Neagh? 
 Who wonders that we love you so 
 Acushla gra Machree 
 
 'Tis sure an isle by heaven blest 
 With wealth of mineral store, 
 And tho' for centuries oppressed 
 Her children love her more. 
 Then let men boast of other lands. 
 But I will sing of thee, 
 Green Erin of the Silvery Strands, 
 Acushla gra Machree. 
 
 July, 1912. 
 
 148 
 
FRIENDS OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Friends of Freedom, Ireland needs you. 
 And has true hearts yet to lead you, 
 1 he God of Justice e'er will speed yon 
 In this noble fight; ^ 
 
 Oh, hear our kin in Erin calling 
 Cast aside those traitors galling" 
 Recreant knaves we loathe their crawlin^ 
 Let s up strike for the right. 
 
 Refrain: 
 
 Then loose that tricolor asunder 
 
 l;lag, our kinsmen battle under ' 
 
 Honor, failh and truth and justice 
 
 Be our war cry let it thunder- 
 
 Then onward we who know the story 
 
 Of the British tryant gory. 
 
 The cause is just and loads to glory 
 
 Freedom, God and right. 
 
 Friends of freedom what's the matter'? 
 fehall we trust in knavish chatter'? 
 Action, force alone will shatter 
 Ireland's galling chain; 
 The foe our motherland is blighting, 
 fetand we here like cravens frighting'? 
 When we should be nobly fighting 
 The republic to maintain. 
 
 Refrain: 
 
 Then up the tricolor awaving, 
 
 True men never stooped to craving 
 
 -bace all foemen proudly braving 
 
 Tyranny and might; 
 
 E're with De Valera standing. 
 
 Erm through him us commanding 
 
 Neer again our ranks disbanding 
 
 Till Erm gains her right. 
 
 July 4, 1922. 
 
 149 
 
TO REV. FATHER TIMOTHY SHANLEY. 
 
 (Respectfully inscribed to the young County Leitrim sog- 
 garth whose labors among the colored Catholics of Greater 
 New York is truly a work of wonders, upon which the 
 blessing of God rests with heavenly smiles. May the fair 
 at the Church of St. Benedict the Moor, No. 342 West 
 Fifty-third street, be crowned with magnificent success.) 
 
 Ireland, my sireland, your mountains, lakes and mireland 
 By bounteous Nature fitly set upon your bosom green, 
 
 Make you a rich and rare land, a true, a fresh and fair land. 
 God set you on the ocean's breast, the brightest gem e'er 
 seen. 
 
 Your sons the world over, sure, 'mongst men are manly men; 
 Your daughters, beauteous, bright and pure, are faithful 
 to the core. 
 And tho' the ocean waves divide them from their native 
 vale or glen. 
 Their thoughts are ever wafting to the absent emerald 
 shore. 
 If Holy Church their help should need they're ever right in 
 line; 
 They know not race, nor clan, nor creed — 'tis God made 
 one and all; 
 Then faith and hope and charity in solid way they will de- 
 fine. 
 That Erin's gallant children, aye, from Cork to Donegal. 
 So Ireland, our sireland, tho' far we're from your mireland, 
 'Tis shoulder right to shoulder we will stand with Father 
 Tim! 
 God bless the noble work he does — oh, Erin, dear, 'tis simply 
 grand 1 
 Come, Irish exiles, fall in line and give good aid to him. 
 
 —April 3, 1915. 
 
 150 
 
THE BIG LEITRIM BALL. 
 
 St. Patrick's night's here, my dear; where are you going to? 
 The big Leitrim ball, where the Irish we'll meet aroo'l 
 Oh, sure 'tis the grand music there will appeal to you, 
 As we dance to the tune of "Green Erin, Go Bragh"; 
 All of the boys from the darling old West, 
 All of the cailins from Connaught, the blest; 
 We'll meet there acushla bawn — come, get your ball gown on, 
 To the New Star Casino we're going agra. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Then here's to old Ireland, the gem of the wave; 
 Tyranny never her sons could enslave 
 While such a spirit lives as each proud exile gives 
 Who is present this night at the big Leitrim ball. 
 
