286
AN GAOḊAL.
áiriġe aig maga fúm; cúis ġáireaḋ ċug¬
ainn! B'ḟéidir sin; aċt ma ḃíḋean an
oiread spórt 's gairiġe acu as ta ag¬
am-sa, biḋean go leor síomsa acu; mar
gaċ uair do ċuiṁniġim air Gaḃan, tos¬
anuiġim aig gairiġe 'san t-siopa aig ob¬
air ("ċum cos a ċur stól”). Taim cor¬
ṫa! "am d-tromṡuan" ní h-aon iongna
Éire ḃeiṫ mar ta sí! aċt —
Ma ḟaġan an fear faol mam,
Tuille loċt leat agus liom;
Na cuir bac air, 's ċiḋfiḋ-se 'san am,
An níḋ do ġeaḃa-se os a ṡlíġe boċt cam.
ÉAMON Ui ĊAOIṀ
The Battle of the Curfew Mountain.
Sir Conyers Clifford, Governor of Connaught,
was despatched from Athlone with a large force a¬
gainst the Northern Clans. He took up his posi¬
tion at Boyle, where he was joined by the garrison
of that town.
O'Donnell who was impatient for the moment
which he was certain would be decisive of the fate
of his country, harangued his men in their native
language ; he showed them that the advantage of
their situation, alone gave them a decided superi¬
ority over their opponents. 'Moreover,' added he
'were we even deprived of those advantages I have
enumerated, we should trust to the great dispens¬
er of eternal justice, to the dreadful avenger of in¬
iquity and oppression, the success of our just and
righteous cause; he has already doomed to de¬
struction those assassins who have butchered our
wives and our children, plundered us of our prop¬
erties, set fire to our habitations, demolished our
churches and monasteries, and changed the face of
Ireland into a wild uncultivated desert. On this
day, more particularly, I trust to heaven for pro¬
tection ; a day dedicated to the greatest of all
saints, whom these enemies, contrary to all religion,
endeavor to vility, a day on which we have purifi¬
ed our consciences to defend honestly the cause of
justice against men whose hands are reeking with
blood, and who, not content with driving us from
our native plains, come to hunt us, like wild beasts,
into the mountains of Dunveeragh. But what !
I see you have not patience to hear a word more !
Brave Irishmen ! you burn for revenge. Scorn¬
ing the advantage of this impregnable situation, let
us rush down and show the world, that, guided by
the Lord of life and death, we exterminated those
oppressors of the human race : he who falls will
fall gloriously, fighting for justice, for liberty, and
for his country ; his name will be remembed while
there is an Irishman on the face of the earth, and
he who survives will be pointed at as the compan¬
ion of O'Donnell, and the defender of his country.
The congregations shall make way for him at the
altar, saying, that hero fought at the battle of
Duaveeragh.'
The English were completely routed, and Gov.
Clifford slain.
Dr. O'Donovan says, — Being thus religiously
armed, the prince of Tyrconnell harangued his men
in the burning language, of which the above can
convey no idea, as the Irish language only can be
the true interpretation of itself ; any attempt at a
translation of an Irish discourse or speech weak¬
ens its force. The Irish orator, if orator he be,
reaches the heart, penetrates the inmost depths of
the soul, and if in them there were left one spark
of religion or patriotism, the native tongue, like a
magnet, attracts it upwards to urge forward the
passion in behalf of the orator's object:
O'Donnell Aboo.
By M.J. McCann.
Proudly the note of the trumpet is sounding,
Loudly the war-cries arise on the gale,
Fleetly the steed by Loch Swilly is bounding
To join the thick squadron in Samer's green vale.
On every mountaineer ;
Strangers to flight and fear :
Rush to the standard of dauntless Red Hugh !
Bonnought and Gallowglass,
Throng from each mountain-pass !
On for old Erin — O'Donnell aboo !
Princely O'Neill to our aid is advancing,
With many a chieftain and warrior clan ;
A thousand proud steeds in his vanguard are pranc¬
ing,
'Neath the borderers brave from the banks of
the Bann :
Many a heart shall quail
Under its coat of mail ;
Deeply the merciless foeman shall rue,
When on his ear shall ring,
Borne on the breeze's wing,
Tir Conaill's dread war cry — O'Donnell aboo !
Wildly o'er Desmond the war-wolf is howling,
Fearless the eagle sweeps over the plain,
The fox in the streets of the city is prowling —
All, all who would scare them are banished or
slain!
Grasp, every stalwarth hand,
Hackbut and battle-brand —
Pay them all back the deep debt so long due.
Norris and Clifford well
Clan of Tir Connell tell —
Onward to glory — O'Donnell aboo!
Sacred the cause that Clan-Conaill's defending —
The altars we kneel at and homes of our sires,
Ruthless the ruin the foe is extending —
Midnight is red with the plunderer's fires!
On with O'Donnell, then,
Fight the old fight again,
Sons of Tir Conaill, all valiant and true !
Make the false Saxon feel
Erin's avenging steel !
Strike for your country — O'Donnell aboo
