AN GAOḊAL
53
bainríoġan Elisabet uirri, sé sin le
ráḋ, Bettiġ na Muice, inġean míḋlist¬
eannaiḋe an t-Oċtṁaḋ h-Anraoi, nó
ar ḟocal eile, buḋ ṁian léi a ḃeiṫ in a
Pápa ós cionn na h-Eagluise ḃeannuiġ¬
ṫe a ċuir Naoṁ Páḋruic ar bun in
Éirinn.
(Le ḃeiṫ leanta)
the Swine, the illegitimate daughter
of Henry VIII., or in other words,
she desired to be pope over the Holy
Church which Saint Patrick had
brought into Ireland.
(To be continued)
The following pieces of poetry — "Will my soul
pass through Ireland," and "The Top of the
Morning," appeared in the Gael about ten years
ago, but by request of many new subscribers, we
re-produce them.
Vol. III. p.325.
" " 283.
Will My Soul Pass Through Ireland.
Oh, soggart aroon! sure I know life is fleeting;
Soon, soon in the strange earth my poor bones
will lie,
I have said my last prayer, and received my last
blessing,
And if the Lord is willing I am ready to die.
But, soggarth aroon ! can I ever again see
The valleys and hills of my dear native land?
When my soul takes its flight from this world of
sorrow,
Will my soul pass through old Ireland to join
the blest band?
Oh, soggarth aroon, sure I know that in heaven
The loved ones are waiting and watching for me,
And the Lord knows how anxious I am to be with
them,
In those realms of joy 'mid souls pure and free.
Yet, soggart I pray, ere you leave me forever,
Relieve the last doubt of a poor dying soul,
Whose hope next to God, is to know that when
leaving,
It will pass through old Ireland on its
to its
goal.
Oh, soggarth aroon! I have through all changes
The thrice blessed shamrock to lay e'er my clay;
And, oh, it has minded me often and often
Of that bright shining valley so far, far away;
Then tell me, I pray you, will I ever again see,
The place where it grew on my own native sod?
When my body lies cold in the land of the stran¬
ger,
Will my soul pass through Erin on its way to its
God?
Ah, bless you, my child, sure I thought it was
heaven
You wanted to go to the moment you died;
And such is the place on the ticket I'm giving,
But a coupon for Ireland I'll stick by its side.
Your soul shall be free as the wind on the prairies
And I'll land you at Cork on the banks of the
Lee.
And two little angels I give you, like fairies,
To guide all right over mountain and lea.
Arrah' soggart aroon, can't you do any better?
I know that my feelings may peril your grace ;
But, if you allowed me a voice in the matter,
I won't make a landing at any such place.
The spot that I long for is sweet County Derry,
Among its fair people I was born and bred —
The Corkies I never much fancied while living,
And don't want to visit them after I'm dead.
Let me fly to the hills where my soul can make
merry,
In the North where the shamrock more plentiful
rows —
In the counties of Cavan, Fermanagh and Derry
I'kk linger till called to a better repose,
And the angels you give me will find it inviting,
To visit the shrines in the Island of Saints,
If they bring from St Patrick a small bit of writing
They'll never have reason for any complaints.
A soul, my dear child, that has pinions upon it,
Need not be confined to a province so small,
Thro' Ulster, Munster, Leinster, and Connaught
In less than a jiffy you are over it all .
Then visit sweet Cork where your soggarth was
born —
No doubt many new things have come into vogue
But one thing you'll find, both night, noon and
morn, —
As for centuries back, there's no change in the
brogue.
Good mother assist me in this my last hour,
And, soggarth aroon, lay your hand on my head;
Sure you’re soggarth for all, and for all you have
power,
And I take it for penance for what I have said,
And now since you tell me through Ireland I'm
passing,
And finding the place so remarkably small,
I'll never let on to the angels in crossing
That we knew a distinction in counties at all.