 Ah, hear the crowd shout! Oh, begobs can't they step a bit! 
 
 Did you ever see jigging or reeling to equal it? 
 
 There's the "Blackberry Blossom"; oh, doesn't it make a hit! 
 
 See how they trip it, acushla machree; 
 
 Come, sure my feet can't be easy at all. 
 
 Faith, I'm glad that we came to this big Leitrim ball! 
 
 Joyous the throng in it — and we belong in it, 
 
 So step out mavourneen, and dance this with me. 
 
 Oh, look at the shamrock! The dew, faith, is yet on it; 
 St. Patrick himself, dear, must sure blew his breath on it! 
 And faix now the devil could not be the death of it, 
 'Twill live like the nation, for ever and all! 
 
 Oh, sure the New Star is crowded tonight! 
 
 Did you ever see cailins or gossoons so bright? 
 
 Here's where the Irish are, they've come from near and far 
 
 To dance rings around at the big Leitrim ball. 
 
 i&l 
 
THE NOSEGAY. 
 
 'Tis strange how things will turn up tho' hidden away for 
 
 years 
 
 That brings to memory's page a thought of time that 
 
 life endears 
 And tho' it oft may bring a sigh there's too a thrill of joy 
 For it brings a fellow back to days when he was but a boy. 
 I found within my trunk a box I brought from sweet Mayo 
 When I left home and all I loved more than twenty years 
 
 ago 
 Within it was what once had been a blooming fresh nosegay 
 I plucked outside Sweet Castlebar in Ireland far away. 
 
 Sure now I see as then I saw those pansies' lovely dyes 
 The shades I used to see within an Irish colleen's eyes, 
 And faith the faded ivy is once more a vivid green 
 The rosebud blooms just like her cheeks the fairest e'er I've 
 
 seen. 
 You wonder why I'm sobbing now, why, to wet them with my 
 
 tears 
 For sure the poor things must be dry after all those weary 
 
 years 
 Since I took them from her tresses fair one glorious even in 
 
 May 
 E'er I left sweet County Mayo in old Ireland far away. 
 
 0, there's many a slip 'twixt cup and lip in this world of care 
 
 and strife 
 And to youth hills afar look greener than they would in 
 
 later life, 
 Sure fortune is a fickle jade and fate's a strange one, too; 
 Faith they're the ones acushla that has kept me far from you 
 You ask me who I'm speaking to, why the colleen in my 
 
 mind, 
 Don't you see the fresh plucked nosegay and her standing 
 
 there behind? 
 Just as I used to see her when at eve as lad I'd stray 
 Through the fields outside sweet Castlebar is Ireland far 
 
 away. 
 
 —July 30, 1917. 
 
 15^ 
 
WHEN MAYO LEADS THE WAY. 
 
 When Mayo leads the way, my boys, her standard waving 
 
 high, 
 Emblazoned there her slogan bold, we're here to do or die, 
 Beneath its folds her gallant sons in brotherly array. 
 'Tis faugh-a-ballagh, fall in line, when Mayo leads the way. 
 When Mayo leads the way, my boys, be it war or peace, 
 Until the object is attained her efforts never cease. 
 The first to try and right a wrong, the last to leave thefray, 
 'Tis faught-a-ballagh, win we must, when Mayo leads the 
 
 way. 
 
 When Mayo leads the way, my boys, as oft she did of yore, 
 No tyrant band could ever stand her valiant sons before. 
 They fought the fight of right 'gainst might and England 
 
 knows today 
 That Davitt's spirit still lives on and Mayo leads the way. 
 
 When Mayo leads the way, my boys, in pastimes of the Gael, 
 Her sturdy sons, her dauntless ones, know not the word 
 
 called fail. 
 In hall or field they ne'er would yield, while bright eyes 
 
 flashing gay 
 Of colleens fair would spur them on, when Mayo leads the 
 way. 
 
 When Mayo leads the w^ay, my boys, to strains of music 
 
 sweet. 
 And o'er the floor old Terpiscore will glide with flying feet, 
 A joyous throng will move along, both lad and lass so gay, 
 In feats of light fantastic, boys, when Mayo leads the way. 
 
