AN GAOḊAL.
859
Christian times. It is also not impossible that it
was followed by the owner or keeper of it, who
from his being called a Saoi, i.e., a Doctor or Pro¬
fessor in learning, was probably, it may be sup¬
posed, converted to Christianity, and went into
Italy, as many certainly did in those times, carry¬
ing with him the only copy or copies then in ex¬
istence. It would be curious to find this ancient
book still existing in some neglected corner of the
Vatican, or of one of the other great Libraries of
Italy.
(To be continued.)
TRANSLATION OF
PATRAIC'S ANSWER TO THE CELTIC
TONGUE.
It is growing and renewing like the leaves upon
the trees.
All around us it is sighing like the western ocean
breeze:
O'er our isle its voice is gladdening plain and
mountain, grove and glen,
By the Barrow and the Erne, and round Lough
Swilly's shores again.
And where the parting sunbeam kisses Corrib in
the west,
And the ocean, like a mother, clasps the Shannon
to her breast.
The dear melodious tongue of Erin's story and
her name —
Of her Ollamhs and her monarchs — of her glory
and her fame —
The sacred shrine where rested thro' her sunshine
and her gloom.
The spirit of her Martyrs, like their bodies in the
tomb —
The time wrought shell where rested, thro' cen¬
turies of wrong,
The secret voice of freedom in annal and in song —
Is surely, fastly rising in its olden strength at
last.
To bring again to Erinn all the tresures of her
Past.
The olden tongue is rising like a monarch from his
rest,
Whose Failthe wrong from Irish shores to many
a Tyrian guest,
Ere the Roman or the Saxon — ere the Norman or
the Dane,
Had set a foot in Britain, or the Visigoth in Spain.
It saw the Saxon savage bowing down to Zerne¬
bock —
The Druids in the green wood at the sacrificial
rock —
The glories of our fathers — then were MEN in
Innisfail.
And heroes sang their war-songs round the warrior
fire of Baal.
The tongues that Gaelic knew in youth, are buried
with their dead,
And from their tombs have risen those now spok¬
en in their stead.
Irish song and Irish music, brightest gems of Er¬
in's crown !
While you're sung and heard among us — where's
the chain can hold us down.
Manacles and Manitoba jails and scaffolds we de¬
fy,
While our mother tongue is spoken, motherland
can never die.
And now again its thrilling tones are floating on
the breeze,
Like songs of free and happy Irish birds upon the
trees:
Again its music sells aloud in bower and cot and
hall,
Where long the tongue of serfdom held our Irish
minds, in thrall.
The morning star of freedom gleams to light the
patriot's way,
At length we see, in Erin's sky, the dawning of the
day;
We voice our thoughts in Gaelic speech, our harps
again are strung,
And we are Irishmen again, in mind, in heart, and
tongue.
Our freeborn sires proclaim this truth from holy
Irish graves.
That Celts whose speech is Saxon are but England's
mental slaves :
We'll free our minds — then Motherland, from hate¬
ful Saxon thrall,
O'er Connaught wilds, o'er Leinster plains, Tyrone
and Donegal,
And o'er the shores of Munster, where, like wild
Atlantic's blast,
The olden language lingers like an echo from the
Past.
The Celtic Tongue's returning like an exile to our
shore,
And Teamor's halls shall echo to its mighty voice
once more.
New Lawrence's will fire their clans henceforth in
Atha Cliath,
And Shannon waft from Luimnach's towers their
anthems to the sea.
The pleasant tougue whose accents are as music to
the ear,
The magic tongue that round us weaves its spell
so soft and dear:
The glorious tongue whose murmur can each Cel¬
tic heart enthrall,
The rushing tongue resounding like the mount¬
ain torrent's fall:
The tongue that in the senate is the lightening
flashing bright,
Whose echo in the battle is the thunder in its
might,
Like those who nobly perished there, shall live
while time shall last,
No patriot neglects it now, one coldly standing by,
There's pride in every Irish heart, there's joy in
every eye,
Our every pulse for freedom beats, we swear that
tongue to save,
No longer we're compelled to speak the language
of the slave.
Sons of Erin! vain your efforts, vain your prayer
for freedom's crown,
While you craved it in the language of the foe who
clove it down:
History tells that tyrants ever, with an art from
darkness sprung,
Strive to make the conquered nation slave alike in
limb and tongue;
The conquering Russ ne'er felt secure poor Po¬
land's frame above,
Until he'd trample from her breast the language of
her love.
O! Brothers, never part with it — your sweet and
pleasant tongue —
That like Erin's native shamrock to her holy soil
has clung.
O! cherish it in song and speech, nor basely bag
your rights:
Assert them in the victor's tongue of twice ten
thousand fights.
J. HAGERTY.
eiséirġe na Gailge.
Pádraic Irish-
americ
Dec. 15
1888.
