AN GAODHAL.
771
A monthly Journal devoted to the Cultivation and
Preservation of the Irish Language and the au¬
tonomy of the Irish Nation.
Entered at the Brooklyn P. O. as second-class mail
matter.
Seventh Year of Publication.
Published at 814 Pacific st., Brooklyn, N. Y.,
M. J. LOGAN, Editor and Proprietor
Terms of Subscription — Sixty Cents a year, in
advance ; Five Cents a single copy.
Terms of Advertising — 10 cents a line, Agate.
VOL 6, No. 7. FEBRUARY, 1888
A NATION ONCE AGAIN.
I.
When boyhood's fire was in my blood,
read of ancient freemen,
For Greece and Rome who bravely stood,
THREE HUNDRED MEN AND THREE MEN. *
And then I prayed I yet might see
Our fetters rent in twain,
And Ireland, long a province, be
A NATION ONCE AGAIN.
II.
And, from that time, through wildest woe,
That hope has shone, a far light;
Nor could love's brightest summer glow
Outshine that solemn starlight;
It seemed to watch above my head
In forum, field and fane;
Its angel voice sang round my bed,
"A NATION ONCE AGAIN."
III.
It whispered, too, that "freedom's ark
And service high and holy,
Would be profaned by feelings dark
And passions vain or lowly:
For freedom comes from God's right hand,
And needs a godly train;
And righteous men must make our land
A NATION ONCE AGAIN.
IV.
So, as I grew from boy to man,
I bent me to that bidding —
My spirit of each selfish plan
And cruel passion ridding;
For, thus I hoped some day to aid —
Oh ! can such hope be vain? —
When my dear country shall be made
A NATION ONCE AGAIN.
* The Three Hundred Greeks who died at Ther¬
mopylӕ, and the Three Romans who kept th
Sublician Bridge.
THE IRISH EMIGRANT GIRL.
TO THE MISSION OF THE HOLY ROSARY.
Some time ago the following lines were found on
Father Riordan's desk in Castle Garden, left there
no doubt by some emigrant girl who had been
sheltered by the Mission. The lines will recall the
memory of that good priest:
I sighed to leave my native land,
As by our cabin door
I saw my grey-haired father stand,
Who blessed me o'er and o'er,
And mother's cheek was wan with woe,
And heavy was her moan,
To think her only child should go
To face the world alone.
The heartless landlord taxed our cot,
We were too poor to pay,
And to redeem the poor old spot
I wondered far away.
I crossed the restless ocean wave
With none to pity me,
For those I love I well might brave
The dangers of the sea.
'Twas not alone the billows' rage
That foamed and roared around,
Man's wiles a fiercer war did wage,
With terror more profound.
It was his fierce and fiendish guile,
Unholy and unblest,
The ribald laugh, the wanton smile,
That caused my heart unrest.
I prayed to Mary, Mother mild,
And to her blessed Son,
To shield the lonely, exiled child
Where'er her course might run,
And keep me in the path of right,
With pure, unsullied name,
And fill my heart with virtues bright
To conquer sin and shame.
Ah! well the friendless girl can tell
The arts the tempter knows,
Who paints the path that leads to hell,
But colored like the rose.
O! blessed be god's eternal fame,
Who sent to such as me
The Mission of the blessed name —
"The Holy Rosary."
Through it I found a peaceful home,
Where I could gladly toil
To win for those I left at home
Their cabin by the Foyle.
And now, secure from sorrow's blight,
All pain and peril o'er,
I rest me in its holy light,
And bless it evermore.
And ever daily, fondly pray
That it may burn and shine —
A light to guide the steps that stray,
And bring them to its shrine
And till my life shall cease to be
Love shall my heart inflame
For Mary's "Holy Rosory."
And Father Riordan's name.
— AN IRISH EMIGRANT — ONE WHO KNOWS.