 When Mayo leads the way, my boys, at her next annual ball, 
 
 Each sturdy Gael from Granuaile, rejoicing one and all, 
 
 In sunny smiles of colleens sweet, who in bantering tones 
 
 will say, 
 Ah, faugh-a-ballagh for Ireland's pride when Mayo leads 
 
 the way. 
 
 153 
 
TALK VERSUS WORK. 
 
 Lip battle never won a fight against an armed foe, 
 For windy words but hit the air, and with the breezes blow 
 Into a sea of nothingness chock full of empty boast, 
 Where bubble ships loud mouthed strand upon a frothy 
 coast. 
 
 Now bombast ne'er did drop a bomb upon a submarine. 
 Nor bull and bunk ne'er spitted foe upon a bayonet keen. 
 Wind pudding never fed a corps of soldiers fit to fight, 
 And muzzle loaded know it all's more often wrong than right. 
 
 What-we-can-do's are always late in entering the strife, 
 The do-it-now's are e'er the ones who put the pep in life, 
 The wait-a-whiles get often lost in their own verbose do- 
 mains, 
 While act-at-once gets on the job and something e'er attains. 
 
 The what-we-did's in wandering midst the cobwebs of the 
 
 past 
 Forget that men and times have changed and history's 
 
 making fast, 
 Superfluous amount of talk will never win the day. 
 While ignorant intelligence in the aggregate holds sway. 
 
 So let us in the parlance of the realm known as slang, 
 Can all the wagging wooden tongues that from mutton domes 
 
 have rang 
 Loud peals of warry chatter eloquent of meddlers' chimes, 
 While we train them and we teach them the true trend o*" 
 
 the times. 
 
 Work wins, in union there is strength, let this our slogan be 
 And not our energies waste on a blase verbosity. 
 For actions louder speak than words remember all who may. 
 Then do your bit to make a hit for the good old U. S. A. 
 
 154 
 
ENGLAND. 
 
 (Sincerely dedicated to the members of the All-Ireland Boys 
 and Girls, whose grand annual ball at Plaza Assembly 
 Rooms on St. Patrick's night will be in aid of St. Gertrude's 
 R. G. Church, West Conshohocken, Pa ) 
 
 Perfidious Britain, in thy holiest mood, 
 
 Thou'd rule the world with treacherous iron hand* 
 
 Cursed be thy empire and thy boastful brood 
 Barren the rocks on which thy junkers stand 
 
 Mine IS not hate born of hate alone, 
 
 ,^?^tJove of injured isle where youth I passed. 
 
 If m the fires of hell I must atone 
 For hating thee, I'll hate you to the last I 
 
 You in your pride of place no mercy showed 
 
 To foemen weak yet worthy of your steel. 
 And blood of 'fenseless child and mother flowed— 
 
 Aye, your savage ears heard not the ageds' appeal, 
 And virtues' altars, desecrated, stood 
 
 The virgin murdered by your savage brute; 
 Yea, you tramplest the fairest flowers of matronhood— 
 
 You smile, you laugh, but ah! you can't refute. 
 
 You prate of treaties now! When hast thou kept 
 
 Save towards a foeman strong thy written word 
 With pirate zeal the seven seas you swept— 
 
 Not right, but might, your base soul ever stirred, 
 And hate you thus have, sown in every clime. 
 
 Subdued, with heart aflame, your victim lays, 
 Tis vengeance slumbering lightly 'till the time 
 
 For freedom comes— then dread the hand he'll raise. 
 
 February 27, 1915. 
 
 155 
 
MAYO, THE DAUNTLESS. 
 
 Queenly she sits where the wild waves are beating 
 
 O'er boulders that girdle her rock-bound shore, 
 Proudly she smiles as the winds bid her greeting 
 
 In accents as true as her son's song of yore. 
 Over Clew Bay again comes freedom's well-known ring — 
 
 Granna's sea warriors have vanquished the foe, 
 While from Croagh Patrick's crest on to the furthest west 
 
 Goes the old war cry of dauntless Mayo. 
 
