AN GAOḊAL.
203
THE CELTIC TONGUE.
Ah, build ye up the Celtic tongue
Above O'Curry's grave;
Speed the good work, ye patriot souls
Who long your land to save,
Who long to light the flame again
On freedom's altar dead.
Who long to call the glories back
From hapless Erin fled,
Who long to gem her sadden'd brow
With queenly wreath again,
And raise a warrior people up,
A NATION in her train.
Speed then the good work; be scorn our lot,.
Our ancient pride is flown,
If midst the nations on the earth
We stand in shame alone.
Throughout the lovely land of vines,
Where dwells the lively Gaul,
They speak the tongue of Charlemagne
In cot, and bower, and hall.
Where Spain extends her sun-loved realms,
From prince to muleteer,
The language of the mighty Cid
Still stikes the listening ear.
Their olden tongue still speak the tribes
The Danube's banks along;
The German loves the rushing speech
That swell in Schiller's song;
By Tiber's stream are uttered yet,
As in the golden days,
The music-tones of Dante's lyre,
Of Petrach's loving lays.
And we who own that tongue of tongues
That saints and sages spoke.
Have bowed our very minds beneath
The Saxon's galling yoke,
And clothe the thoughts that make our hearts
With Celtic ardour glow
In words that chill the lips they touch,
Like flakes of winter snow.
The Saxon tongue! why, we should hate
This speech we love so well !
The Saxon tongue of Saxon guile
Its fraudful accents tell.
Oft to our trusting Irish ears
It syllabled foul lies —
Methinks such tongue the Serpent spoke
To Eve in Paradise.
Ah! cease that alien speech — too long
Its hollow sounds have rung,
And pour ye forth from Celtic lips
The rushing Celtic Tongue.
The Celtic tongue ! the Celic tongue !
Why should its voice be still.
When all its magic tones with old
And golden glories thrill —
When, like an aged bard, it sings
Departed warrior's might —
When it was heard in kingly halls
Where throng'd the brave and bright —
When oft its glowing tales of war
Made dauntless hearts beat high —
When oft its tales of hapless love
Drew tears from beauty's eye.
Grand tongue of heroes! how its tones
Upon the gale uprose,
When great Cuchullin's Red Branch Knights
Rushed down upon their foes
And how its accents fired the brave
To struggle for their rights,
When from thy lips they burst in flames,
Con of the Hundred Fights !
Or when the breeze its war-cries bore
Across that gory plain,
Where royal Brian cheered his hosts
To battle with the Dane.
Oh, who may fire our sluggish hearts
Like him to dare and do?
When shall we see thy like again,
O hero soul'd Boru?
Sweet tongue of bards! how swelled its tones
In lofty flights of song.
When white-robed minstrels deftly swept
The sounding chords along !
When Oisin touch'd the trembling strings
To hymn the Fenian name,
When thrill'd thy lyre, fond Fionbell,
With gallant Osgar's fame.
Alike 'twould tell of ladye-love
And chief of princely line —
Fair Aileen now the poets sung,
And now the Geraldine.
'Twas music self — that barded tongue,
Till iron days began,
Then Swell'd its swan like strains,
And died with thee, O'Carolan!
In dulcet tones the wide world o'er
Though gifted bards have sung,
Yet sweeter sounds thy minstrelsy,
Soul-soothing CELTIC TONGUE.
The Celtic tongue ! the Celtic tongue !
No more in bower and hall
Where rank holds sway and Beauty reigns,
Its liquid accents fall
Far from the courts of Pride and Power,
Within the lowly cot
It finds a home — that outlaw'd tongue —
The poor despise it not.
But still upon the mountain heath,
Or in the moonlit vale,
In that sweet speech the shepherd sings,
The lover breathes his tale,
And oft times in the rustic church
The Soggarth knows its might
To lead the wretch from shades of vice
To virtue's path of light.
Oh, on the sinner's harden'd heart
It falls as dew from Heaven,
The softened soul disolves in tears —
He weeps, and is forgiven.
Thus lurks amid the simple poor,
Forgotten and unknown,
That ancient tongue, that royal tongue,
So prized in ages flown,
Which came to make our isle its home
From lands 'neath orient skies,
Which saw the wondrous pillar-shrines,
In graceful grandeur rise —
Which echoed in its days of pride
Within Emania's walls,
Through high Kincora's princely courts,
Through Tara's regal halls,
Which swell in holy song to Heaven
Upon the morning air —
When from the Sacred Groves went up
The Druid's voice of prayer.
And oft in brighter Christian days,
It rose in holier strain
From Glendalough's calm Eden shades,
From Innisfallen's fane,
It breached in vesper orison,
See Vol. III. page 307.
