AN GAOḊAL.
153
leis an t-aos óg so ṁúnaḋ ins an n-
Gaeḋilig. Naċ mór an truaiġ é so?
is é an t-áḋḃar fá g-cuirimse ċugat an
t-aḃrán atá ṡíos le n-a ċur i d-tuig¬
sint duit go ḃ-fuil Gaeḋilge 'ga laḃairt
go fóill i d-taoḃ amuiġ de'n dúiṫċe do
luaiḋ an Buinneán Aeḋaraċ, agus go
mórṁór i n-aiṫċoimireaċt do'n "Ḟair¬
ge Éireannaċ" e do ḃriġ go ḃ fuil Eo¬
méiḋ le h-ais Loċa Cáirlinn, inḃear mór
na mara sin. Do casaḋ orm i g-contae
Árdṁaċa máiġistir sgoile atá ar ḃuin-
ċíos darb ainm Frainsias MagUinns¬
eaċain f & ḃí eolas maiṫ aige ar Ġaeḋ¬
ilge do léiġeaḋ agus do laḃairt. Do
ḃí sé 'na ċoṁnuiḋe seal tamaill i gCill-
Alaiḋ atá i g-contae Ṁuiġeo. Do ṫug¬
as mórán uiḃreaċaiḃ an Ġaeḋail ar
iasaċt dó agus tá riġmeud orm a inn¬
sint duit go ḃ-fuil sé ag déanaṁ stúi¬
déir ġrinn orrṫa.
Mise do ċara,
Seoseṗ H. Laoide.
a, Omeath; b, Louth; c, Killeavy; e,
ní ḟacas an t-ainm seo ariaṁ roiṁe
seo, aċt má's cuiṁne ċeart atá agam-
sa air seo, ṫug na sean-Ġaeḋail "An
ṁuir Ċruinn" air an ḃ-fairge seo, ainm
a d'aistriġ na Fóṁánaiġ go Cronium
mare. f, Francis Nugent.
Moyarget, Ballintoy, Co. Antrim, Ireland,
Dec. 9. 1891.
Dear Mr. Logan, — Once more the gladsome Xmas-
tide is drawing nigh, and I am thereby reminded of
my support of an "Gaodhal” in its earnest, persev¬
ering and unfaltering great work in sustaining our
sweet national tongue I send you Mr. Ed. Mulca¬
hy's subscription with my own.
A Dublin barrister told me lately that some short
time ago it was looked upon as plebean to know a-
anything of Irish, but that now it was quite aristo¬
cratic to have any knowledge of it. The desire and
taste for it is spreading abroad. I intend, le cong¬
namh De, to get an Irish Manuscript Life of St.
Ciaran, of Seir Keeran, King’s Co., printed in Irish,
and translated into English with explanatory and
illustrative notes very soon in the coming year. It
is nice Irish and will be easily understood.
Go raiḃ míle maiṫ agaiḃ a g-cóṁair
na Nodlaig [go m-buḋ ṡaṁlaḋ ḋuit]. Go
meuduiġiḋ Dia ḃur n-obair agus ḃur
g-cumas,
Yours sincerely
D. B. Mulcahy, P. P., M.R.I.A.
Editor of An Gaodhal. Dear Sir: The following
little poem was composed by one of the young la¬
dies of the Philo-Celtic Irish school, 263 Bowery,
N. Y. The occasion was a little entertainent
which the members and pupils of said school had
between themselves, after school hours, on a Sun¬
day evening a few weeks ago. The yourg lady in
question is very patriotic, and on hearing such
songs as the 'National Fenian Boy,” she naturally
got excited and struck off the lines given below.
She is very modest, and could she only get back
what she calls 'her scribble,' it would soon be in
the fire, but some of our girls hold on to it, for
they say they would like to see it in print. If you
think it worth room in your patriotic paper, please
give it a place.
Yours truly,
THOMAS D. NORRIS.
I love to roam in fancy through some lonely Irish
vale,
And dream of the struggles of the past Iv’e read in
many a tale,
And listen to the rustling leaves when the shades
of eve are falling,
Their whisperings seem so sad and low, as if they
were recalling
The meetings ’neath their sheltering gloom when
the world was all at rest,
Save those who had our nation's weal planted deep
within their breasts ;
How those branches hid our bright, brave boys
from the tell-tale moon's soft light,
While they spoke of our country's bitter woes and
vowed to set her right,
How they swore to lift from Erin's breast the ty¬
rant's cloven foot,
And save from the oppressor's withering hand the
sacred cabin roof,
As they stood there always ready ;— that fearless
Fenian band,
To strike a blow at the Saxon foe and free our na¬
tive land.
Oh! the shamrock on the hillside felt the precious
living flood,
As its leaves were red and its roots were fed with
their warm, young crimson blood;
But there was no room for fancy last Sunday af¬
ternoon, —
'Twas not the lonely Irish Glen or “The Rising
of the Moon.
'Twas the busy, noisy Bowery :— yet I never felt
before,
Such brimming measures of true Irish pleasure — It
filled my heart to the core ;
I joined in the hearty laughter as around the room
it rang, —
I listened with greedy rapture to the grand, old
Celtic tongue.
Now you need not tell me anymore, you are all
for moral suasion ;—
That you'll sit quite cool till you gain home rule
by parliamentary agitation ;—
Why you're rebels, I can see it, though you try to
look so coy, —
It darted out at the impulsive words of “The Na¬
tional Fenian Boy."
What a dash you made for the singer, sure I nev¬
er saw the like,
Bydad I thought you were hurrying off to scour
