12
AN GAODHAL.
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 CHUACH MAR SIN LÍON SUAS
le Seághan McÉil
Fonn — Bob a's Seon.
An chuach mar is cóir suas líon,
Le lin sgala doimhin.
Silt air mhalaidh braon,
Bidheann ó gach imnidh sleamhain.
Ní sgaoiltear gaethe geur'
An ghrinn cho luath 's cho brighmhar,
Le 'nuair do thig mar chaor,
Trí cuacha lasta líonmhar,
An chuach mar 's chóir suas líon,
Le lin sgala doimhin,
Silt air mhalaidh braon,
Bidheann ó gach imnidh sleamhain.
Gabhann mar deir an sgeul,
Eigse stuama air sciatha
An chaoir, 's ó neamh na reul,
Bheir a nuas a gaete.
Mar súd 'sa bh-fleadh cruin'
Tarraingmuid go cinnte,
Ó neamh na h-eagna 's grinn,
Na gaethe 's géire 's tinte.
An chuach mar 's cóir suar líon,
Le lin sgala doimhin
Silt air mhalaidh braon
Bidheann ó gach imnidh sleamhain.
Cia an bárr úghdair a bhí
'S dual fios fhághail ní h-iongnadh,
Go m-bidheann go síor an croidhe
Chum spioraid fíona chlaonadh:
Do thárla anns a trá,
'Nuair suas go flaitheas d'eulaigh
An té ghoid as, faoi sgáth,
An teine, réir na sgeulaidh.
An chuach mar 's cóir suas líon,
Le lin sgala doimhin
Silt air mhalaidh braon,
Bidheann ó gach imnidh sleamhain.
Do 'n óglaoch triall 'sa t-slighe,
Bhí gan soigtheach, gan corn,
Le tabhairt 'nuas as crích
Na n-deathe geal, an gorn.
Acht ó! mar léim a chroidhe,
Oir dearcadh measg na reulta,
Chonairc cuach ,nna luidhe,
Budh le Bacchas subhach na neulta.
An chuach mar 's cóir suas líon,
Le lin sgala doimhin
Silt air mhalaidh braon,
Bidheann ó gach imnidh sleamhain.
Bhí annsa sgála braon,
'Fágadh n'éis na h-oidhche,
Thuit drithle annsa bh-fíon,
Fuigheall fleadh na saoithe.
Súd é siocair bhrigh
Fíona air aigne flatha,
Súd mar thóigeann croidhe
D'a d-tig ar cuach de, ceatha.
An chuach mar 's cóir suas lion,
Le lin sgala doimhin
Silt air mhalaidh braon,
Bidheann ó gach imnidh sleamhain.
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,
