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P. G. SMITH 
 
Rhyme with Reason 
 
 A Garland of Irish Shamrocks, 
 Many of Them Grown in America. 
 
 ^WU^A^P.^ 
 
 Here's health to the star-spangled flag of the free, 
 And here's to the green banner, far o'er the sea, 
 For Love and for Freedom, oh, long may they wave, 
 Till they crush every tyrant and free every slave. 
 
 —P. Kane 
 
 P. G. SMYTH, Publisher 
 
 CHICAGO 
 1911 
 
f5 5l 
 
 ■ii" 
 
 6* 
 
 Copyright, 1910, P. G SMYTH 
 CHICAGO 
 
 John F. Higgins 
 Printer and Binder 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Man's Mortality Dr. John Donovan (translation) 8 
 
 The Monks of Erin Rev. William J. Treacy 11 
 
 Red Hugh's Addeess Archbishop Healy 13 
 
 Kathleen Ni-Houlihan Maude Healy 16 
 
 Ballyneely's Walls Old Ballad 18 
 
 The Regiment op Bourke 20 
 
 When Lucan Led P. G. tika&h 22 
 
 Seaghan O'Duibhir a' Ghleanna P. J. McCall (translation) 25 
 
 Brennan on the Moor Street Ballad (anonymous) 27 
 
 Origin of the Stars and Stripes Carroll Malone 29 
 
 By Memory Inspired Cormac O'Kelly (supposed) 32 
 
 The Priests of Ninety-eight Canon Furlong 34 
 
 The Glory of Ninety-eight Charles J. Beattie 36 
 
 The London Pride and Shamrock Robert Emmet 38 
 
 The Sentence of Robert Emmett David Graham Ades 42 
 
 , An Irishman's Wish on Patrick's Day Bishop England 45 
 
 The Famine Year Lady Wilde 47 
 
 Jillen Andy . . .J. O'Donovan Rossa 50 
 
 The Ancient Race Rev. J. F. Forney 55 
 
 Songs in Exile Smith, O'Brien and Meagher 58 
 
 Bringing the McCormacks Home. Joe Fogarty 61 
 
 Ridgeway "Scian Dubh" 64 
 
 The Convict Gray Col. R. O'S. Burke 65 
 
 Stamping Out General Charles Halpine 69 
 
 Fill High To-night, Boys Col. R. O'S. Burhe 71 
 
 Ireland's Welcome Col. R. O'S. Burke 73 
 
 In Memory of Charles Stuart Parnell Dora Sigerson 76 
 
 In Memory of Charles Stuart Parnell Mary Fitzpatrick 77 
 
 Michael Davitt Andrew Eenny 78 
 
 The Irish Fields Mrs. J. A. Sullivan Brennan 82 
 
 The Green Old FLag Anonymous 84 
 
 To the Memory of P. W. Nally Eugene Davis 86 
 
 The Heroes of Cloone \*.Jlev. James Keegan 88 
 
 An Appeal to the Men of Leitrim Patrick Kane 90 
 
 The Bride Joe Mulhearn 92 
 
 "Stand Aside" Rev. Michael Smyth 94 
 
 Mo Bhron Maude Healy 97 
 
 My Stream Rev. James K. Fielding 99 
 
 Home Joe Mulhearn 101 
 
 Valentine Mrs. J. W. Burke 102 
 
 Old Ireland Rev. [James Keegan 104 
 
 An Irish Night in Chicago Patrick Coughlan 105 
 
 The Irish Servant Girl Joe Mulhearn 107 
 
 Returning to Erin Joe Fogarty . 108 
 
 Flitting Back Patrick Kane 110 
 
 Love's Message Dr. J. A. Printy 113 
 
 Saint Rita's Rose Joe Mulhearn 115 
 
 A Hunting Song \James E. McDade 117 
 
 His Works Anna Cecelia Doyle 118 
 
 Sinn Fein Amhain Joe Mulhearn 119 
 
 At Monterey Matthew P. Brady 122 
 
 Christmas Thoughts Patrick Kane 124 
 
 No Irish Need Apply A. L. Hildebrand 128 
 
 Love's First Nest Michael Corbett 130 
 
 Mary Hoyne Joe Mulhearn 133 
 
 The Irish Brogue P. J. Dillon 135 
 
 Ireland's Answer to Coercion Patrick Kane 137 
 
 The Mayflower's Message Mrs. J. W. Burke 139 
 
 An Appeal for Ireland Patrick Kane 141 
 
 Dooley's Lamentation [John F. Finerty 143 
 
 St. Patrick's Day Thomas Baird 145 
 
 My Mother's Wish Mrs. Julia A. O' Sullivan Brennan 146 
 
 Call to Arms Patrick Kane 148 
 
 The Battle of Dundee Joseph A. Murphy 150 
 
 Christmas at Pretoria Track P- &• Smyth 153 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 In Memory of Thomas Naughton Patrick Coughlan 155 
 
 You're Welcome., Mick McQdaid Rev. James Keegan 157 
 
 You'll Yet Be Free., Dear Motherland Patrick Kane 160 
 
 To a Blackrird Rev. James K. Fielding 162 
 
 Irish Names .' , [John Ludlow 164 
 
 Song op the Little Villages Rev. James B. Bollard 166 
 
 McGinnis That Was Berton Braley 168 
 
 My Christmas Candle Mrs. Julia A. Sullivan Brennan 170 
 
 A Christmas Toast Patrick Kane 172 
 
 Coigny Maude Healy 174 
 
 The Old Churchyard Rev. James K. Fielding 175 
 
 Recollections Patrick Kane 177 
 
 The Song My Mother Sings Thomas O'Hagan 179 
 
 The Rock of Cashel P. Shelly O'Ryan 181 
 
 Holy Old Ireland Anonymous 184 
 
 From the Dream of Colossus P. J. Coleman 185 
 
 What Catholics Have Done for America ..Dr. \J. T. Gallagher 187 
 
 Leitrim, Awake ! Patrick Kane 190 
 
 The Hills of Ireland P. G. Smyth 192 
 
 The Goblin Dance at Corriga Crossroads Rev. James Keegan 194 
 
 In Memory of Father Keegan Patrick Kane 196 
 
 My Wanderer Maude Healy 198 
 
 The Irish Record t Mary E. Blake 199 
 
 On Vinegar Hill P. G. Smyth 201 
 
 Dreamland Anna Cecilia Doyle 203 
 
 My Dream James E. McDade 204 
 
 The Woods of Wisconsin P. G. Smyth 205 
 
 A Dream of Erin Thomas O'Hagan 207 
 
 In Memory of a Friend Patrick Kane 209 
 
 To My Mother Patrick Kane 211 
 
 . » a Loved One in Erin Patrick Kane 213 
 
 In the Lap of the Bog C'ahir Healy 214 
 
 The American Citizen Eugene Davis 215 
 
 An Irish War Song Patrick Kane 217 
 
 We'll Sing op Ireland Anonymous 219 
 
 For Freedom and for Erin Anonymous 221 
 
 Missing Annie F. Kinsella 223 
 
 The Exiles From Mayo Andrew Kenny 224 
 
 In Memoriam, John F. Finerty Joe Fogarty 227 
 
 The United Thirty -two Counties Patrick Kane 229 
 
 Hurrah for the Molly Maguires M . Keating 231 
 
 Not in the Dock Thomas O'Dwyer 233 
 
 James Fitzharris Patrick Kane 234 
 
 A Lost Friend Patrick Kane 236 
 
 America's Reply to England M. V. Gannon 238 
 
 In Memoriam, Michael Flanagan Joe Fogarty 240 
 
 When Ireland Will Have Home Rule {Joseph Mahon 242 
 
 To My Father Patrick Kane 243 
 
 England James [Jeffrey Roche 245 
 
 A Little Pack of Dynamite John Power 247 
 
 In Memoriam, Dan Conboy Patrick Kane 249 
 
 Snatched From the Saxon Jeremiah Harrington 251 
 
 Men op Erin, Gird for Battle Thomas O'Hagan 253 
 
 An Ultimatum Patrick Kane 255 
 
 A Request General W. F. Butler 257 
 
 Another Patriot Gone Patrick Kane 259 
 
 The Parting [Joe Mulheam 261 
 
 The Mountain Dew Francis E. Walsh 263 
 
 A Mother's Kiss P. J. O'Keeffe 265 
 
 The Lass From the County Mayo 267 
 
 The Bridge of Muignabo Rev. M. Smyth 268 
 
 The Top o' the Morning . .John Locke 271 
 
 Ireland Over the Water J. O'Donovan Rossa 274 
 
 In Memoriam Patrick Kane 111 
 
 My Heart's Delight Francis E. Walsh 278 
 
 Desmond — In Memoriam J. J. Finnan 280 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 It is a long time now since a collection of Irish or Irish- 
 American poetry was issued from the press — except here and 
 there the outpourings of some individual bard, or a gathering of 
 old "come-all-ye's" to piquantly tingle the memory and excite the 
 vocal chords to action. In the following pages will be found a com- 
 bination never before attempted from a poetic point of view of the 
 vanished and ethereal past with the vigorous and living present. 
 The shade of Fionn McCumhal — who got his poetic craft when 
 he accidentally tasted the Salmon of Knowledge that he was 
 cooking for his master — bends down from that Irish Olympus, 
 Slievenamon, "the Mountain of Fair Women," to congenially 
 clasp the hands and listen to the chantings of modern Celtic sons 
 and daughters of song. There is a fitful flashing of the divine 
 fire of poetry all the way from the Patrician days to the twentieth 
 century, from royal Tara to philistine Chicago. 
 
 Chronological sequence is exercised as far as possible. The 
 current of the pages glides along through the ever varying lights 
 and shades of Irish history and the changeful moods and tenses 
 of Irish politics. Nobody with a songful and soulful message is 
 here debarred from a hearing, be he or she separatist, conciliation- 
 ist, home ruler, Fenian, Clan-na-Gael, Shin Feiner, Redmondite, 
 hillsider, cattle-driver or Molly Maguire, lover of liberty or of 
 noble life and high ideals, or votary of that apparently fast van- 
 ishing quality (37,000 young emigrants annually), the tender 
 home love of the Celt. 
 
 Many are the classes and professions here represented — prel- 
 
ates and priests, doctors, lawyers, real estate men, newspaper 
 men, clerks, policemen, soldiers, even ex-convicts — but convicts 
 in a noble cause, men who imperilled their lives and sacrificed 
 their liberties for the sacred cause of freedom and the betterment 
 of humanity. Gentle poetesses of the race, modern Etans and 
 Eithnes have graciously contributed their delicately fragrant 
 bouquets. The signal of poetic kinship, the appeal for co-opera- 
 tion, has brought them sympathetically together, like members of 
 the great Bardic Order of ancient Eire, assembled in the depths 
 of a sacred wood. 
 
 The idea of the collection originated with Mr. Patrick Kane, a 
 native of the parish of Aughavass, in poetic southern Breffny, 
 now the County of Leitrim, Ireland. Cradled in the lap of poetry 
 and legend, and by birth and environment an Irish Nationalist of 
 an almost implacable type, he has for many years been carefully 
 gleaning flowers of Irish poetic genius. Many of these are inter- 
 woven with some of his own in the present garland. 
 
 The tenor and quality #of the verses rippling through the fol- 
 lowing pages are about as varied as the classes and pursuits of 
 the authors. Some are as solemn and stately, as sweet and sad, 
 as if Oisin or Sappho struck the chords. Some are rugged, well- 
 meaning, hearty, as if an inspiring galloglass with a taste for 
 music had stolen and swept with his knotty brown fingers the 
 harp of a sleeping minstrel. 
 
 The soul of the Gael, alert and immortal, is behind them all. 
 
 P. G. S. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION. 
 
 By Joe Fogarty. 
 
