﻿644
AN GAODHAL.
they had concluded him past recovery, and nothing
further could be done in his case, to their great as¬
tonishment he drew aside the curtains and exclaim-
ed, in his usual energetic manner; “Gentlemen I
am greatly obliged to you. I feel much better
since you entered the room. You may go away
now, gentlemen, I shall not want your services any
longer!” While the physicians looked at each other
in amazement he rang the bell. and, addressing the
the servant, desired him “to show the gentlemen
down-stairs.” They assured the servant that his
master was delirious, and presuming there was no
hope for his recovery, were proceeding to give di-
rections that he might be indulged in anything he
should desire to have, when Mr. F, cut them short
by calling out, “John, John, turn them out and
fasten the doors after them ; I'Il take no more of
their infernal drugs.” On the return of the ser-
vant he had all the bottles and medicines thrown
out of the window, and the crisis of the disease be-
ing passed, he, from that moment, rapidly recover
ed. He lived for many years afterward, and when
his friends joked on this treatment of the doctors,
he would reply, “The scoundrels wanted to kill me
with their cursed stuffs, but I have lived to attend
both their funerals.” A similar incident is said to
have terminated a severe illness of our distnguish-
ed ceuntryman Charles O'Connor. Mr Fuller sub-
subscribed £2,000, in 1780, to supply the army
with provisions.
(To be continued)
It is time that the Dublin Nation should bestir
itself in the National cause, It has worked ener-
getically heretofore, but it did not strike the prop¬
er note, and perhaps the discovery it has at last
made that the language is a necessity in the thor-
ough unification of the Irish sentiment is due to
Prince Bismarck who has formed a “German Lan¬
guage Movement", not only in the annexed provin-
ces but also in those districts bordering on other
nations, where the German language is getting
mixed. Bismarck, like all other rulers, knows the
value of a people’s language in cementing them to-
gether. These facts have been repeatedly brought
to the attention of the Irish (so called) leaders
without any effect. But, of course they are wiser
than all the statesmen of Europe combined — They
are enthusiastic nincumpoops on whom all salutory
lessons are thrown away. We shall watch with
interest to see how many N. Leaguers will learn
the stated HUNDRED WORDS of their language, and
the Leaguer who will not do so, and who afterwads
opens his lips in regard to Irish autonomy — should
have a wad of hay thrust down his throat to shut
him up.
It is as easy to cleanse linen in muddy waters,
as it is to create truly national sentiments through
the medium of a foreign speech. Wisdon says
"What you sow, of that you shall reap.” Sow the'
English language, and you shall reap a crop of
English sentiment. This axiom is so plain that we
venture to say no one will have the hardihood to
try to contradict it.
The Gael will reproduce those HUnDRED IRISH
WORDS and any one who sends us the postage will
get a copy of them.
THE IRISHMAN’S BRIDE.
By John Coleman.
Erin a run mo vuernin ban, well I remember when
we parted,
By rath and ruin bound with inan, I wept for thee
thus broken hearted;
Then to this bright God-given land, I flew and tore
myself from thee,
Where the tyrants rope and scourge and brand,
would ever be shut from me :
My mother Isle, asthore mo choride, at our sad
slawn, slawn I sorely cried,
And still this heart sighs on for thee, though here
l’ve wed a fond young bride ;
When I neared her strand, she reached her arms
and clasped me to her snow-white breast,
She wed me too, with all her charms, though I was
poor. with heart oppressed.
My bride is lovely, fond and fair, she's rich and tall
still loath a crown,
With golden stars her silken hair is studded, and
falls loosely down:
And she loves you, mother, in your tears, though
tyrants blight your tongue and name
While viewing their taunting gibes and jeers, she
bends and weeps above your frame :
She loves you mother Erin dear, the lady you sav-
ed when she was young,
When the same dark tyrant darts, and spears, is
showers at her fond heart was flung,
Then your sons in thousands scoured the plain,
while Stewart and Barry swept the sea,
And Molly fought like Stark and Wayne, to set my
love, Columbia, free.
Then let me clasp my fond young bride, for she's
to me and Erin true,
She's towering o'er all lands of pride, she loves to
raise the fallen too;
My soul is filled with joy this day, as I stand and
scan the world around,
Not one as tall, or fair or gay, in all its round face
can be found ;
I melt beneath her burning gaze, for Heaven seems
beaming ’round her brow,
God grant her endless length of days, to live as
fair and free as now;
Oh, when this heart is stilled in death, may her up
raised hand still hold the flame,
And light my sthoren Erin yet, to break the heart-
less tyrants chain.
