THE RE-OPENING of THE IRISH SCHOOL
Brooklyn, Sept. 1st., 1895.
The following excellent stanzas have been sent us by the Society's
gifted Poetess, "Killdara,” on the re-opening of the Gaelic School
Oh, glad were the exiles of Green Innisfail
When they meet to revive the sweet tongue of the Gael,
Oh, the “Ceudh mile failthe,” and the clasp of the hand
That greeted each pilgrim from Erin's dear land —
Gave keenest delight to all as they came,
And blessed them a thousand fold over again.
Oh, the friendship renewed — the greetings exchanged
In the soft flowing Gaelic, our fond hearts inflamed ;
And the love they set glowing will ever burn bright
For our own Mother Erin — our pride and delight.
Oh, the joy of these moments was a foretaste of heaven,
And braced our glad spirits with a purpose God-given.
Yet the one thought that thrilled every heart in the hall
Was the cause that inspired — he bond that linked all,
The hearts of the patriots who love Mother-land —
Her language — her song — her music, so grand. —
Her story — her lore, — the writings of sages, —
Her poet's sweet fancies, — he glory of ages, —
Will be hers once again — if each does his part
In this grand renaissance, with will, and with heart.
This is the holiest work that will nerve mind, and soul
To do, and to dare while the seasons will roll. —
To lift up our language to its old nich of fame —
Then we 'll see Mother Erin a Nation again!!
CILLDARA.
Sasanaigh a Breugadh h-Inghean — le A. LALLY.
"Cholumbia, a stór, nach tú an cailín breágh, mór
Atá carthanach, lághach le do thír mháthardha,
'S tá gnó dod' mhamaidh i g-cómhairle uncle Sammigh,
Go deimhin ins an am a tá láthair.
Tá fáth leis an tuiceadh a tá bh fuil ar g-cinneadh,
Nach mé thug dhuit gnás dlighe coitchean a's teangan
Le n-a bh-fuil tú gach lá buan dul ar aghaigh,
'S ní 'l fear bocht in do thír ach falsóir nó cladhaire.
Acht tá roinn ded' gharsúin, deir siad, ar seachrán,
Tá siad bog, óg — creud iad acht tucráin;
Níor chídh mise ariamh 's ní chídhfead go deo,
Go rabh brigh no tábhachd i d-teagasg Mhonroe.
Seo dhá chomhairle gheárr bheirim go m' inghín —
I g-ceannfuirt ghleodhach ná cuir choidhche do mhuinín,
Óir an te chailleanns an catha tigeann air leun,
'S ar an ádhbhar sin umair do chorrachán féin.
Codail a chuisle, a's deunfaidh tú do leas
Má ligean tú tharrad gnóthuigh Re-righthe i n-Deas;
Tá ceart diabhar agam-sa, gan gunnaidh ceud-troma
'Gus ní magadh bheidheas mé le tíribh lag dona.
Tá cúis imris eile eadrainn féin le réidhteach,
Na róinte deasa boinionn atá sa muir Shuamhneach.
Acht go m-buailir séala ar mul-chinn na cruinne,
Ni ligfead tórthainn a chur ar chuantaibh na muire."
