AN GAODHAL.
615
ceart, ísleochamuid go h-úmhal faoi na
smachtaibh. Tá 'n Ghaodhal tír-ghrádhach
& seachain nach sé sin an fáth a bh-fuil
spíodóiridhe na h-Éireann dá lochdughadh
BURKE'S POEMS
The late Michael Burke, whom we introduced to
the readers of the Gael in the last number, was
born at Esker, county Galway about the year 1893
(the same year that Gerald Griffin was born), of
highly respectable Catholic parents — some of those
Norman Nobles who accompanied Strongbow to
Ireland in the 12th century, and who afterwards
“became more Irish than the Irish themselves."
The marquis of Clanickard and a large number of
the Irish gentry of the present day are of this de
Burgo family. Some of our readers are aware
that these Normen Aristocrats were very anxious
to form alliances with the Irish chieftains, and
that on no account would they marry with the En¬
glish whom they looked upon as being of the low¬
est order of society. And we believe that the same
sentiment obtains to-day throughout enlightened
christendom. England being a strong power has
a political prestige which forces, as it were, her
people into temporary prominence, but let this
power vanish — which will be the case in the near
future — and the English will descend to a level
with the Dutch of which they are the counterpart.
Take the opinions of learned independent men on
English society and what is the result — scorn and
contempt.
Take Mr, Blaine's views on the shoddy English
Aristocracy, as expressed towards one of its mem¬
bers — and Mr. Blaine's remarks were general
and not particular, as some would seem to con¬
strue them. — Being conscious of his Irish lineage,
Mr. Blaine's sneering reference to the bastard ar¬
istocracy of England is readily undertood.
As before remarked, Mr. Burke has written a
large volume of very interesting and instructive
matter. He died in this city on the 6th of July,
1881.
IRISH REMINENCES.
On Learning the First Rudiments of Forgetting
my Native Tongue, i.e., the Irish Language.
When first I sought the village school,
To learn my A, B, C,
I thought it grand but did not know
What then was said to me,
The master sat beside the fire,
One leg upon his knee,
And with a smile a something said
I knew he meant for me.
'Twas useless talk, I knew not what, —
I stood behind the door,
And stared around with vacant eyes,
And looked behind, before ;
The tears at once began to fall,
My cheeks began to glow,
I roared so loud the master said,
“Come here my lad,” or so.
'Twas useless talk, I did not come,
Nor yet did I retire,
Nor stopt my notes so loud and shrill,
But stuck them something higher,
"Go leith a mhic," said he at last,
"Ná bídheadh ort faitchíos bróin;
Suidh síos le'm ais,
[come leave you that
And give him you, that stone),”
I slowly came, or rather stole,
And sat beside his knee,
And looked composed as then he said,
Some kindly words to me,
He said “A mhic you must hence learn,
The English, bearla, dear,
And spake no more that vulgar tongue.
The Irish Language here.”
He said then more than I can tell,
He talked an hour or so,
But what it was, or what it meant,
I never since could know.
He took his knife and cut a switch,
And made a little square,
And got a string, and tied it fast,
And said, I should it wear,
"Now this a mic to me shall tell,
If Irish you shall speak,
Within, without, at home or here,
At least indeed one week."
Tho' 'bout my neck, my tongue it tied, —
How dismal was my woe,
For all the English I could speak
Was simple yes, or no.
Yet this did well for me at Home,
The Irish there was spoke,
My father said tho' hard the task,
I bore then well my yoke,
My mother said, God rest her soul,
'Twas really hard indeed,
To now forget my Native Tongue, —
I might as well my creed.
Between them both the matter was,
With pros and cons then tried,
My father said he knew the laugh,
Himself of late supplied,
The game was lost my mother cried,
I cried with scalding tears,
The tied my tongue — I knew these notes
I practiced all my years.
While yes or no my answer was,
To all my mother said,
Till plagued at last, and deafened near,
She put me then to bed.
The morning's dawn no pleasure bore,
To me then nearly dead,
For half the night, I lay awake —
The other half had fled.
To school I went, I know not how,
But yet I found me there,
And there I saw the self same man,
But not at morning prayer,
“Come up my lad, and let me see,
How many words you spoke,"
When I alas did answer no, —
Believe it was no joke.
“Bring here that chap,” at once he said,
To one who stood me near,
No sooner said than there I stood,
Then trembling all with fear,
"Your tally sir — come show me quick, —
