244
AN GAODHAL.
Dlíghe mo Mháthar Bhoicht.
Le Antoine Ua Mulala.
An t-am a bhí mé óg, díthchéillighe,
A rith agus ag léimnidh,
Bhí siams agam 'gus pléisiúr,
Bhíos saor ó uile olc;
Cia 'r bith am budh mhian liom iarruidh,
Bhí mé cinnte go trí bhéilidhe,
Budh é siúd dlighe mo mháthar bhoicht,
Na 'r leur dí mo locht.
Tá sí fós beo in Éirinn
Ag osnaighil 'gus ag eugnoch,
Guidhe mac Dé mise chosaint,
Go mall agus go moch;
Agus ce b'é, faoisidin ghlan a dheunadh,
A's gan peaca 'r bith do sheunadh;
Níor chóimh-líonas mo gheallamhuint dí
Anns an am a chuaidh thart
Acht má fhagann Righ na ngrása
Neart agam agus sláinte,
Deunfaidh mé eiric léithe
'San m-bliadhain úr seo tá teachd.
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sod with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeans’ misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclos'd his breast,
Not in sheet or in shroud we bound him ;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him !
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow ;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his
head,
And we far away on the billow !
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him,
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on —
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half our heavy task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring :
And we heard by the distant and random gun —
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, we raised not a stone —
But we left him alone with his glory !
The following are clippings from the Irish World
on the subject of the song, and its author, sent us
by the translator. —
BATTLE OF CORUNNA and BURIAL of SIR JOHN
Moore, 1809. — On the scene of the memorable bat¬
tle of Corunna on the Northwest coast of Spain
stands a beautiful monument to commemorate the
hero, Sir John Moore, who fell there on the 16th of
January, 1809, while fighting at bay against the
pursuing French, over whom he won a victory which
permitted the sale embarkation of his army home¬
ward. The expedition had been unfortunate from
the beginning. Acting upon the representations of
of the English and Spanish Ministers they had made
a bold advance toward Madrid, and they were forced
to retreat to the coast in the depth of Winter. But
the commader, Sir John Moore, more than redeem¬
ed himself any censure to which he was liable, by
the skill and patience with which he conducted the
troops on their withdrawal to the coast. The army
was in great wretchedness, but the pursuing French
were worse; and when the gallant Moore stood at
bay at Corunna, he gave the pursuers a thorough
repulse, though at the expense of his own life.
The handsome and regular features of Moore bear
a melancholy expression in the monument, in har¬
mony with his fate. He was in reality an admira¬
ble solder. He had from boyhood devoted himself
to his profession with extreme ardor, and his whole
career was one in which duty was never lost sight
of. He perished at the too early age of 17, survived
by his mother, at the mention of whose name, on
his death-bed he manifested the only symtom of e¬
motion which escaped him in that trying hour.
The scene of the hasty burial of the fallen hero
was immortalized by the Irish poet, the Rev.
CHARLES WOLFE,
A Protestant clergyman, who was born in Dublin,
on the 14th of December, 1791. He was educated at
the Dublin University and took orders in 1817. He
was for some time curate of the parish of Donagh¬
more. Wolfe was cereless of literary fame, and the
poem, which by chance appeared in print, was at¬
tributed, among others, to Moore, Camphell, Wil¬
son, Byron, and Barry Cornwell, and was claimed
by more than one obscure writter. It was only after
Wolfe's death that the chance discovery of a letter
(now preserved in the Royal Irish Acadamy) in
which the whole is given in his handwriting put the
matter beyond doubt. Unremitting attention to his
clerical duties and carelessness of himself hastened
a tendeny to consumption, — "He seldom thought
of providing a regular meal ... A few straggling
rush-bottom chairs, piled up with his books, a small
ricketty table before the fire-place, covered with pa¬
rish memoranda, and two trunks containing all his
papers — serving at the same time to cover the bro¬
ken parts of the floor — constituted all the furniture
of his sitting room. The mouldy walls of the closet
in which he slept were hanging with loose folds of
damp paper.” He was discovered by his friends in
this miserable lodging, was tenerly cared by his sis¬
ters, visited England and France in the vain search
of health, and died at Cove, now Queenstown, Coun¬
ty Cork, February, 21, 1831, aged 31.