 On from Killala the slogan comes ringing 
 
 O'er vale, lake and mountain to Lough Mask afar, 
 And answering shouts from old Nephin 'tis bringing, 
 
 A-mingled with echoes from famed Castlebar. 
 The West's awake again! Thro' every vale and glen 
 
 Steadily marching the Volunteers go. 
 Irishtown and Loonamore, well fought in days of yore, 
 
 Doubtless the glory of dauntless Mayo. 
 
 Ne'er has she bowed to the will of the spoiler; 
 
 Her hope always, ever, the green flag to see 
 Waving free o'er the head of each true Irish toiler 
 
 From Liffey to Moy, from the Foyle to the Lee, 
 Undaunted she stood the test, gave of her sons the best; 
 
 Nobly they ever have answered the foe — 
 Ireland a nation, still one and undivided, will 
 
 Be ever the war cry of dauntless Mayo. 
 
 —June 24, 1914. 
 
 15(1 
 
MY BOLD, TRUE KERRY MAN. 
 
 Barney Connors was a-courting Neliie Reilly from Tralee, 
 And every Wednesday evening, sure, he'd go his girl to see, 
 To tell her how he prized her, how he loved and idolized her, 
 How he'd shield her from all harm if his darling wife she'd 
 
 be. 
 And he whispered dearest Nellie, 0, don't blame me if I 
 
 tell ye 
 That you're the sweetest colleen I know for many miles. 
 0, she listened to his wooing, her love for him a-growing. 
 Then say with cheeks a-glowing, and wreathed all in smiles: 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Arrah Barney, stop your Blarney, 
 Easy known you're from Killarney — 
 From that county that gave Ireland 
 
 The great immortal Dan, 
 If ought should come to harm me, 
 For my sake you'd face an army; 
 0! that's why I love you, Barney — 
 
 My bold, true Kerry man. 
 
 Ah! come here to me dear Nellie, I've a secret love to tell ye, 
 I've a snug sum saved my darling, throth 'tis in the bank at 
 
 that; 
 And nobody I'll be owing, when tomorrow I'll be going 
 To furnish for my darling a tidy Harlem flat. 
 When 'tis churchward we'll be hieing, the folks will all be 
 
 eyeing 
 My pretty Kerry colleen, as the priest us two will wed. 
 Sure I knew you'd not be cruel, Nellie darling, you're a 
 
 jewel ; 
 0! what love smiles lit on Barney, as she blushing to him 
 
 said: 
 
 — November 2, 1912. 
 
 157 
 
THE FACE IN MY DREAM. 
 
 My soul in the mystical valley of memory was roaming along, 
 
 All dreamland like Musa's Elysium, was bathed in glory of 
 song; 
 
 While hope, like an angel of sweetness, was joyously aiding 
 my flight, 
 
 A vision entrancing appeareth enframed in a circle of light. 
 
 'Twas a face, aye a girlish visage— her eyes of the sky's 
 azure blue 
 
 The tresses that clustered around them like liquid gold sun- 
 light in hue. 
 
 And cheeks that m purity blended the blush of her soft ruby 
 lips, 
 
 Like rosebuds that kiss back to heaven the perfumed dew 
 drops from their tips. 
 
 1 gazed as a smile bid me greeting; did Paradise open her 
 gates 
 
 To the sinner repentant without them who anxiously en- 
 trance awaits? 
 
 Was this angelic creature before me a messenger God Him- 
 self sent 
 
 To bid me appear in His presence in the realms of Joy and 
 Content 
 
 Oh, what could I answer, I wondered when brought 'fore 
 the throne of His Grace I 
 
 Then a mist seemed to rise up before me that slowly en- 
 veloped the face, 
 
 I called to the fast fading vision till my pleading voice rose 
 to a scream, 
 
 And I woke to the realization that that fair fa€e was only a 
 dream. 
 
 A LULLABY. 
 
 There are two little eyes of brightest blue 
 
 That haunt me the whole day long; 
 A dear curly head of golden hue. 
 