 Rhyme with Reason, bright and cheerful, 
 Posies called from Wit's own bowers, 
 
 Sparkling gems for Mother Erin, 
 Golden drops from sunset showers. 
 
 Some in sad moods gently molded, 
 Some in true hearts thrilled with love, 
 
 Some for Ireland's cause appealing 
 To self-aid — and the Power above. 
 
 Breath of Ireland here comes floating — 
 Fragrance sweet the pages fills, 
 
 As from whitethorns in the boreens, 
 As from furze bloom on the hills. 
 
 Strike your harps and weave your verses, 
 Bards divine and minstrels free ; 
 
 Bend, Olympus! Ope, Valhalla! — 
 Rhyme with Reason, hail to thee ! 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 MAN'S MORTALITY. 
 
 [The original of the following poem was found in an Irish MS. in 
 Trinity College, Dublin. There is reason to think that the poem was 
 written by one of those primitive Christian bards in the reign of King 
 Diarmid, about the year 554, and was sung and chanted at the last grand 
 assembly of kings, chieftains, and bards, held in the famous Halls of 
 Tara. The translation is by Dr. Donovan, translator of "The Annals of 
 the Four Masters."] 
 
 Like a damask rose you see, 
 
 Or like a blossom on a tree, 
 
 Or like the dainty flower in May, 
 
 Or like the morning to the day, 
 
 Or like the sun, or like the shade, 
 
 Or like the gourd which Jonah made ; 
 
 Even such is man, whose thread is spun, 
 
 Drawn out and out, and so is done. 
 
 The rose withers, the blossom blasteth, 
 The flower fades, the morning hasteth, 
 The sun sets, the shadow flies, 
 The gourd consumes, the man — he dies. 
 
 Like the grass that's newly sprung, 
 Or like the tale that's new begun, 
 Or like the bird that's here to-day, 
 Or like the pearled dew in May, 
 Or like an hour, or like a span, 
 Or like the singing of the swan ; 
 Even such is man, who lives by breath, 
 Is here, now there, in life and death. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 The grass withers, the tale is ended, 
 The bird is flown, the dew's ascended, 
 The hour is short, the span not long, 
 The swan's near death, man's life is done. 
 
 Like the bubble in the brook, 
 Or in a glass much like a look, 
 Or like the shuttle in weaver's hand, 
 Or like the writing on the sand, 
 Or like a thought, or like a dream, 
 Or like the gliding of the stream ; 
 Even such is man, who lives by breath, 
 Is here, now there, in life and death. 
 The bubble's out, the look forgot, 
 The shuttle's flung, the writing's blot, 
 The thought is past, the dream is gone, 
 The waters glide, man's life is done. 
 
 Like an arrow from a bow, 
 
 Or like the swift course of water-flow, 
 
 Or like the time 'twixt flood and ebb, 
 
 Or like the spider's tender web, 
 
 Or like a race, or like a goal, 
 
 Or like the dealing of a dole ; 
 
 Even such is man, whose brittle state 
 
 Is always subject unto fate. 
 
 The arrow's shot, the flood soon spent, 
 The time no time, the web soon rent, 
 The race soon run, the goal soon won, 
 The dole soon dealt, man's life soon done. 
 
10 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Or like the lightning from the sky, 
 
 Or like a post that quick doth hie, 
 
 Or like a quaver in a song, 
 
 Or like a journey three days' long, 
 
 Or like the snow when summer's come, 
 
 Or like a pear or like a plum ; 
 
 Even such is man who heaps up sorrow, 
 
 Lives but this day, and dies tomorrow. 
 
 The lightning's past, the post must go, 
 The song is short, the journey so, 
 The pear doth rot, the plum doth fall, 
 The snow dissolves, and so must all. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 11 
 
 THE MONKS OF ERIN. 
 
 By Rev. William J. Treacy, S. J. 
 
 [Following the adoption of the Christian religion by Ireland came the 
 Christianization, by devoted Irish missionaries and martyrs of Britain 
 and of large portions of Europe, in the sixth, seventh and eighth centuries. 
 Gaelic manuscripts brought over by the Irish monks are still treasured 
 in many museums, and Gaelic is taught in five leading universities on the 
 continent of Europe.] 
 
 The Irish monks, the Irish monks, their names are treasured still 
 
 In many a foreign valley, on many a foreign hill ; 
 
 Their preaching, prayers, and fastings are still the peasants' 
 
 themes 
 Around the coast of Cornwall and along old Flanders' streams ; 
 Their lives austere and holy, and the wonders of their hands, 
 Still nourish faith and sanctity through fair Italia's lands. 
 
 Sedulius the poet, and Columbkille, the dove, 
 
 At Rome and Hy are honored and remembered still with love ; 
 
 At Lucca, St. Frigidian, in a church ablaze with lights, 
 
 Is honored with pure worship 'mid the pomp of Roman rites. 
 
 Even still the British ministers exult on Piran's feast, 
 
 And though they hate the Church of Rome, they venerate her 
 
 priest. 
 The bells of sweet Tarentum, as they wake the matin air, 
 Still tell in tone of gladness that Cataldus' faith is there. 
 
 Quaint Mechlin's noble temple to an Irish monk is raised, 
 In every home in Mechlin St. Rumold's name is praised ; 
 
1% RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Virgilius, the gifted, in his glorious Saltsburg tomb, 
 Is honored by the silent prayer and by the cannon's boom ; 
 Old hymns are sung in Fridolin, in the islands of the Rhine, 
 And the relics of Besancon's Saint sleep in a silver shrine; 
 The voice that roused crusaders by the Tagus, Rhone and Po, 
 Seems ringing still o'er Malachy at the convent of Clairvaux. 
 
 The Irish monks, the Irish monks, their spirit still survives 
 In the stainless Church of Ireland and in her priesthood's lives, 
 Their spirit still doth linger round Holy Cross and Kells ; 
 Oh, Ireland's monks can know no death while gush our Holy 
 
 Wells. 
 High Cashel's fane is standing, and though in the spoiler's hand, 
 Like the captive ark of Judah, 'tis a blessing to our land ; 
 For proudly it reminds us of the palmy days of yore, 
 When kings were monks and monks were kings upon our Irish 
 
 shore. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 13 
 
 RED HUGH'S ADDRESS BEFORE THE BATTLE OF 
 THE CURLIEU MOUNTAINS. 
 
 By Archbishop John Healy. 
 
 [The following vigorous poem, which is almost a translation and ren- 
 dering in verse of the address delivered by Red Hugh O'Donnell to the 
 Irish army on the eve of the famous fight at the Yellow Pass (near the 
 writer's native place), August 15, 1599, was written in 1877, while the 
 writer, who is at present Archbishop of Tuam, was a young curate.] 
 
 Brothers chiefs and clansmen loyal, tried in many a bloody fray, 
 God be thanked, these robber Saxons come to meet us here 
 
 to-day — 
 Boasting Clifford, Essex's minion, swears he'll make the rebels 
 
 flee— 
 We will give them hearty greetings like to that at Ashanee. 
 What though traitor Celts oppose us, be their numbers three 
 
 to one! 
 Greater glory to Clan Connell when this tough day's work is done. 
 Shrived at Holy Mass this morning, danger we may fearless 
 
 dare; 
 For we draw the sword of justice, shielded all in faith and prayer, 
 Not for conquest or for vengeance, on the blessed Lady Day, 
 Not in strength or numbers trusting, do we face their proud 
 
 array ; 
 But for Holy May's honor, by their tainted lips defiled ; 
 For the sacred rights of freemen, for the mother, maid and child. 
 
14 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Prone and bleeding lies our country, sorrow clouds her crownless 
 
 brow; 
 All the lines of peerless beauty limned in ghastly colors now. 
 In the light of glories olden, beaming through our dark disgrace — 
 See the maddening wrongs and insults heaped upon our fallen 
 
 race ! 
 Roofless homestead, broken altar, slaughtered priest, dishonored 
 
 maid — 
 Children of an outraged mother ! whet ye well the thirsty blade ! 
 Scorning rock and brushwood cover, rush like swooping eagles 
 
 forth ; 
 Hard and home push every pike-head, sinewy spearmen of the 
 
 North ! 
 Cleave in twain the lustful Saxon, tame Dunkellin's soaring 
 
 pride ; 
 Smite the double-souled O'Connors — traitors false to every side. 
 Down upon them, Banagh's chieftain ! sweep their ranks your 
 
 spears before, 
 As the north wind sweeps the stubble through the gap of Barnes- 
 more. 
 
 Forward! forward! brave McDermott, strike for fair Moylurg's 
 
 domain, 
 For yon lake in beauty sleeping, for the holy Island's fame! 
 Strike and drive the swinish Saxon, herding in their sacred shade, 
 Far from Boyle's old abbey cloisters, where your fathers' bones 
 
 are laid. 
 Holy virgin, we implore thee, by that abbey's rifled shrine, 
 Columbcille of Doire Calgach, patron of O'Donnell's line, 
 Good St. Francis, for the honor of thy name in Donegal, 
 Speed ye now Tyrconnell's onset, till we rout them one and all ! 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 15 
 
 Should O'Donnell fall in combat — if the foe be forced to yield, 
 Better death I never wished for than to die upon the field, 
 Where the cause of Erin triumphed, and the Saxon was laid low, 
 With that green flag floating o'er me, and my face against the 
 foe. 
 
 Never chieftain of Clan Dalgaigh to the invader bowed the knee ; 
 By the black years of my bondage, it shall ne'er be done by me ! 
 I would rather angry ocean roared o'er castle, cot and hall, 
 Than see any Saxon "bodach" rule in royal Donegal. 
 Deathless fame in song and story will enshroud the men who 
 
 died, 
 Fighting God and Freedom's battle bravely by O'Donnell's side. 
 Great will be his meed of glory, honored long the victor's name ; 
 Pointing proudly to her kinsmen, many a maid will tell his fame. 
 "Lo ! he fought at Doonaveragh," aged men will whispering say, 
 And make way before the altar for the heroes of to-day. 
 Gleaming bright through dark'ning ages will this great day's 
 
 memory glide, 
 Like the Saimer's bright-waved waters glancing onward to the 
 
 tide. 
 
16 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 KATHLEEN NI-HOULIHAN. 
 
 By Maude Healy. 
 
 [A talented young lady of Chicago, literary editor on the daily press. 
 Kathleen Ni-Houlihan, like Granuaile and Roseen Dubh and Sheela Ni- 
 Guira, is a poetic name for Ireland.] 
 
 Who remembers Kathleen now, 
 Kathleen of the flashing eye? 
 
 They speak her name 
 
 With fear and shame, 
 But never so will I. 
 
 Kathleen Ni-Houilhan is fair, 
 And a proud eye hath she, 
 
 She wears a look of the high born, 
 
 Her eyes flash out with sudden scorn, 
 Or mock you with their glee, 
 
 And clouds of misty sun-gold hair 
 Drift round her comely head, 
 
 I gaze upon her unaware, 
 My heart is comforted. 
 
 Who remembers Kathleen now? 
 That held her head so high ? 
 
 Her wand'ring Sidhes 
 
 And her great Ard Righs 
 Of the great days gone by. 
 
 Kathleen Ni-Houlihan is sad, 
 
PATRICK KANE 
 
 MAUDE HEALY 
 
 JOE FOGARTY 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 17 
 
 Round her father's towers she moans, 
 
 For the brave that are dead, 
 
 For the glory that's fled, 
 And the hearts that are turned to stones, 
 
 But I look up ! My heart is glad 
 I see a distant day, 
 
 When Kathleen on her ancient thrones 
 Shall hold her ancient sway. 
 
 Who remembers Kathleen now ? 
 A little faithful band, 
 
 Who love the green gem of the sea, 
 The little bright green land. 
 
