AN GAOḊAL.
317
ST PATRICK'S DAY IN EXILE.
(From Songs for freedom, by FATHER McHALE.)
By many a forest hoar and grim,
In lands full many a league away,
Where stately trees in girth and limb,
To whistling winds their branches sway;
In log huts lone, by bleak morass,
On wastes where fiercely falls the sun,
And slays to death the sickly grass,
And strikes the floating vapor dun,
There's many a man that Ireland nursed,
That Ireland's rulers strove to slay;
In exile blest, in exile curst,
They smile and sigh this Patrick's Day.
In exile blest, because they hold
Their tenure there to men's estate,
As men God made in His own mould,
And not as beggars at a gate,
Who crave an alms with dolorous wail,
With patience in their whitened face,
And only find the jeer and rail,
Or chain and lash, and dark disgrace !
In exile blest because they can
Mature and speak the hope that they
Can make by earnest work and plan,
Their homes their own some Patrick's Day:
In exile curst, because the heart
Of such hath voids beyond their will,
Where friends and home have serious part,
Which strangers kindness cannot fill —
Hath memories fond and strong, nor few,
That rush through weary wandering where
Some well-remembered hawthorn grew,
And with its fragrance filled the air —
To some small chapel in some place,
Where friends long sundered used to pray
To God to spare the Irish race,
Its maids and men each Patrick's Day.
In exile curst, because whate'er
Their fortunes in this life may be,
They hold in more esteem and care
Their own "poor Poland of the sea;"
And gold, and fame, and place, and all,
Are small beside their shame to see
The fate and curse that keep in thrall,
The land of their nativity:
That ban the bliss their spirit craves,
To lay their bones in blessed clay,
And wear the shamrock on their graves
In Patrick's land each Patrick's Day.
But first the foremost boon they'd ask,
As recompense for life-long toil,
Would be to find this welcome task
Some day on Ireland's holy soil ;
To show the foe a file of steel,
To shout defiance from the hill,
And make the hireling squadrons feel
They feared no fire of theirs ; nor will,
So long as Ireland's rocks smile down
On sweltering surges splashing spray;
So long as Ireland wants her crown,
Her RIGHT, her OWN, on Patrick's Day.
But blest, or curst, it matters not,
Their thoughts each year one day condense
Ten million thoughts on one fair spot —
Like sun-rays on a solar lens —
And there once fixed the burn and glow,
Till heated blood leaps up to flame,
And thirsts for one small chance to show
It still deserves its martial name:
And many a group in many a land,
Whose valor fumes at fate alway,
Will sing with mantling cup in hand,
Some song like this on Patrick's Day ;—
The Green Isle in the Sea.
Isled amid the seething foam, boys,
Isled amid the seething foam,
Belted by the rock and spray, boys,
Bravely guarded lies our home;
Be that word a name to waken
Thoughts of joy where'er we be,
And make us pray with trust unshaken;
God bless the Green Isle in the Sea,
The Green Isle in the Sea;
From alien knaves and covering slaves,
God bless the Green Isle in the Sea!
Banished from the land that bore, boys,
Banished from the land that bore,
Still these burning thoughts will nerve, boys,
Hate behind and hope before:
Hate for all our hindward bitter,
Hope for all the days to be,
When ten million lips shall utter,
God bless the Green Isle in the Sea,
The Green Isle in the Sea;
For wrongs she bore, for joys in store,
God bless the Green Isle of the Sea!
Straight across the ocean wave, boys,
Straight across the ocean wave,
Lies the honored land we love, boys,
Lies the land we'd die to save :
Lies she sick and sorely stricken,
But her veins will flush with glee,
When our shout their beat shall quicken;
God bless the Green Isle in the Sea,
The Green Isle in the Sea;
For hopes she nursed, 'mid times accurst,
God bless the Green Isle in the Sea !
Oh ! to see the land once more, boys,
Oh ! to see that land once more,
Sitting in her ancient state, boys,
With the spotless crown she wore!
Then, ten thousand deaths — we'd meet them,
Heedless when the hour might be,
And this triumph song would greet them;
God bless the Green Isle in the Sea,
The Green Isle in the Sea ;
For evermore and evermore,
God bless the Green Isle in the Sea!