 And a baby's prattling song 
 I see and I hear where'er I go, 
 
 And when I reach home at night 
 This lullaby's sang so sweet and low 
 
 To mamma's heart's delight. 
 
 158 
 
REFRAIN. 
 
 Go to sleep, sweet baby mine, sleep for your mamma, do 
 And in the morn the sun will shine, and the birds will bill 
 and coo; 
 
 Angels will guard my little one all through the long, dark 
 
 night, 
 So go away, bogie man, now run, from mamma's heart's 
 
 delight. 
 
 Sure 'tis richer I feel than any king 
 
 That wears a golden crown. 
 And happy am I as a song I sing 
 
 While I rock him up and down. 
 0, my life's complete for the picture sweet 
 
 Makes all the world seem bright 
 When I reach home and hear this lullaby 
 
 Sang to mamma's heart's delight 
 
 —New York, October, 1911. 
 
 COME BACK TO MOTHER MACHREE. 
 
 (Respectfully inscribed to that sterling son of Ireland, Dr. 
 
 William H. McGreevy, 145 West 66th street. New York) 
 Tis springtime in Ireland, the land of your birth, 
 And motherland's calling you back o'er the earth, 
 You sons and fair daughters of "Rosaleen Dhu", 
 Who she knews has been ever both leal and true- 
 For she wants you to see her in garb newly dressed, 
 With the buds and the flowers by Nature carressed. 
 And the birds sweetly singing o'er moorland and lea. 
 So list to call of your Mother Machree. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 0' come back my children, I'm waiting for you. 
 My mountains and valleys are glistening with dew; 
 And the shamrock is blooming in garden and plain' 
 Then come back my exiles to Mother again, 
 Yes, come back my exiles to Mother again. 
 
 0, the lark he will warble a love song for you 
 As he wings his way up to the skies azure blue; 
 And the hills they will greet you as onward you go 
 S^u-, ®.v^°^S?^ ^"^ ^^® mireland your childhood did know. 
 While the church bells will ring out their chimes as of old 
 As the sun in his glory of noon sheds his gold 
 Warm rays on my breast where the moorland and lea 
 Will be waiting to greet you for Mother Machree. 
 
 159 
 
^-Al 
 
 SPARKS FROM THE ANVIL OF THOUGHT. 
 
 Environment: The anchor that keeps my ship riding the 
 waves in the harbor of disontent while chance calls me to 
 the vast sea that lays beyond, fancy disporting on its throb- 
 bing bosom. The jailer that holds me with iron grip behind 
 the bars of fate while fortune's nymphs beckon to me from 
 
 the mystic realms to go join ambition's throng. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Sparrows may deck themselves in bird of paradise feath- 
 ers, but after they have run the gamut they And they are 
 
 still only sparrows. 
 
 * ♦ ♦ 
 
 The iron in one's soul must be well rusted ere the needle 
 in one's conscience pricks to the marrow. 
 
 ■k * * 
 
 It pays to be nearly honest unless one can afford to be 
 
 very crooked. 
 
 * * * 
 
 A "scrap of paper" under present conditions is only worth 
 its face value; such is the outcome of treating treaties 
 lightly. And yet one would imagine the nations fighting are 
 
 loudly shouting "Damn the expense". 
 
 * * * 
 
 It's an "011a Podrida" for fair now, for have we not beef, 
 bull, sauerkraut, sausages, macaroni, snails, laughing gas 
 and dynamite, with chop suey and other mysterious scraps 
 being added to the mixture, making it so much more nau- 
 seating? 
 
 * * * 
 
 Why, woman, lovely woman, couldn't have made a worse 
 mess of things if she tried with all of a vampire's hatred to 
 wreck and ruin the heaven of her bitterest rival, and yet 
 diplomacy has been the study of statesmen from time im- 
 memorial. I blush for you, civilization so-called. 
 
 ■♦ ♦ ♦ 
 
 Pretty near time for statecraft and kultur to be taking a 
 hitch in their pants, as woman suffrage will soon be a world- 
 wide reality. 
 
 160