 Kathleen Ni-Houlihan is sweet, 
 To them — the faithful few, 
 
 Who love the story of her past, 
 
 And to Her still in faith hold fast, 
 And to Her still are true. 
 They speak her half-forgotten tongue, 
 
 Her history repeat, 
 Her folk-tales on their lips are hung, 
 
 To them Kathleen is sweet. 
 
 Who remembers Kathleen now? 
 Kathleen of the flashing eye? 
 
 They speak her name 
 
 With fear and shame, 
 But never so will I. 
 
18 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 BALLYNEETY'S WALLS. 
 
 [A quaint old ballad souvenir of the siege of Limerick, written from 
 memory by Michael Treacy, 719 Sebor Street, Chicago.] 
 
 The night was dark 'round Limerick 
 
 And all the streets were still ; 
 To take the foe in ambush 
 
 We lay beside the hill. 
 
 Like lions watched and waited 
 
 To pounce upon our prey, 
 With gallant Sarsfield at our head 
 
 Ere the dawning of the day. 
 
 'Twas at the hour of midnight 
 
 Each man took to his steed, 
 And through the streets of Limerick, 
 
 We dashed at lightning speed. 
 
 O'er hills and dales we thundered 
 
 Toward Ballyneety's wall, 
 Where lay the foe securely, 
 
 With cannon, carts and all. 
 
 From Dublin they were coming 
 
 With all their warlike store; 
 To take the town of Limerick, 
 
 They'd ask for little more. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 19 
 
 'Tis little they were dreaming 
 
 That they would meet their doom, 
 That Sarsfield was so near them 
 
 That night by wild Sliave Bloom. 
 
 They hailed us for the password 
 
 As down on them we ran ; 
 'Sarsfield's the word," our general said, 
 
 "And Sarsfield is the man!" 
 
 To help us clear the vermin 
 
 The moon and stars shone bright, 
 And for the battle of the Boyne 
 
 We had revenge that night. 
 
 We slew them all ; then Sarsfield, 
 
 He bade us take their store, 
 Their cannon, carts and baggage 
 
 And powder in galore. 
 
 We heaped them by the castle gate, 
 
 And placed the fuse right nigh, 
 And when 'twas done full speedily 
 
 We blew them to the sky. 
 
 Loud laughed our gallant general, 
 
 As blithe we rode away, 
 And many a health was drank to him 
 
 In Limerick town next day. 
 
 Another health to Sarsfield — 
 
 Together, one and all — 
 That gained the foe's artillery 
 
 By Ballyneety's wall. 
 
£0 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 THE REGIMENT OF BOURKE. 
 
 [Originally organized for King James by Colonel Walter Bourke, of 
 Turlough, County Mayo, under whom it heroically defended the old 
 castle at the battle of Aughrim, July 12, 1691. With the regiment of 
 Dillon, it distinguished itself at the rescue of Cremona from the Aus- 
 trians, February 2, 1702.] 
 
 There's a whirring noise across the night, 
 
 The wild geese are a-wing; 
 Wide over the seas they take their flight, 
 
 Nor will they come with spring. 
 Blow high, blow low, come fair, come foul, 
 
 No danger will they shirk 
 Till they doff their gray for the blue and the buff 
 
 Of the regiment of Burke! 
 
 All Spain and France and Italy 
 
 Have echoed to our name! 
 The burning suns of Africa 
 
 Have set our arms aflame! 
 But tonight we toast the morn that broke 
 
 And wakened us to fame ! 
 
 The day we beat Prince Eugene at Cremona! 
 
 Would you read our name on honor's roll ? 
 
 Look not for royal grant; 
 It is written in Cassano, 
 
 Alcoy and Alicante, 
 Saragossa, Barcelona; 
 
 Wherever dangers lurk 
 You will find in the van the blue and the buff 
 
 Of the regiment of Burke! 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 21 
 
 All Spain and France and Italy 
 
 Have echoed to our name! 
 The burning suns of Africa 
 
 Have set our arms aflame! 
 But tonight we toast the morn that broke 
 
 And wakened us to fame! 
 
 The da/ we beat Prince Eugene at Cremona ! 
 
 Here's health to every gentleman 
 
 Who follows in our train! 
 Here's health to every lass who waits 
 
 Till we return again ! 
 Here's confusion to the foreign horde ! 
 
 Until their knavish work 
 Is stopped by the sight of the blue and the buff 
 Of the regiment of Burke! 
 
 All Spain and France and Italy 
 
 Have echoed to our name ! 
 The burning suns of Africa 
 
 Have set our arms aflame! 
 But tonight we toast the morn that broke 
 
 And wakened us to fame! 
 
 The day we beat Prince Eugene at Cremona! 
 
22 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 WHEN LUCAN LED. 
 (An Irish Vidette's Soliloquy in Flanders.) 
 
 By P. G. Smyth. 
 
 [Patrick Sarsfield, Earl of Lucan, was the idol of the Irish soldiers in 
 the war between William and James. His chief exploit was the raising 
 of the first siege of Limerick by the capture and destruction of the Eng- 
 lish siege train at Ballyneety. He received his death wound at the battle 
 of Landen, in Flanders, July 19, 1693. The present Earl of Lucan (family 
 name Bingham) is of an entirely different family, son of a ruthless 
 agrarian exterminator, who was also responsible for the slaughter of the 
 Light Brigade at Balaclava.] 
 
 Under the stars the camp fires quiver, 
 
 Under the stars the sleeping host; 
 The windmill gaunt by the sluggish river 
 
 Waves its arms like a warning ghost. 
 Mallacht go leor on this Flemish mireland, 
 
 Flat as army soup, dull as lead, 
 Give me the good old times in Ireland 
 
 When Lucan led, 
 Sunny valley and hill in Ireland, 
 When Lucan led ! 
 
 Soul of honor, as firm, unmoving 
 
 As oak tree set on a Gaelic dun, 
 Valorous heart, strong hand for proving, 
 
 And face that cheered like the Irish sun ! 
 Happy the camp when — fight or raiding — 
 
 "Boot and saddle" the trumpet sped ; 
 Glad was the mount and swift parading 
 
 When Lucan led, 
 Blood and fire all felt like wading 
 When Lucan led! 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 23" 
 
 Jingle of steel and creak of leather, 
 
 Cavalry ranks in brave array; 
 "Ready, my bouchals, spur together, 
 
 Lively work for our blades to-day — 
 Charge !" — and his guiding sword is throwing 
 
 Rings of light 'round his kingly head; 
 Fareer gair for the Saxon's showing 
 
 When Lucan led, 
 Crimson the crop and fierce the mowing 
 When Lucan led! 
 
 Memory comes of an action featy : 
 
 The sentry's challenge, the answer clear, 
 As our squadrons thundered on Ballyneety, 
 
 "The word is Sarsfield, the man is here!" 
 And the man was there with a sword unsparing, 
 
 And the mighty guns, 'mid a pile of dead, 
 Were blown to the sky for the good of Erin 
 
 When Lucan led, 
 The grandest light ever flashed in Erin — 
 When Lucan led! 
 
 Mo bhron the change — decay, inaction, 
 
 Ruined castles and broken men, 
 The devil's hoof of the foreign faction 
 
 Desecrating each hallowed glen ; 
 The limerick scroll is defiled and tattered, 
 
 Tyrants swagger where heroes bled, 
 The cream of our race exiled and scattered, 
 
 Since Lucan led. 
 Erin a hulk by the elbows battered 
 Since Lucan led. 
 
24 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Lost to the old land ? Lucan ? Never ! 
 
 Waits and watches his faithful soul 
 To help the people their bonds to sever 
 
 When the trumpets ring and the volleys roll. 
 They'll seem to see, 'mid the tumult gory, 
 
 His stately shade at their charging head 
 And they'll fight as their fathers fought in story 
 
 When Lucan led, 
 With the force and fire, with the glee and glory 
 When Sarsfield led! 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 25 
 
 SEAGHAN O'DUIBHIR A'GHLEANNA. 
 
 Translated by Patrick J. McCall. 
 
 [In English, John O'Dwyer of the Glen. A Jacobite ditty, illustrative 
 of the vain and pathetic hopes of the Irish for delivery in the terrible 
 penal period following the surrender of Limerick, 1691, and the perfidious 
 violation of the terms of toleration for Catholics.] 
 
 At peep of day I started 
 From dreamland's fairy palace, 
 A peal o'er nature rattled 
 
 And made the heavens quake; 
 The Green Bird and the Badger 
 Fought fiercely in the valley, 
 The wee birds were all gathered 
 
 Like sere leaves in the brake ! 
 I viewed in deep distraction 
 
 A rude, unequal battle; 
 Too soon, the Green Bird, vanquished, 
 
 Was trampled under shame. 
 O morn of grief and anguish, 
 Distraught, I feel my anger — 
 "Ah, Seaghan O'Duibhir a' Ghleanna, 
 
 We're worsted in the game." 
 
 To me, away from pathways, 
 
 And free from shame and laughter, 
 
 That eve the radiant Banba 
 
 Appeared like goddess fair. 
 And while I gazed enchanted 
 
26 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 At sight of this rare phantom, 
 Her lightning blade outflashing 
 
 Flung bright day on the air. 
 She cried: "O darling champion 
 Ere you invade my garden 
 In this green ancient alley, 
 
 Pray tell me whence you came." 
 "From Galway by extraction, 
 But born in Connemara ; 
 And Seaghan O'Duibhir a' Ghleanna 
 
 Men call me by name." 
 
 She sighed, "Since morn the Blackbird 
 
 Sat silent on the bramble, 
 
 The bright thrush scorned to gather 
 
 One berry from the spray; 
 No swallows drove their chariots, 
 No larks scaled sunny ladders, 
 No cuckoos said in arbours" 
 
 Their litanies of day. 
 Yet though all cheeks show ghastly, 
 Though bawn and street grow grassy, 
 No thought of fiendish passions 
 
 My strong young heart can tame. 
 Go, doff your fleecy garments, 
 Put on your stout steel armour ; 
 And Seaghan O'Duibhir a' Ghleanna, 
 
 We yet will win the game." 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 27 
 
 BRENNAN ON THE MOORE. 
 
 [The period that succeeded the exile of the native Irish gentry pro- 
 duced a number of bold outlaws who preyed on the imported spoilers, 
 but were heroes with the peasantry. Prominent among them was the 
 subject of this old ballad, long a rustic favorite.] 
 
 It's of a fearless highwayman a story I will tell, 
 
 His name was Willie Brennan, in Ireland he did dwell, 
 
 And on the Livart mountains he commenced his bold career, 
 
 Where many a wealthy gentleman before him shook with fear. 
 
 Brave and undaunted stood bold Brennan on the moor! 
 
 A brace of loaded pistols he carried night and day, 
 
 He never robbed a poor man upon the King's highway, 
 
 But when he'd taken from the rich, he gave to them had less, 
 
 And always did divide with the widow in distress. 
 
 One day upon the highway, as Willie he sat down, 
 
 He met the Mayor of Cashel a mile outside the town ; 
 
 The Mayor he knew his features, "I think, young man," said he. 
 
 "Your name is Willie Brennan — you must come along with me." 
 
 As Brennan's wife had gone to town, provisions for to buy, 
 When she saw her Willie she began to weep and cry; 
 He says, "Give me that tenpence!" As soon as Willie spoke, 
 She handed him the blunderbuss from underneath her cloak. 
 
28 ■ RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Then with his loaded blunderbuss, the truth I will unfold, 
 He made the Mayor to tremble, and robbed him of his gold ; 
 One hundred pounds was offered for his apprehension there, 
 And with his horse and saddle to the mountains did repair. 
 
 Then Brennan, being an outlaw upon the mountain high, 
 Where cavalry and infantry to take him they did try ; 
 He laughed at them with scorn, until at length, 'tis said, 
 By a false-hearted young man he was basely betrayed. 
 
