72
AN GAOḊAL.
OUR MISERERE.
From Songs For Freedom, by Father McHale
As men who see, aghast and pale,
The lightning shocks
Strike down the oak trees in the vale,
And rend the rocks,
Just so the nations, mute, amazed,
Have seen the Gael,
Of manhood reft, of reason crazed,
Send out his wail,
His doleful "Miserere.”
Through countless stripes from slavery's rod,
We bent the knee,
For leave to starve upon the sod
God meant should be
Our home in youth, our grave in age.
Come woe, come weal.
What answer gave our masters sage
To this appeal,
This begging "Miserere."
Go, count the stately ships that flew
Before the wind,
The wild sharks mouth that it and slew,
The jaws that grind
Within the sea waves sullen lairs
Far out of view,
And you will see how our poor prayers
Were hearkened to,
Our helpless "Miserere."
Go count the ruined homes and hearts
Throughout the land,
Our kindred wrecked in foreign parts,
On foreign strands,
The price they set on heads of priests,
Our altars razed,
Our peasants hunted worse than beasts,
Despite our crazed,
Our frantic "Miserere:"
Remember how they sent to "hell
Or Connaught" men
Who served our ancient nation well
With sword and pen;
They filled the gibbets with our slain,
They crammed the graves
With noble hearts — while might and main
Our abject slaves
Still sued their "Miserere."
When famine slew our noble race,
Our masters saw,
Nor ever stirred one smallest pace,
Nor wrote a law,
To save the bravest race on earth,
God's noblest sons :
They answered in our days of dearth,
Through belching guns,
Our feeble "Miserere."
The white-corpsed features faced the sky,
By hunger slain,
The children saw their parents die
With looks of pain,
And soon they dropped beside them there,
They filled one grave,
And yet no gift, no word of prayer,
Our masters gave,
But cursed our "Miserere."
We starved upon the fairest soil
Beneath the sky,
Our honest brown-hand sons of toil
Did starve and die
Without one comfort from their birth,
One word of cheer,
Save that they loved their mother-earth
From birth to bier,
And prayed their "Miserere."
Then up our half starved masses rose
And wildly swore
Straight to front their sullen foes,
Though streams of gore
Should flow as winter torrents flow
When flood-gates burst,
But, ah! they struck a stronger blow,
And they hushed
Our moaning "Miserere.”
O Lord! Thou sawest our lovely land
Through piteous years,
So trampled, outraged, scourged, and banned,
Through blood and tears,
And Thou didst hear the prayers we prayed
When all was dark,
Though men of ours be sore afraid
Thou'lt send Thy ark,
Thou'lt hear our "Miserere."
Come, brothers mine, some day at last
Stand up be men:
Shout over the waves "the die is cast,
Our land again
Must yet be free through force of right,
Through voice and pen,
Or else by thunder force of might" —
Let that be then
Our fearless "Miserere."
Brother Philip Cassidy of St. Mary's College,
N. Carolina and Mr. Mahedy of Brooklyn are
the first to order the GAEL for the third year
