400
AN GAOḊAL.
THE PATH TO FREEDOM.
BY O'CINNHAEI AIDH.
[From the Sunday Democrat]
Youth of Erin, on your shoulders
Rests your country's future fame;
In our bosoms rest the embers
That can blaze to Freedom's flame —
Rest the embers that, if nurtured
By your strong and steady hand,
Rest the embers that, if cultured,
Must redeem your motherland.
Not in speeches highfalutin
Can the work you need be done.
Not in pleading to the Briton
Can the vict ry e'er be won.
Not in "moral agitation"
For the people's rights to land
Robbed of them by despot nation,
With the tyrant's ruthless hand:
Not by "Irish Confed'rations,"
Not by "Clansmen's" secret aid,
Not by "County Org'nizations"
Can your sufferings be allayed :
Not by so-called "Dynamiters.
Not by "Ancient Orders" strong,
Not by foolish "Blatherskiters,"
With their brayings loud and long.
Not your money, poured like dew-drops,
Not addresses great and grand,
Not your "Leaguers" be they legion,
E'er will free your native land.
Not your "Five-Cent-Spread Light" tactics,
Not your "Scares" will ever gain,
One iota of that freedom,
Which you labor to attain.
Not with sword-blade, musket, bay'net,
Can the Saxon be assailed —
These were tried, and tried too often,
And as often have they failed.
Not your "bombs of nitrate's thunder,
Not your cannon's mighty roar
Will restore the foeman's plunder,
Snatched from you in days of yore,
Not in war's fierce din and slaughter,
Not in streams of crimson blood,
Not in feats of Trojan valor,
Not of these will come the good;
Not assassin's keenest dagger,
Laying cruel tyrants low:
Not your death on martyr's scaffold
Ere will gain your freedom; No!
No ! never will such means avail you
While like cravens, soulless, low,
You permit that tongue to perish
Which your fathers cherished so.
While you let your native music
Lie forgotten, lie unsung,
While you leave your harp neglected,
With its every chord unstrung.
While you leave your proud traditions
Lie untaught, unread, unknown,
Never can that spirit kindle
That will make your land your own.
While you lisp in foreign accents,
While your lips are taught to frame
Words and notes of Saxon foemen,
You are Irish but in name.
The cease that alien speech forever,
Long enough its notes have rung
In your ears, while naught but falsehoods
Have its owners at you flung.
Cast their speech and cast their music
Back to those from whom it came.
Show at once, and show it plainly,
That you're Gaels in more than name.
That the spirit of our fathers,
Still undaunted, lives in you.
That you're true to their example —
As they did so will you do.
That the tongue which Miledh brought you,
That the tongue which Bryan spoke
To his men on Clontarf's meadows
When he burst the Danish yoke.
That the tongue of saints and sages,
Ollamh, Brethn, warrior, king,
Which in long-departed ages
Made your isle with glory ring.
That the music, sweet but mighty,
Which their bards were wont to play
When they roused men's warlike passions
Live among their sons to-day.
Lives as Lives the tender seedling,
Buried deep the Winter long,
Yet in Spring it buds to freshness,
And the Summer makes it strong.
It blooms, it blossoms, it increases,
Day by day it stronger grows,
And at last, with roots extended,
Offshoots many from it throws.
So in you remains the seedling,
Of your language, old and grand,
See 'tis nurtured in our bosoms,
See 'is cultured by your hand,
See it buds it grows, it blossoms:
See it flourish day by day.
See it strengthen, see it ripen,
Yours the fault if it decay.
Be it spoken, be it written,
Let its music sweet be known,
Wheresoever Ireland's children
In their exile may be thrown:
Then shall all dissensions perish,
All your factions low and mean.
Then shall blend the flag of orange
With our native flag of green.
Then, with Ireland thus united —
One in language, one in all,
One in spirit, each determined
To obey his country's call —
Then unroll your glorious Sunburst,
Draw your sword in FREEDOM's name,
And no power of earth or heaven
Can withstand your righteous claim.
New York, July 4, 1883.
TÚIS.
Do ċíḋim ċugam ṫríd an lios,
Fear gan léine, fear gan crios,
Fear na coise caoile, cruaiġe:
'Sé mo ṫruaiḋe é ḃeiṫ gan riṫ'.
— sgeaṫóir.
Prof. Roehrig is recovered from the effects of his
mishap in Dublin. He is now among the Welch
studying their language.