 In the County Tipperary, in a place they call Clonmore, 
 Willie Brennan and his comrade they did suffer sore; 
 He lay among the fern, which was thick upon the field, 
 And nine wounds he did receive, before that he would yield. 
 
 Then Brennan and his companion, knowing they were betrayed, 
 He with the mounted cavalry a noble battle made; 
 He lost his foremost finger, which was shot off by a ball, 
 And Brennan and his comrade they were taken after all. 
 
 So they were taken prisoners, in irons they were bound, 
 And conveyed to Clonmel Jail, strong walls did them surround; 
 They were tried and found guilty, the judge made this reply — 
 "For robbing on the King's highway, you are both condemned 
 to die!" ' 
 
 Farewell unto my darling wife, and to my children three, 
 Likewise my aged father — he may shed tears for me ; 
 And to my loving mother, who tore her grey locks, and cried, 
 Saying, "I wish Willie Brennan in your cradle you had died!" 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 29 
 
 THE ORIGIN OF THE STARS AND STRIPES. 
 
 By Carroll Malone. 
 
 [Imaginary but rational account of the origin of America's ensign.] 
 O ! how she ploughed the ocean, the good ship Castle Down, 
 The day we hung our oclors out, the Harp without the Crown! 
 A gallant bark, she topped the wave ; and gallant hearts were we, 
 With guns, and pikes, and bayonets, a stalwart company. 
 'Twas a sixteen years from Thurot ;* and sweeping down the bay, 
 The "Siege of Carrickfergus" so merrily did we play; 
 By the old Castle's foot we went, with three right hearty cheers ; 
 And waved our green cockades aloft, for we were Volunteers, 
 
 Volunteers, 
 O! we were in our prime that day, stout Irish Volunteers. 
 
 'Twas when we waved our anchor on the breast of smooth 
 Garmoyle, 
 
 Our guns spoke out in thunder: "Adieu, sweet Irish soil!" 
 
 At Whiteabbey, and Greencastle, and Holywood so gay, 
 
 Were hundreds waving handkerchiefs with many a loud huzza. 
 
 Our voices o'er the water went to the hollow mountains round; 
 
 Young Freemen struggling at her birth, might utter such a sound. 
 
 But one green slope beside Belfast, we cheered, and cheered it 
 still; 
 
 The people had changed its name that year and called it Bunk- 
 er's Hill ;t 
 
 Bunker's Hill, 
 
 O! that our hands, like our hearts, had been in the trench at 
 Bunker's Hill. 
 
30 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Our ship cleared out for Quebec port; but thither little bent, 
 
 Up some New England river, to run her keel we meant, 
 
 We took our course due North as out 'round old Blackhead we 
 
 steered, 
 Till Ireland bore southwest by south, and Fingall's rock appeared, 
 Then on the poop stood Webster, while the ship hung flutteringly, 
 About to take her tack across the wide, wide ocean sea. 
 He pointed to the Atlantic — "Yonder's no place for slaves; 
 Haul down these British badges ; for Freedom rules the waves. 
 
 Rules the waves!" 
 Three hundred strong men answered, shouting, "Freedom rules 
 
 the waves !" 
 
 Then all together rose, and brought the British ensign down; 
 And up we raised our island Green, without the British Crown ; 
 Emblazoned there a golden harp, like maiden undefiled, 
 A shamrock wreath around its head, looked o'er the sea and 
 
 smiled, 
 A hundred days, with adverse winds, we kept our course afar; 
 On the hundredth day, came bearing down, a British sloop- 
 
 of war. 
 When they spied our flag they fired a gun; but as they neared 
 
 us fast, 
 Old Andrew Jackson went aloft, and nailed it to the mast, 
 
 To the mast. 
 A soldier was that old Jackson ; he made our colors fast. 
 
 Patrick Henry was our Captain, as brave as ever sailed; 
 "Now we must do or die," said he, "for our green old flag is 
 
 nailed." 
 Silently came the sloop along; and silently we lay 
 Till with ringing cheers and cannonade the foe began the fray; 
 Then, their boarders o'er the bulwarks, like shuttlecocks we cast, 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 31 
 
 One broadside volley from our guns swept down the tapering 
 
 mast: 
 "Now, British Tars ! St. George's cross is trailing in the sea ; 
 How do you like the greeting, and the handsel of the free? 
 
 Of the Free? 
 These are the terms and tokens of men who will be free?" 
 
 They answered us with cannon, their honor to redeem; 
 
 To shoot away our Irish flag, each gunner took his aim; 
 
 They ripped it up in ribbons, till it fluttered in the air, 
 
 And filled with shot-holes till no trace of golden Harp was there ; 
 
 But the ragged holes did glance and gleam, in the sun's golden 
 
 light, 
 Even as the twinkling stars adorn God's unfurled flag at night. 
 With drooping fire we sung — "Good night, and fare-ye-well, 
 
 brave Tars!" 
 Our Captain looked aloft; — "By Heaven! the flag is stripes 
 
 and stars, 
 
 Stripes and stars." 
 Right into Boston port we sailed, below the Stripes and Stars. 
 
 *The landing of Thurot at Carrigfergus, in 1760, was long used as an 
 epoch by the people in the North, and is known to have occasioned the 
 first formation of the Irish volunteers. 
 
 tBunker's Hill, on the shore of County Down, opposite Belfast, was 
 so called in honor of the famous hill at Boston. 
 
32 RHYME WITH- REASON 
 
 BY MEMORY INSPIRED. 
 
 [Irish street ballad of the insurrectionary period, 1798-1804. Still 
 and deservedly popular.] 
 
 By Memory inspired, 
 
 And love of country fired, 
 The deeds of Men I love to dwell upon ; 
 
 And the patriotic glow 
 
 Of my spirit must bestow 
 A tribute to the friends that are gone, boys, gone ! 
 Here's the memory of the friends that are gone. 
 
 In October 'Ninety-seven — 
 
 May his soul find rest in Heaven — 
 William Orr to execution was led on: 
 
 The jury, drunk, agreed 
 
 That Irish was his creed ; 
 For perjury and threats drove them on, boys, on ; 
 Here's the memory of the friends that are gone. 
 
 In 'Ninety-eight — the month July — 
 
 The informer's pay was high; 
 When Reynolds gave the gallows brave McCann ; 
 
 But McCann was Reynolds' first — 
 
 One could not allay his thirst; 
 So he brought up Bond and Byrne, that are gone, boys, gone. 
 Here's the memory of the friends that are gone! 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 33 
 
 We saw a nation's tears 
 
 Shed for John and Henry Sheares, 
 Betrayed by Judas, Captain Armstrong ; 
 
 We may forgive but yet 
 
 We never can forget 
 The poisoning of Maguire that is gone, boys, gone — 
 Our high Star and true Apostle that is gone! 
 
 How did Lord Edward die? 
 
 Like a man, without a sigh; 
 But he left his handiwork on Major Swan! 
 
 But Sirr, with steel-clad breast, 
 
 And coward heart at best, 
 Left us cause to mourn Lord Edward that is gone, boys, gone; 
 Here's the memory of our friends that are gone. 
 
 September, Eighteen-three, 
 
 Closed this cruel history, 
 When Emmet's blood the scaffold flowed upon. 
 
 O, had their souls been wise, 
 
 They might then realize 
 Their freedom — but we drink to Mitchell that is gone, boys, gone ; 
 Here's the memory of the friends that are gone ! 
 
34 RHYME WITH REASON" 
 
 THE PRIESTS OF NINETY-EIGHT. 
 
 By Canon Furlong, "Taghmon." 
 
 The story of our native land, from weary age to age, 
 Is writ in blood and scalding tears on many a gloomy page ; 
 But darkest, saddest page of all, is that which tells the fate 
 Of Erin's noblest martyr-sons, the priests of 'Ninety-Eight. 
 
 The love of father for his flock of helpless little ones — 
 The love of darling mother wins from true and tender sons — 
 The love that liveth to the end, defying time and fate — 
 With such a love they loved their land, the priests of 'Ninety- 
 Eight. 
 
 To heaven in ceaseless dirge ascends the mother's wild despair, 
 The wail of sorrowing wife and child, the maid's unheeded prayer ; 
 The voice of vengeful blood that cries up from the reeking sod — ■ 
 Ah! may well ache your Irish hearts, O patient priests of God! 
 
 They drew the green old banner forth and flung it to the light, 
 And Wexford heard the rallying cry, and gathered in her might, 
 And swore around uplifted cross until the latest breath 
 To follow where her soggarth led — to victory or death! 
 
 The Soggarth led the pikemen forth like lions brought to bay, 
 And Wexford proved her prowess well in many a bloody fray, 
 Where wronged and wronger, foot to foot, in deadly grip were 
 
 seen, 
 And England's hated red went down before the Irish Green. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 35 
 
 Radiant shall their memory live, though dark and sad their doom 
 To brighten in our history a page of woe and gloom — 
 A pillar-fire to guide a nation struggling to be free 
 Along the thorny, sunless path that leads to liberty. 
 
 Honor them — the martyred dead — the fearless, good and wise — - 
 Who for its sake in civil days made willing sacrifice 
 Of earthly hope and earthly joy, and dared the felon's fate 
 To feed with their own heart's blood — the priests of 'Ninety- 
 Eight. 
 
36 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 THE GLORY OF NINETY-EIGHT. 
 
 By Charles J. Beattie. 
 [Lawyer, of Chicago, author of numerous pleasing verses.] 
 
 We do not grieve for 'Ninety-eight — 
 
 Its memories never ban — 
 Our fathers rose 'gainst whelming foes 
 
 To raise downtrodden man, 
 They drew the sword for human right 
 
 Against their tyrants' reign ; 
 The men who've died in freedom's fight 
 
 Have never died in vain. 
 
 We do not curse thee, 'Ninety-eight — 
 
 No cry of vengeance raise, 
 Nor grudge the blood by field and flood 
 
 Then shed in trials' days. 
 Each patriot father's loyal son 
 
 Will arm 'mid blood and tears — 
 And freedom's battle then begun 
 
 Will strengthen with the years. 
 
 We do not blush for 'Ninety-eight. 
 
 But praise the noble band 
 Who in the strife pledged honor — life — 
 
 To save their native land, 
 In danger's dark and direful hour 
 
 They risked their all to free 
 Their country from the despot's power — 
 
 And died for liberty. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 37 
 
 We love thy memories, 'Ninety-eight — 
 
 No useless tears we shed 
 For heroes brave who died to have 
 
 The land for which they bled; 
 They fought to break the despot's chain 
 
 That pressed their country down, 
 To burst the links on land and main 
 
 That held her to the crown. 
 
 Brave martyred men of 'Ninety-eight 
 
 Your cause can never die, 
 The good and great some adverse fate 
 
 May baffle or defy; 
 The patriots' blood for freedom shed 
 
 Is but the good seed sown — 
 That springs from graves of heroes dead — 
 
 To overwhelm the throne. 
 
38 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 THE LONDON PRjIDE AND SHAMROCK. 
 
 By Robert Emmet. 
 
 [This poem, written while the author was a student in Trinity College, 
 Dublin, was originally published in The Press, a paper printed in the 
 eventful years of 1797 and 1798. The lesson it points as to the relations 
 between Ireland and England is today true as ever. It is here as a relic 
 of the devoted young patriot of revered memory, who lost his life on the 
 scaffold Sept. 20, 1803.] 
 
 Full many a year, close side by side, 
 
 A Shamrock grew and London Pride; 
 
 Together how they came to grow, 
 
 I do not care, nor do I know ; 
 
 But this I know, that overhead 
 
 A Laurel cast a wholesome shade. 
 
 The Shamrock was of lovely green, 
 
 In early days as e'er was seen; 
 
 And she had many a hardy son 
 
 In days of old; but they are gone — 
 
 For soon the other's creeping shoots 
 
 Did stream themselves 'round Shamrock's roots, 
 
 Then, thief-like, fasten'd in her soil, 
 
 And suck'd the sap of poor Trefoil. 
 
