968
AN GAOḊAL
are often called Annales Senatenses, was the an¬
cient name of an island situated in the Upper
Lough Erne, between the modern baronies of Ma¬
gherastephana and Clonawley, in the County of
Fermanagh. It is called Ballymacmanus Island
in various deeds and leases, and by the natives of
Clonawley, who speak the Irish language, but it
has lately received the fancy name of Belle Isle
[See Note in O'Donovan's Annals of the Four
Masters, at the year 1498.]
After the death of Mac Maghnusa, the annals
were contnued by Ruaidhridhe O'Caiside, or Rory
O'Cassidy, down to the year 1537, or 1541, accor¬
ding to Ware. They were continued after this (I
mean the Dublin copy) by some other persons,
probably the O'Luinins, down to the year 1604,
where they now end.
(To be continued.)
ERIN MACHREE.
How dear to my heart is the Emerald Isle,
With its wealth of past glory — its tear and its smile
Its sorrow-clad centuries — starry-crown'd slope,
Now dark with grief's cloudlets — now bright'ning
with hope ;
How oft in my day-dreams I've felt the strange
[spells
That bind me to Erin — its vales and its dells;
How oft has my heart gone beyond the deep sea,
To greet thee, Mavourneen, dear Erin Machree!
I have lived in the glory and breath'd thy air,
I have knelt at the shrines in the insense of prayer,
I have felt the warm pulse of thy patriot heart,
Now joyous at meeting, now grieving to part:
In all thou hast arch'd my young life with thy love,
As bright as the bow of God's promise above,
And wherever thy star may shine forth in the sky,
I pledge thee my faith and my love till I die.
'Tis strange that, though cradl'd 'neath maple and
pine,
My soul should thirst strong for thy patriot wine;
In childhood I dream of thy ivy-crown'd tower,
And in fancy I've strayed by thy streamlet and
bower —
And I've wandered afar from the place of my birth
To the land of my fathers — the fairest on earth —
And with heartfelt devotion I've wished thee as free
As the home of my birthplace, dear Erin Machree?
Oh, land of my fathers, my faith, and my God,
How I long for true freedom to kiss thy green sod!
Then my soul will sing clear as the lark in the sky
And chant notes of the glory that never will die ;
For from East unto West, in the warmest acclaim
Will ring in bright numbers thy deeds and thy fame
And the harp of thy freedom be heard o'e the sea
In the land of the Maple, dear Erin Machree!
THOMAS O'HAGAN,
Ottawa, Can.
Six papers in the Welsh Language are publish¬
ed in the United States.
MOTHERS! Don't Fail To Procure Mrs.
Winlow's SOOTHING SYRUP For Your Chil¬
pren While Cutting Teeth.
It soothes the child, soften the gums, allays
all pain, cures wind colic, and is the best remedy
for diarrhoea.
TWENTY-FIVE CENTS a BOTTLE.
THE GAELIC TONGUE AT THE BATTLE
of Clontarf.
(By Humphrey Sullivan.)
On Clontarf's field was heard this tongue of old,
When Brian Borumhe marshalled chieftains bold,
His good left hand Christ's standard held on high
"In cause so noble," cried be, "will I die."
Again this silvery tongue, so dear to all,
In accents sweet from his brave lips did fall —
He stood before the Danes and shouted free,
"Under their scorn my realms shall never be."
The mighty warriors answered with one heart,
"No fear of us while at our head thou art,
Behold Eoghan's sons who stand secure,
Waiting the hour to make their triumph sure."
When evening saw the battle gained, he knelt,
No wrath or pride that gallant spirit felt,
"To Thee, O Father, blest, thanksgiving be!
Now take my soul — I see my country free."
He spoke, then gently passed the hero-soul
To realms of light beyond earth's harsh control,
Where Saint and Angel sing of victories won,
And see the glory of the Virgin's Son.
To Thee, O wondrous King! his spirit fled,
Thy Passion bought it on that Friday dread —
Tho' Morogh and his sire are with the slain,
Erin their memory shall for aye retain.
O'Sullivan's Farewell to Ireland.
Farewell to the land where my forefathers slumber
Farewell, my heart's home, to thy ever-new charms!
From Donegal to Beare of heroes without number
In direst need forsaken by Spain's unfaithful arms
Farewell, ye sons of Eibhear and Heremon of the
banner!
Who held the glorious Sunburst aloft in thickest
(fight,
From Dublin to holy Tuam their noble, gentle
manner
Would put to shame the Saxon who boasts his
(cruel might.
Farewell, ye Fenion troops, who mighty weapons
wielded!
At the field of Fionntragha Daire Donn and his
(thieves ye slew.
Exhausted at his post, to sleep Conncrithir yielded
Until the shouting hosts broke full upon his view
Farewell, ye priests, the faith of Christ was ne'er
by you forsaken,
From the Gospel oft ye read words of the sweetest
(sound.
By these words many souls from Satan's power
were taken,
Thro' Father, Son and Holy Ghost did miracts
(abound.
Farewell, ye Gaelic people, with what delight un¬
bounded,
Again in Gaelic shall you hear your matchless
(history sung,
Shall hear the holy Gospel in the same rich ton¬
gue expounded,
The English rabble left to be with their new-fash¬
(ioned tongue.
Farewell, each hill and mountain and peaceful
sheltered valley!
Your exiled heroes shall return across the ocean
(foam,
Swords polished by their sides, they bide their
time to rally,
And bring avenging justice on the tyrants of ther
(home.
[The original of both these poems by Mr Sulli¬
van has appeared in THE GAEL — Ed.]
