12
AN GAOḊAL.
were born here — we who have torn the ties of home
and youthful affection — who never plotted the trea¬
son or aimed a bullet at the head of a President
of the United States?
Was it over population? No, a thousand times no!
Not one-seventh of the 21,000,000 fruitful acres of
Ireland are tilled. Bad government in Europe has
peopled America. Here we could, own a home;
but the same cause is at work here that drove us
from Europe — it threatens to divorce our children
from the land of their birth. Only a small and di¬
minishing portion of our people own homes, we
must “down brakes” or we are lost.
Under all civilizations the idle have ridden the
workers, now the workers are thinkers, and the i¬
dlers must get off of them. If I may quote from
a former address of mine —
"There in a growing belief that a slight change
in our tax laws will secure steady employment and
the full reward of labor, prevent accumulaton of
wealth in the hands of those who do nothing, ban¬
ish poverty and the fears of poverty, - the creator ha¬
ving stored the earth abundantly with subsistence
for all his children from the beginning to the end
of time : that the value given to land by the pres¬
ence of population belongs to the public and should
be taken in the form of taxation for the public use;
that houses and all kinds of personal property, be¬
ing the fruit of of labor, belong to the individual
against all the world, and so long as the rev¬
enue from land values is sufficient for governmen¬
tal uses no one should be deprived of that which is
his.
If this belief is wrong, it should be refuted by
argument; if right, it cannot be adopted any too
soon."
J. Hagerty
AN ĊUAĊ MAR SIN LÍON SUAS
le Seáġan McÉil
Fonn — Bob a's Seon.
An ċuaċ mar is cóir suas líon,
Le lin sgala doiṁin.
Silt air ṁalaiḋ braon,
Biḋeann ó gaċ imniḋ sleaṁain.
Ní sgaoiltear gaeṫe geur'
An ġrinn ċo luaṫ 's ċo briġṁar,
Le 'nuair do ṫig mar ċaor,
Trí cuaċa lasta líonṁar,
An ċuaċ mar 's ċóir suas líon,
Le lin sgala doiṁin,
Silt air ṁalaiḋ braon,
Biḋeann ó gaċ imniḋ sleaṁain.
Gaḃann mar deir an sgeul,
Eigse stuama air sciaṫa
An ċaoir, 's ó neaṁ na reul,
Ḃeir a nuas a gaete.
Mar súd 'sa ḃ-fleaḋ cruin'
Tarraingmuid go cinnte,
Ó neaṁ na h-eagna 's grinn,
Na gaeṫe 's géire 's tinte.
An ċuaċ mar 's cóir suar líon,
Le lin sgala doiṁin
Silt air ṁalaiḋ braon
Biḋeann ó gaċ imniḋ sleaṁain.
Cia an bárr úġdair a ḃí
'S dual fios ḟáġail ní h-iongnaḋ,
Go m-biḋeann go síor an croiḋe
Ċum spioraid fíona ċlaonaḋ:
Do ṫárla anns a trá,
'Nuair suas go flaiṫeas d'eulaiġ
An té ġoid as, faoi sgáṫ,
An teine, réir na sgeulaiḋ.
An ċuaċ mar 's cóir suas líon,
Le lin sgala doiṁin
Silt air ṁalaiḋ braon,
Biḋeann ó gaċ imniḋ sleaṁain.
Do 'n óglaoċ triall 'sa t-sliġe,
Ḃí gan soigṫeaċ, gan corn,
Le taḃairt 'nuas as críċ
Na n-deaṫe geal, an gorn.
Aċt ó! mar léim a ċroiḋe,
Oir dearcaḋ measg na reulta,
Ċonairc cuaċ ,nna luiḋe,
Buḋ le Bacċas suḃaċ na neulta.
An ċuaċ mar 's cóir suas líon,
Le lin sgala doiṁin
Silt air ṁalaiḋ braon,
Biḋeann ó gaċ imniḋ sleaṁain.
Ḃí annsa sgála braon,
'Fágaḋ n'éis na h-oiḋċe,
Ṫuit driṫle annsa ḃ-fíon,
Fuiġeall fleaḋ na saoiṫe.
Súd é siocair ḃriġ
Fíona air aigne flaṫa,
Súd mar ṫóigeann croiḋe
D'a d-tig ar cuaċ de, ceaṫa.
An ċuaċ mar 's cóir suas lion,
Le lin sgala doiṁin
Silt air ṁalaiḋ braon,
Biḋeann ó gaċ imniḋ sleaṁain.
FILL THE BUMPER FAIR.
Air — “Bob and Jones.”
Fill the bumper fair,
Every drop we sprinkle
O’er the brow of Care
Smooths away a rinkle.
Wit's electric flame
Ne'er so swiftly passes,