 Until in time, pert London Pride 
 
 Got up so high as quite to hide 
 
 Poor Shamrock, who could seldom see 
 
 The Sun's bright face, nor seen was she, 
 
 Save when an adverse blast did blow, 
 
 And laid her neighbor's honors low. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 39 
 
 Then in the angry lady's spite, 
 She drank the shower, she saw the light, 
 She bath'd her sicklied charms in dew, 
 And gather'd health and strength anew. 
 She saw those joys had come from heaven, 
 And ne'er were by her neighbor given; 
 Yet her good nature ay to prove, 
 She paid her jealous hate with love; 
 
 But when once more kind zephyrs came, 
 
 And raised the o'ergrown storm-bent dame 
 
 The ingrate strove her all to take, 
 
 And forced poor Shamrock thus to speak: 
 
 "Neighbour, we're born witn equal right, 
 
 To feel yon son and see his light, 
 
 To enjoy the blessings of this earth, 
 
 Or, if right follows, prior birth, 
 
 In this still stronger is my claim, 
 
 Long was I known, and great my fame, 
 
 Before the world o'erheard thy name. 
 
 But letting all those strong claims lie, 
 
 Pray, tell me is it policy 
 
 To thwart my offspring as they rise, 
 
 To break my heart to blind their eyes? 
 
 Sure if they spread the earth along, 
 
 Grow handsome, healthy, stout and strong, 
 
 They will, as usual, happy be 
 
 To lend that useful strength to thee; 
 
 Thus would we keep each other warm, 
 
 And guard us from all coming harm; 
 
 We'd steady stand when wild winds blow. 
 
40 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 And laugh in spite of frost or snow, 
 And guard the root of our loved Laurel, 
 Grown sick and pale to see us quarrel." 
 
 "No more" — the vexed virago cries, 
 
 Wild fury flashing from her eyes, 
 
 "I'll hear no more — your bounds I'll mark, 
 
 And keep you ever in the dark ; 
 
 Here is a circle, look you here, 
 
 One step beyond it if you dare; 
 
 And if I hear you more complain, 
 
 I'll tear thy rising heart in twain; 
 
 I've made thy sons kill one another, 
 
 And soon they shall destroy their mother. 
 
 I'll thus" — a flash of heavenly fire, 
 
 Full fraught with Jove's most deadly ire, 
 
 Scattered the London Pride around; 
 
 The black clouds roared with horrid sound; 
 
 The vivid lightning flashed again, 
 
 And laid the laurel on the plain ; 
 
 But soon succeeds a heavenly calm, 
 
 Soft dews descend and showers of balm; 
 
 The sun shoots forth its kindest ray 
 
 And Shamrock strengthens every day; 
 
 And raised by heaven's assistant bland, 
 
 Bids fair to spread o'er all the land ; 
 
 She guards the blasted Laurel roots; 
 
 The natural Laurel upward shoots, 
 
 And grateful wreaths its dark green boughs 
 
 To grace great Shamrock's aged brow. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 41 
 
 Take heed, learn wisdom hence, weak man, 
 And keep a good friend while you can; 
 If to your friend you are unkind, 
 E'en Jove will be against you joined; 
 Reflect that every act you do 
 To strengthen him, doth strengthen you, 
 To serve you he is — willing — able — 
 Two twists will make the strongest cable 
 To bind a friend and keep him steady, 
 To have him e'er in reach and ready. 
 
4:2 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 THE SENTENCE OF ROBERT EMMET. 
 
 By David Graham Adee. 
 
 "When my country takes her place among the nations of the earth, 
 then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written." 
 
 A crowded court, a breathless bar, 
 
 Both judge and jury flushed with rage, 
 A fearless felon there to mar 
 
 And blot with shame Brittania's page! 
 A hero brave, a rebel bold, 
 
 A patriot to make tyrants pause, 
 A man of gallant, martial mould, 
 
 A martyr in his country's cause! 
 
 And who the prisoner in the dock? 
 
 And what his crime against the State? 
 And why a doom worse than the block 
 
 Pronounced on one so good and great? 
 A name with honor to be known 
 
 In every age and every land 
 Where freedom bravely holds her own 
 
 And freemen rally, hand in hand. 
 
 O, Robert Emmet, glorious son 
 
 Of liberty and Erin's love, 
 Thy dying words have but begun 
 
 To echo to the skies above! 
 Thy crime, thy country's pride and boast, 
 
 Thy death, the dearest men may crave — 
 To drive the despot from her coast, 
 
 A people to unchain and save! 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 43 
 
 The brutal Toler jibes and jeers, 
 
 The traitor Plunket smiles in scorn, 
 While Irishmen are moved to tears 
 
 And generous breasts with grief are torn, 
 As Emmett dares the bench's worst — 
 
 Its ruthless wrath, the hangman's knot, 
 A sentence cruel and accurst, 
 
 A fate that cannot be forgot! 
 
 And all for love of native land, 
 
 Of friends and fields and firesides dear, 
 He stands a champion, royal, grand, 
 
 Of noble front, without a fear! 
 His cheeks unblanched, his pulse unchecked, 
 
 To face the gallows and the grave, 
 A victim for the altar docked 
 
 With blessings that about him wave! 
 "Let no man write my epitaph, 
 
 But lay my memory in the tomb 
 Until the bitter cup we quaff 
 
 Be wreathed with the shamrock's bloom 
 And dear old Ireland takes her place 
 
 Among the nations of the world; 
 The sunburst lighting up her face, 
 
 Her emerald flag again unfurled!" 
 He died amid the heartfelt grief 
 
 Of comrades, brothers in the strife, 
 None strong enough to yield relief, 
 
 No pity there to spare his life. 
 And Britain's doom was breathed that morn 
 
 In judgment on the rising gale, 
 For vows of dire revenge were borne 
 
 On sighs that soon became a wail ! 
 
44 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 The life that Emmet freely gave 
 
 Is cherished in a nation's soul! 
 The love he bore springs from his grave 
 
 To bless the earth while time shall roll. 
 His sacred gift, a sainted name, 
 
 Hibernia, is forever thine, 
 To lead thy sons to endless fame, 
 
 Thy daughters to a holy shrine! 
 
 The Harp of Tara sounds once more, 
 
 For patriot fingers sweep the strings, 
 And heroes throng the blood-stained shore, 
 
 Whose cheer above the battle rings. 
 The seed that swells in Irish sod 
 
 Was sown by hands upraised on high 
 In prayer and reverence to God, 
 
 And martyr-harvests never die! 
 
 The soul of Emmet marches on 
 
 Among the silent, serried ranks, 
 With steadfast eyes toward the sun, 
 
 Upon eternity's green banks! 
 The book of fate is never shut, 
 
 Nor dry the ink on history's page, 
 Till right above the wrong is put, 
 
 And justice triumphs o'er the age! 
 
RHYME WITH REASON , 45 
 
 AN IRISHMAN'S WISH ON ST. PATRICK'S DAY. 
 
 By Rt. Rev. John England, First Bishop of Charleston. 
 
 [From the period of the devoted Emmet we glide onward a couple of 
 decades into the struggle for Catholic emancipation. Giving full credit 
 to the great and brilliant efforts of O'Connell, the fact remains that the 
 demands of Ireland were granted by the English government largely 
 through fear of Irish physical force, as threatened from America. The 
 advanced national and democratic views of the Rev. John England, of 
 Cork, were such that nearly all the bishops in Ireland, fearing that, from 
 his talents, he was about to succeed to an Irish see, signed a memorial 
 to Rome praying that he might be appointed to some foreign one (the 
 venerable Dr. Coppinger, patriot prelate of Cloyne, a friend and admirer 
 of Dr. England, refusing to sign the degrading document). Accordingly 
 a see was found for the patriot Irish priest among the slave owners and 
 slaves of Carolina. But even here he rendered effective and formidable 
 service to his native land. He almost personally organized, in 1828, a 
 force of 40,000 men, which, headed by General Montgomery, the son of 
 an Irish refugee, was intended for the invasion of Ireland had Catholic 
 emancipation continued to be withheld. Even O'Connell himself knew 
 but little of this. But the Duke of Wellington, high opponent of the 
 Catholic claims, had full knowledge of it, and the result was— surrender. 
 The patriot soul of Dr. England lives in his spirited verses.] 
 
 Oh! who that has not wandered far 
 
 From where he first drew vital air, 
 Can tell how bright the visions are 
 
 Which still surround his fancy there? 
 For, oh! 'tis sweet 'round memory's throne, 
 
 When time and distance gild the way, 
 To cite the scenes that long have flown 
 
 And view them o'er on Patrick's Day. 
 
 Though distant from our native shore, 
 And bound by Fortune's stern decree 
 
 To tread our native land no more, 
 Still, Erin, we must think on thee. 
 
46 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Is there a heart of Irish mould 
 
 That does not own the magic sway 
 
 That tempts the generous patriot soul 
 To celebrate our St. Patrick's Day? 
 
 No nation e'er at Freedom's shrine 
 
 Has sacrificed more rights than we; 
 Our blood has flown in every clime 
 
 That raised the shout of liberty. 
 But, oh! will Freedom never smile, 
 
 Nor shed one bright, one cheering ray 
 To cheer our own lov'd native isle, 
 
 And raise our hopes on Patrick's Day? 
 
 Yes, Erin, raise thy drooping brow, 
 
 And wreathe it with the Shamrock green; 
 Go, tell thy proud, thy haughty foe 
 
 That she's no longer Ocean's Queen. 
 Columbia's banners wave on high, 
 
 Her Eagle seizes on its prey; 
 Then, Erin, wipe thy tearful eye, 
 
 And raise thy hopes on Patrick's Day. 
 
 Thy gallant sons have nobly bought 
 
 Columbia's gratitude for thee; 
 In Freedom's cause they nobly fought, 
 
 And shed their blood for Liberty. 
 Then sing, my Harp ! and speak, my soul ! 
 
 Let tyrants grumble as they may ; 
 The wish we'll speak is — "England's fall!" 
 
 And Erin's joy on Patrick's Day. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 47 
 
 THE FAMINE YEAR. 
 
 By Lady Wilde. 
 
 [Written in the terrible time (1846-1848), when Ireland was losing 
 millions of her people by famine, plague and flight, induced by the loss 
 of the potato crop and augmented by the brutalities of landlordism, 
 backed by British bayonets.] 
 
 Weary men, what reap ye? — golden corn for the stranger. 
 What sow ye? — human corpses that wait for the avenger. 
 Fainting forms, hunger stricken, what see you in the offing? 
 Stately ships to bear our food away, amid the stranger's scoffing 
 There's a proud array of soldiers — what do they round your door ? 
 They guard our master's granaries from the thin hands of the poor. 
 Pale mothers, wherefore weeping? Would to God that we were 
 
 dead — 
 Our children swoon before us, and we cannot give them bread. 
 
 Little children, tears are strange upon your infant faces, 
 
 God meant you but to smile within your mother's soft embraces. 
 
 Oh, we know not what is smiling, and we know not what is dying ; 
 
 But we're hungry, very hungry, and we cannot stop our crying. 
 
 And some of us grow cold and white — we know not what it means ; 
 
 But as they lie beside us, we tremble in our dreams. 
 
 There's a gaunt crowd on the highway — are ye come to pray 
 
 to man, 
 With hollow eyes that cannot weep, and for words your faces 
 
 wan? 
 
48 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 No ; the blood is dead within our veins — we care not now for life ; 
 Let us die hid in the ditches, far from children and from wife; 
 We cannot stay and listen to their raving, famished cries — 
 Bread! Bread! Bread! and none to still their agonies. 
 We left our infants playing with their dead mother's hand ; 
 We left our maidens maddened by the fever's scorching brand; 
 Better, maiden, thou wert strangled in thine own dark-twisted 
 
 tresses — 
 Better, infant, thou were smothered in thy mother's first caresses. 
 
 We are fainting in our misery, but God will hear our groan ; 
 Yet, if fellow-men desert us, will He hearken from His throne? 
 Accursed are we in our own land, yet toil we still and toil; 
 But the stranger reaps our harvest — the alien owns our soil. 
 O, Christ, how have we sinned, that on our native plains 
 We perish houseless, naked, starved, with branded brow, like 
 
 Cain's ? 
 Dying, dying wearily, with a torture sure and slow — 
 Dying as a dog would die, by the wayside as we go. 
 
 One by one they're falling round us, their pale faces to the sky; 
 We've no strength left to dig them graves — there let them lie. 
 The wild bird, if he's stricken, is mourned by the others, 
 But we — we die in Christian land — we die amid our brothers, 
 In the land which God has given, like a wild beast in his cave 
 Without a tear, a prayer, a shroud, a coffin or a grave. 
 Ha ! but think ye the contortions upon each living face ye see 
 Will not be read on Judgment Day by eyes of Deity ? 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 49 
 
 We are wretches, famished, scorned, human tools to build your 
 
 pride, 
 But God will yet take vengeance for the souls for whom Christ 
 
 died. 
 Now is your hour of pleasure — back ye in the world's caress ; 
 But our whitening bones against ye will rise as witnesses, 
 From the cabins and the ditches, in their charred, uncoffined 
 
 masses, 
 For the Angel of the Trumpet will know them as he passes, 
 A ghastly, spectral army before the great God we'll stand, 
 And arraign ye as our murderers, the spoilers of our land ! 
 
50 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 JILLEN ANDY. 
 
 By Jeremiah O'Donovan Rossa. 
 
 [An episode of the great Irish famine of 1847.] 
 "Come to the graveyard, if you're not afraid, 
 
 I'm going to dig my mother's grave, she's dead, 
 And I want some one that will bring the spade, 
 
 For Andy's out of home, and Charlie's sick in bed." 
 
 Thade Andy was a simple-spoken fool, 
 
 With whom in early days I loved to stroll, 
 
 He'd often take me on his back to school, 
 
 And make the master laugh himself, he was so droll. 
 
 In songs and ballads he took great delight, 
 And prophecies of Ireland yet being freed, 
 
 And singing them by our fireside at night, 
 
 I learned songs from Thade before I learned to read. 
 
 And I have still "by heart" his "Colleen Fhune," 
 His "Croppy Boy," his "Phoenix of the Hall," 
 
 And I could "rise" his "Rising of the Moon," 
 If I could sing in prison cell — or sing at all. 
 
 He'd walk the "eeriest" place a moonlight night, 
 
 He'd whistle in the dark — even in bed ; 
 In fairy fort or graveyard, Thade was quite 
 
 As fearless of a ghost as any ghost of Thade. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 51 
 
 Now in the dark churchyard we work away, 
 The shovel in his hand, in mine the spade, 
 
 And seeing Thade cry I cried myself that day, 
 
 For Thade was fond of me and I was fond of Thade. 
 
 But after twenty years why now will such 
 
 A bubbling spring up to my eyelids start? 
 Ah ! there be things that ask not leave to touch 
 
 The fountain of the eyes or feelings of the heart. 
 
 "This load of clay will break her bones, I fear, 
 
 For when alive she wasn't over strong. 
 We'll dig not deeper, I can watch her here 
 
 A month or so, sure nobody will do me wrong." 
 
 Four- men bear Jillen on a door — 'tis light, 
 They have not much of Jillen but her frame. 
 
 No mourners come, for 'tis believed the sight 
 Of any death or sickness now begets the same. 
 
 And those brave hearts that volunteer to touch 
 Plague-stricken death are tender as they're brave, 
 
 They raise poor Jillen from her tainted couch, 
 And shade their swimming eyes while laying her in the grave. 
 
 I stand within that grave, nor wide nor deep, 
 
 The slender, wasted body at my feet; 
 What wonder is it if strong men will weep 
 
 O'er famine-stricken Jillen in her winding-sheet. 
 
 Her head I try to pillow on a stone, 
 
 But it will hang one side, as if the breath 
 Of famine gaunt into the corpse had blown, 
 
 And blighted in the nerves the rigid strength of death. 
 
52 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 "Hand me that stone, child." In his hands 'tis placed; 
 
 Down-channelling his cheeks are tears like rain; 
 The stone within his handkerchief is cased, 
 
 And then I pillow on it Jillen's head again. 
 
 "Untie the nightcap string," "Unloose that lace," 
 
 "Take out that pin," "There, now, she's nicely — rise, 
 
 But lay the apron first across her face, 
 
 So that the earth won't touch her lips or blind her eyes. 
 
 "Don't grasp the shovel too tigthly — there, make a heap, 
 Steal down each shovelful quietly — there, let it creep 
 
 Over her poor body lightly ; friend, do not weep, 
 
 Tears would disturb old Jillen in her last, long sleep." 
 
 And Thade was faithful to his watch and ward; 
 
 Where'er he'd spend the day, at night he'd haste 
 With his few sods of turf to that churchyard, 
 
 Where he was laid himself before the month was past. 
 
 Then Andy died a-soldiering in Bombay, 
 
 And Charlie died in Ross the other day, 
 Now, no one lives to blush because I say 
 
 That Jillen Andy went uncoffmed to the clay. 
 
 E'en all are gone that buried Jillen, save 
 One banished man who dead alive remains, 
 
 The little boy that stood within the grave 
 
 Stands for his country's cause in England's prison chains. 
 
 How oft in dreams that burial scene appears, 
 Through death, eviction, prison, exile, home, 
 
 Through all the suns and moons of twenty years — 
 
 And oh ! how short these years compared with years to come. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 53 
 
 Some things are strongly on the mind impressed, 
 
 And others faintly imaged there, it seems ; 
 And this is why, when reason sinks to rest, 
 
 Phases of life do show and shadow forth in dreams. 
 
 And this is why in dreams I see the face 
 
 Of Jillen Andy looking in my own, 
 The poet-hearted man — the pillow case, 
 
 The spotted handkerchief that softened the hard stone. 
 
 Welcome those memories of scenes of youth, 
 That nursed my hate of tyranny and wrong, 
 
 That helmed my manhood in the path of truth, 
 And help me now to suffer calmly and be strong. 
 
 And suffering calmly is a trial test, 
 
 When at the tyrant's foot and felon-drest, 
 When State and master- jailer do their best, 
 
 To make you feel degraded, spiritless, opprest. 
 
 When barefoot before Dogberry, and when 
 
 He mocks your cause of 'prisonment, and speaks 
 
 Of "Thieves," "State orders," "No distinctions" — then 
 Because you speak at work — hard bread and board for 
 weeks. 
 
 Or when he says, "Too well you're treated for 
 
 Times were you'd hang ;" "You were worse fed at home ;" 
 
 "You can't be more degraded than you are;" 
 
 "You should be punished also in the world to come." 
 
54 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 When sneer, and jeer, and insult follow fast, 
 
 And heavenward you look, or look, or look him down, 
 
 He rages and commands you to be classed 
 And slaved amongst the slaves of infamied renown. 
 
 When England — worthy of the mean and base — 
 Smites you when bound, flings outrage in your face, 
 
 When hand to hand with thieves she gives you place, 
 To scoff at freedom for your land and scattered race : 
 
 To suffer calmly when the cowardly wound, 
 From wanton insult, makes the veins to swell 
 
 With burning blood, is hard, though doubly bound 
 In prison within prison — a blacker hell in hell. 
 
 The body starved to break the spirit down, 
 That will not bend beneath the scourging rod ; 
 
 The dungeon dark that pearls the prisoner's crown, 
 And stars the suffering that awakens Freedom's God. 
 
 Those who ever won had to endure 
 
 This human suffering proves good at last, 
 
 The painful operation works the cure, 
 
 The health-restoring draught is bitter to the taste. 
 
 'Tis suffering for a trampled land, that suffering 
 Bears heavenly fruit, and all who ever trod 
 
 In Freedom's path, found heavenly help when offering 
 Their sacrifice of suffering to Freedom's God. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 55 
 
 THE ANCIENT RACE. 
 
 By Rev. J. F. Tormey. 
 
 [Written at a time when, through the work of greedy and evicting 
 landlords, backed by the power of England, the lifeblood began to pour 
 in great volumes out of Ireland.] 
 
 What shall become of the ancient race, 
 The noble Keltic island race? 
 Like cloud on cloud o'er the azure sky, 
 When winter storms are loud and high, 
 Their dark ships shadow the ocean's face — 
 What shall become of the Keltic race? 
 
 What shall befall the ancient race — 
 
 The poor, unfriended, faithful race? 
 
 Where ploughman's song made the hamlet ring, 
 
 The hawk and the owlet flap their wing; 
 
 The village homes, oh, who can trace — 
 
 God of our persecuted race! 
 
 What shall befall the ancient race? 
 Is treason's stigma on their face? 
 Be they cowards or traitors? Go — 
 Ask the shade of England's foe; 
 See the gems her crown that grace; 
 They tell a tale of the ancient race. 
 
56 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 They tell a tale of the ancient race — 
 Of matchless deeds in danger's face; 
 They speak of Britain's glory fed 
 With blood of Kelts right bravely shed ; 
 Of Jndia's spoil and Frank's disgrace — 
 Such tale they tell of the ancient race. 
 
 Then why cast out the ancient race? 
 Grim want dwelt with the ancient race, 
 And hell-born laws, with prison jaws; 
 And greedy Lords, with tiger maws, 
 Have swallowed — swallowed still apace — 
 The limbs and blood of the ancient race. 
 
 Will no one shield the ancient race? 
 They fly their father's burial place; 
 The proud lords with the heavy purse, 
 Their father's shame, their people's curse- 
 Demons in heart, nobles in face — 
 They dig a grave for the ancient race! 
 
 What shall befall the ancient race? 
 Shall all forsake their dear birthplace, 
 Without one struggle strong to keep 
 The old soil where their fathers sleep — 
 The dearest land on earth's wide space — 
 Why leave it so, O ancient race? 
 
 What shall befall the ancient race? 
 
 Light up one hope for the ancient race; 
 
 Oh, priest of God — Soggarth aroon! 
 
 Lead but way, we'll go full soon; 
 
 Is there a danger we will not face, 
 
 To keep the old homes for the Irish race? 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 57 
 
 They shall not go, the ancient race — 
 They must not go, the ancient race ! 
 Come gallant Kelts, and take your stand — 
 And form a league to save the land; 
 The land of faith, the land of grace, 
 The land of Erin's ancient race! 
 
 They must not go, the ancient race! 
 They must not go, the ancient race! 
 The cry swells loud from shore to shore, 
 From emerald vale to mountain hour, 
 From altar high to market place — 
 "They shall not go, the ancient race!" 
 
58 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 SONGS IN EXILE. 
 
 [After the failure of the feeble rising of 1.848, the same British man-of- 
 war bore William Smith O'Brien, Thomas Francis Meagher, Terrence 
 Bellew McManus and Patrick O'Donohue to undergo life exile in the 
 Australian criminal colonies. On the voyage the following songs were 
 written.] 
 
 Great Albion, here at midnight hour, 
 
 Surrounded by thy guns, 
 I sing the triumph of thy power 
 
 O'er Ireland's patriot sons. 
 'Twas not enough to shake thy ire, 
 
 Our limbs with chains to bind, 
 But thou must quench the living fire 
 
 Which still illumes our mind. 
 
 When we with poesy divine 
 
 Strive to beguile the night, 
 Fat Sergeant Perry comes at nine 
 
 And robs us of our light. 
 'Twas once to England's tars of old 
 
 A pride with men to fight, 
 But now their duty is, we're told — 
 
 To put the muse to flight. 
 
 The powers of darkness thus assail 
 
 Sweet learning's gentle joys, 
 And, sleepless, we our lot bewail, 
 
 Opprest with heat and noise. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 59 
 
 Exult, proud England! o'er thy foe, 
 
 At length he owns thy might, 
 His mind its culture must forego 
 
 While thus deprived of light. 
 
 William Smith O'Brien. 
 Written on board H.M.S. Swift, July 27, 1849. 
 
 Although it is our lot to range 
 
 The earth's wide surface o'er, 
 Yet still our hearts can know no change, 
 
 We're Paddies evermore. 
 
 Place us beneath yon burning sky, 
 
 On Africa's arid shore, 
 "Yet e'en within the torrid zone 
 
 We're Paddies evermore. 
 
 Let beef be tough, and biscuit dry, 
 
 And milkless tea outpour, 
 We'll shed no tear, we'll heave no sigh, 
 
 We're Paddies evermore. 
 
 Though short our day, and quenched our light 
 
 Before that day be o'er, 
 Yet still our hearts can know no night, 
 
 We're Paddies evermore. 
 
 Let sharks and dolphins shun the hook, 
 
 Baited from purser's store, 
 We'll catch them yet by hook or crook, 
 
 We're Paddies evermore. 
 
60 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Though Neptune come with tar and soap 
 
 Our bearded chins to score, 
 Still with this shaver we will cope, 
 
 We're Paddies evermore. 
 
 Although the whitening surge beat high, 
 
 And loud the tempest roar, 
 Yet quail we not when death seems nigh, 
 
 We're Paddies evermore. 
 
 Although the Cape no hope may bring, 
 
 Our tone we will not low'r, 
 For still in Table Bay we'll sing, 
 
 We're Paddies evermore. 
 
 And when we tread Van Dieman's strand, 
 
 Transported to that shore, 
 In prayer we'll bless our native land, 
 
 As Paddies evermore. 
 
 Thomas Francis Meagher. 
 H.M.S. Swift, July 20, 1849. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 61 
 
 BRINGING THE McCORMACK'S HOME. 
 
 By Joe Fogarty. 
 
 [On May n, 1858, two boys were hanged in Nenagh, Tipperary, on 
 trumped-up evidence, for the killing of a persecuting land agent named 
 Ellis. A furious storm of thunder and lightning that attended the execu- 
 tion persuaded the people that a judicial murder had been done, and the 
 hostile judge who delivered sentence was haunted by the memory of his 
 act to his dying day. May 11, 1910, the fifty-second anniversary of their 
 death, the remains of the young victims were removed to the cemetery of 
 their native place, Loughmore.] 
 
 Call, O valiant Tipperary, 
 
 Your kind, sympathetic men, 
 From your highways and your byways, 
 
 From each mountain, wood and glen; 
 Bring the young men and the old men 
 
 And the men in manhood's prime; 
 Bring your mothers, wives and daughters 
 
 At this solemn mourning time; 
 Join the mighty funeral cortege, 
 
 Swell its numbers more and more, 
 Till it reaches clear from Nenagh 
 
 To the churchyard of Loughmore. 
 
 Come from hamlet and from village, 
 From each crossroad and each town, 
 
 From the borders of the Shannon 
 To the slopes of Knock-mel-Down ; 
 
 From each corner in the county 
 
 Where the love of Freedom springs, 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 From the sturdy town of Thurles 
 And from Cashel of the Kings. 
 
 So great and proud a funeral 
 Was never seen before 
 
 As that which brings the Martyrs 
 To the churchyard of Loughmore. 
 
 Every fireside in the county 
 
 Where good neighbors congregate 
 Has for all-engrossing topic 
 
 But the young McCormacks' fate, 
 How their lives were rudely taken 
 
 By a power known as The Law — 
 English Vengeance garbed as Justice, 
 
 Foreign bird with greedy maw. 
 But their memory will be cherished 
 
 When their tyrants are no more, 
 And their monument speak honor 
 
 In the churchyard of Loughmore. 
 
 Then to venerate those martyrs 
 
 With a love that ne'er shall die 
 Raised they up the caoine of sorrow 
 
 Till it rent the Irish sky. 
 They came in tens of thousands 
 
 Bringing home that sacred clay, 
 Placing wreaths upon the coffins 
 
 Made of fairest flowers of May. 
 They lowered them gently to their graves 
 
 To rest for evermore 
 With the ashes of their fathers 
 
 In the churchyard of Loughmore. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 63 
 
 Sweet innocence and patriot truth 
 
 By tyrants trampled on 
 In splendor will come forth again 
 
 Like bright May morning sun. 
 The callous, proud oppressors long 
 
 Have spread despair and gloom 
 And driven thousands of our race 
 
 To exile, woe and doom; 
 But soon their wicked reign is past, 
 
 Their evil day is o'er 
 While memory guards the loved and slain 
 
 Like the McCormacks of Loughmore. 
 
64 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 RIDGEWAY. 
 
 By Scian Dubh. 
 
 [The battle of Ridgeway, in Canada, was fought on the morning of 
 June 2, 1866, when 450 Fenians, who had crossed from Buffalo, routed a 
 British-Canadian force of about 1,200, under Colonel Booker. This 
 demonstration of the vulnerability of Canadian territory led to the speedy 
 settlement of the Alabama claims, amounting to $15,000,000, for injury 
 done American commerce by Confederate ships of prey fitted out in Eng- 
 lish ports.] 
 
 There's a flush on the cheek of the gallant O'Neill! — 
 There is blood on his lip and strange light in his eye; 
 
 And there's death in the gleam of his chivalrous steel, 
 As it sweeps round his head like a flash round the sky, 
 
 While his horse, white with foam, plunges deep, mid the foe, 
 
 Through the red lane he opens at every blow! 
 
 In that hurricane swoop of the sons of the Gael, 
 And their merciless shout that rings out on the air, 
 
 See the face of the tyrant grows haggard and pale, 
 
 For he knows the wild longing for vengeance that's there; 
 
 See him crushed with the terrible cry that he hears, 
 
 Bursting forth from the lips of seven hundred long years. 
 
 Breast to breast! crash on crash! hand to hand! hip and thigh! 
 
 And the field is a desert! — the foemen are fled! 
 And again the bright "Sun-burst" waves proudly on high, 
 
 While low down in the dust lies the banner of red, 
 And the clarion of triumph sends forth a long peal, 
 For the sons of the Gael and their gallant O'Neill! 
 Buffalo, March 17th, 1868. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON G5 
 
 THE CONVICT GREY. 
 
 By Col. Ricard O'Sullivan Burke. 
 
 [Colonel Burke, a native of Coachford, County Cork, Ireland, after 
 serving with distinction in the engineer corps during the American Civil 
 War, went to Ireland to promote a threatened and at one time a very 
 promising insurrection against the British government. After having 
 taken a leading part in the rescue of two Fenian officers at Manchester 
 (in connection with which affair Allen, Larkin and O'Brien were judi- 
 cially murdered), he was arrested and spent many years in English 
 prisons. He is now an employe of the bureau of engineering, city .of 
 Chicago. In reference to the following poem, he says : 
 
 "The policy of England in substituting the Treason Felony Act for 
 that of High Treason in nearly all the trials of the Irish patriots of 1867, 
 was, if possible, to remove from each case all idea of its political charac- 
 ter and brand these patriots as ordinary felons, without morals or honor, 
 and utterly devoid of all the elements of true manhood. England's press 
 and public were loud in their proclamations that no one but .those 
 utterly without consciences, and who were lost to every sense of justice 
 and right, could possibly raise their hands against so humane and bene- 
 ficient an institution as the British government. During the imprisonment 
 of these patriots, a constant effort was made by the prison officers to 
 carry out this policy. We were told thousands of times by these officers, 
 'England has no political prisoners — all her prisoners are ordinary com- 
 mon criminals — mere felons', and they asserted that the Irish patriots 
 were, if anything, the worst and most degraded of all the convicts. 
 
 "In direct defiance of this policy, and to show how the Irish patriots 
 despised English opinion, holding it and all prison regulations under it 
 in utter contempt, 'The Convict Gray' was written in Millbank Prison in 
 December, 1867, immediately after I was moved from the House of Deten- 
 tion at Clerkenwell, subsequent to the explosion at that prison." The ex- 
 plosion referred to was an attempt made by Irish revolutionists in London 
 to effect the colonel's release by blowing down the wall of the prison.] 
 
66 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 They tell us that we are base and vile, 
 Have souls that pierced all grades of guile 
 And bear the taint; full well you know 
 How little we heed the sland'rous blow: 
 
 Our laugh and song 
 
 Shall echo along 
 The corridor's gloomy way; 
 
 Our hearts are free 
 
 Here though bound are we, 
 And wearing the convict grey. 
 Comrades, up ! hip ! hip ! hurrah ! 
 A manly garb is the convict grey! 
 
 Not our's the life to cringe or fawn 
 In servile heart, on purple or lawn; 
 Nor envy we the ermined great, 
 To finish their webs and rot in State; 
 
 Glory that falls 
 
 On their proud palls 
 Is a feeble transient ray; 
 
 Our duty and faith 
 
 Defy e'en death, 
 Though wearing the convict grey. 
 Comrades, up! hip! hip! hurrah! 
 A glorious garb is the convict grey! 
 
 Light hearted we come from field and camp, 
 To the narrow cells, the dungeon damp, 
 And our arms that waved the sabre blade 
 To the quarry toil, the pick, the spade: 
 
 The sash, the braid, 
 
 The gay cockade — 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 67 
 
 The dress of a martial day; 
 Of each side's hue 
 The grey and the blue 
 Yield place to the convict grey. 
 Comrades, up ! hip ! hip ! hurrah ! 
 A soldier's garb is the convict grey. 
 
 Why should we fear, boys, to endure 
 We who're pledged to the cause of the poor; 
 Of labor's troops the advance brigade; 
 Then steadily ply the pick and spade; 
 
 Now while we toil 
 
 Through this alien soil 
 Down through root, through rock and clay — 
 
 Our hearts are there, 
 
 In old Ireland fair, 
 Though wearing this convict grey. 
 Comrades, up ! hip ! hip ! hurrah ! , 
 A patriot's garb is the convict grey. 
 
 We think of the desert where they pass'd, 
 That bore for the starving food at last; 
 E'er the sparkling draughts to the thirsty flow 
 When the rock is struck blow after blow 
 
 Our ev'ry stroke 
 
 Cuts deep in our yoke; 
 We'll sever it quite some day! 
 
 With sabre or spade, 
 
 In labor's brigade, 
 And wearing the convict grey. 
 Comrades, up ! hip ! hip ! hurrah ! 
 A nation's garb is the convict grey. 
 
68 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Freely to death our bodies we'd give — 
 Who would not die that his land might live? 
 And gladly we wear the convict's chain, 
 When off from her limbs its links are ta'en; 
 
 For ours the part 
 
 Of the strong true heart, 
 To strive through her gloomiest day; 
 
 In court, or camp, 
 
 Or in dungeon damp, 
 Or wearing the convict grey. 
 Comrades, up ! hip ! hip ! hurrah ! 
 A freeman's garb is the convict grey. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 69 
 
 STAMPING OUT. 
 
 By General Charles Halpine. 
 
 ["We must stamp out the fires of this Fenian insurrection and quench 
 its embers in the blood of the wretches who are its promoters." So said 
 The London Times in 1865. To which thus replied General Halpine 
 ("Miles O'Reilly"), son of a Presbyterian minister of Dublin, Union 
 officer in the American Civil War and author of many beautiful verses.] 
 
 Aye, stamp away ! Can you stamp it out, 
 
 The quenchless fire of a nation's freedom? 
 Your feet are broad and your legs are stout, 
 
 But stouter for this you'll need 'em ! 
 You have stamped away seven hundred years, 
 
 But again and again the old cause rallies ; 
 Pikes gleam in the hands of our mountaineers 
 
 And with the scythes come the men from our valleys 
 
 The steel-clad Norman, as he roams, 
 
 Is faced by our naked galloglasses, 
 We lost the plains and our pleasant homes, 
 
 But we held the hills and passes ; 
 And still the beltane fires at night, 
 
 If not a man were left to feed 'em, 
 By widows' hands piled high and bright, 
 
 Flashed for the flame of freedom. 
 
 Aye, stamp away! Can you stamp it out, 
 Or have your brutal arts been baffled ? 
 
 You have wielded the power of rope and knout, 
 Fire, dungeon, sword and scaffold. 
 
70 RHYME WITH REASON " 
 
 But still, as from each martyr's hand 
 The fiery cross fell down in fighting, 
 
 A thousand sprang to seize the brand 
 Our beltane fires relighting. 
 
 And once again through Irish nights, 
 
 O'er every dark hill redly streaming, 
 And numerous as the heavenly lights 
 
 Our rebel fires were gleaming ! 
 And tho' again might fail that flame, 
 
 Quenched in the blood of its devoted, 
 Fresh chieftains rose, fresh clansmen came, 
 
 And again the old flag floated. 
 
 That fire shall burn, that flag shall float, 
 
 By virtue nursed, by valor tended, 
 Till with one fierce clutch upon your throat, 
 
 Your Moloch reign is ended. 
 It may be now, or it may be then 
 
 That the hour will come we have hoped for ages, 
 But, failing and failing, we try again 
 
 And again the conflict rages! 
 
 Our hate, tho' hot, is a patient hate, 
 
 Deadly and patient, to catch you tripping, 
 And your years are many, your crimes are great, 
 
 And the sceptre is from you slipping. 
 But stamp away with your brutal hoof, 
 
 While the fires to scorch you are upward cleaving, 
 For, with bloody shuttles, the warp and woof 
 
 Of your shroud, the Fates are weaving! 
 
COL. RICARD O'S. BURKE 
 
 DR. JAMES A. PRINTY 
 
 MICHAEL CORBETT 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 71 
 
 FILL HIGH TO-NIGHT, BOYS. 
 (Written in Prison, November, 1867.) 
 
 By Colonel Ricard O'S. Burke. 
 (Who reserves all rights.) 
 
 With ruby nectar, boys, fill high! 
 Drink to the cause for which we'd die ; 
 And comrades, to each sparkling eye 
 That gilded hours too soon gone by. 
 Fill high to-night to patriot hearts 
 That for our mother land have bled ; 
 And drain your goblets, boys, to all 
 
 Who in their footsteps tread! 
 And drain your goblets, boys, to all 
 
 Who in their footsteps tread. 
 
 To woman's majesty we bow; 
 
 The vassalage of hearts be ours ; 
 
 To beauty's radiant smile we vow 
 
 Allegiance in our sunniest hours : — 
 
 But, comrades, life's not all bright dreams, 
 
 Of rosy rues, and beauty's beams; 
 
 Some fiercer joys and sterner themes 
 
 There rouse the true man's soul ! 
 Some fiercer joys and sterner themes 
 
 There rouse the true man's soul! 
 
72 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Ah! well we know that right, when weak, 
 
 Is ever branded as the wrong; 
 By servile tongues that fear to speak 
 
 One word of truth against the strong. 
 Be. our's the slander'd side to take : 
 
 And comrade fill! this toast be yours: 
 No pow'r the true man's faith can break — 
 
 He conquers who endures ! 
 No pow'r the true man's faith can break — 
 
 He conquers who endures ! 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 73 
 
 IRELAND'S WELCOME TO THE DISCHARGED BRIT- 
 ISH SOLDIER OF IRISH BIRTH. 
 
 By Colonel Ricard O'S. Burke. 
 
 [Written in Woking Prison, England, in 1870, in reply to the sugges- 
 tion of the Pall Mall Gazette, in the columns of which journal a state- 
 ment apneared advising the British government to dishonorably discharge 
 all Irishmen from its land service, on account of their long recognized 
 disloyalty. The paragraph in question stated that the matter was about 
 to receive Parliamentary action, which is supposed completed, and all 
 British soldiers of Irish birth, in consequence, discharged.] 
 
 Yerra Shamus, ullhay, is it thrue what they say, this news from 
 
 the Parlimint, 
 That all me boys, me sojer boys, back home are to be sint? 
 Back home are to be sint, ullhay, in shame and black disgrace, 
 For having, inside o' their scarlet coats, the hearts of their grand 
 old race. 
 
 From me heart I say, God bless this day, 
 
 Ma bouchal bawn machree ; 
 Without pinny or pack or tack to yer back 
 Ye'r welcome home to me. 
 
 They'll be sorry an' sore whin you're not to the fore these 
 
 dang'rous comin' years, 
 Oh, I forget, they're hayroes yet, musha see their volunteers ; 
 An' when these hayroes meet the foe, faith vict'ries will be scant 
 'Tis right enough, you're not the sthuff, 'tis min wid legs they'll 
 
 want. 
 Whin you like a thravillin' killin' machine, o'er land and say did 
 
 roam, 
 Did it ever enther yer mind at all, you'd have work to do at home ; 
 You'd have the work to do at home, ullhay, o' the quarest, quarest 
 
 kind. 
 Allana machree. come hether to me — there's something in the 
 
 wind. 
 
74 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 In dark an' in dawn mabouchaleen bawn, they thried to coax you 
 
 away 
 Wid bounties and medals, and drums, and fifes, and ribbons so 
 
 bright and gay. 
 Machree I knew to me you'd be true, thro' thick and thin aich 
 
 day, 
 For heart so brave never bate in the slave, who'd fight for nothing 
 
 but pay. 
 
 The Shan Van Vocht is goin' round and sayin' things mighty 
 
 quare, 
 x\llana machree, come hether to me, she has a word for yer air, 
 There's something in the wind, ullhay, there's strange things 
 
 goin' on, 
 An' may be the union- jack won't go — where union- jacks have 
 
 gone. 
 
 Did these wholesale despots think, ullhay, they'd bought you out 
 
 and out, 
 Whin they gave you a rag to cover your back, an' a bit to put in 
 
 yer mouth? 
 They thought you'd forget, allana machree, for they spoke so 
 
 smooth and fair, 
 How they rooted you out o' house and home and left you starving 
 
 and bare. 
 
 The ould, ould home is ruins now, the peelers shure pulled it 
 
 down, 
 And mother an' Eileen, shure, died that night in the snow, going 
 
 into the town. 
 In the old graveyard they are lying, ullhay, above them the night 
 
 wind moans, 
 Oh, 'lanna machree, shure you'll thry to free, the sod that covers 
 
 their bones. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 75 
 
 In life there's nothing nobler than revinge for our martyr'd dead ; 
 To lighten the load of the hard oppressed, to give the hungry 
 
 bread ; 
 To strive for the poor, the plundered poor, with a brother's strong 
 
 true hand, 
 To march to the grand ould music still, for God and our mother 
 
 land. 
 
 From me heart I say, God bless this day, 
 
 Mabouchal bawn machree; 
 Without pinny or pack or tack to yer back 
 
 Ye'r welcome home to me. 
 
76 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 IN MEMORY OF CHARLES STUART PARNELL. 
 
 By Dora Sigerson. 
 
 [A young Irish poetess of note, daughter of Dr. George Sigerson, a 
 brilliant and able nationalist, at one time editor of the Dublin Irishman. 
 Mr. Parnell died, to the immense loss of Ireland, October 6, 1891.] 
 
 Dead, you are dead, grief flies on swallow's wing 
 And leaves us stunned and very desolate, 
 
 The pen is dropped that hath proposed to sting, 
 Your enemies grew silent, awed by fate, 
 
 Beating the gates of death they will not shriek, 
 Nor strike you with the poison of their tongue. 
 
 Here they have judged, and there they dare not speak, 
 Justice is now, God's gates behind you swung. 
 
 Tonight must Erin hide her head for shame, 
 With cheeks too hot to bear a single tear, 
 
 You dead, your foes bring bay who brought but blame, 
 So coming late they desecrate your bier. 
 
 The mighty brain is now forever still, 
 Still with its past; still with its thoughts unborn, 
 
 Had not the great heart broke the iron will, 
 And led us bravely till the dawn of morn. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 77 
 
 IN MEMORY OF THE SAME. 
 
 By Mary Fitzpatrick. 
 
 See ! the brave hands swift to strike in battle, 
 Folded lie upon a marble breast — 
 
 God ! to think our cries can never wake him, 
 Never pierce this callous, icy rest ! 
 
 We may call and call him, wildly rending 
 This death-hush with moans of human pain ; 
 
 But the pale sweet lips are locked forever — 
 Silence ! He will answer not again ! 
 
 Hark ! A fiendish roar of triumph rising 
 Echoes hoarsely round his quiet bed; 
 
 Yet he stirless lies, serenely smiling — 
 Hate no more can wound him — he is dead ! 
 
 He is dead ! In manhood's splendor stricken, 
 Like a proud oak blasted in its bloom, 
 
 While we stretch despairing hands to reach him 
 Through the silent darkness of the tomb. 
 
78 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 MICHAEL DAVITT. 
 
 (Died May 30, 1906.) 
 
 By Andrew Kenny. 
 
 [Native of Balla, County Mayo. Well known in society and insurance 
 circles in Chicago.] 
 
 Bereaved, afflicted motherland, your message we have read, 
 Your greatest and most worthy son is numbered with the dead; 
 With tear-dimmed eyes and loving hearts thy children o'er the sea, 
 Two million strong, send sympathy and greeting back to thee. 
 
 O fair and fertile land, thou art renowned o'er all the earth 
 For galaxies of peerless men to thee who owe their birth ; 
 'Mid heroes, sages, patriots, saints — in all that honored roll — 
 The scribe shall write no name more bright than Davitt's on thy 
 scroll. 
 
 In ancient Strade, when Davitt's eyes first saw the light of day, 
 The juggernaut of alien rule rolled on its blighting way; 
 The landlord and the foreign foe worked fiercely hand in hand, 
 And famine's spectre, gaunt and grim, stalked over all the land. 
 
 'Twas then that millions starved to death or went into exile, 
 In fever ships some sadly went, far, far from Erin's Isle. 
 The plundered Celtic peasant had no place to lay his head, 
 And pampered Dives to Lazarus gave not a crumb of bread. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 79 
 
 Since from the South Milesians sailed, three thousand years ago, 
 His gallant sires, their progeny, had lived in fair Mayo. 
 The tyrant came, the Davitts went, a little boy was ta'en 
 To seek a home and shelter in a land across the main. 
 
 John Bull exulted fiercely then that Ireland's hopes were o'er, 
 The Celts, now crushed and exiled, could resist his rule no more ; 
 In myriads they were fleeing to strange lands across the sea, 
 And flocks and herds were browsing where the people used 
 to be. 
 
 But little dreamed the callous lord, this waif so weak and frail, 
 
 A child slave in a sweat shop, was Nemesis on the trail ; 
 
 The boy toiled hard, was crushed and maimed, and lost his good 
 
 right hand, 
 But hoped and prayed for strength to aid his suffering native land. 
 
 The remnant of his scattered race, with thirst for vengeance 
 
 burned, 
 Their cry for justice, unappeased, for retribution yearned; 
 No tame submission Davitt preached, that gospel of the slave, 
 But joined the Fenian Brotherhood, his land to help and save. 
 
 At length they felt the hour had come, their country's wounds 
 
 were sore, 
 Resolved they were with England's might to measure swords 
 
 once more, 
 And by the graves of martyred sires, avenging kinsmen swore 
 To drive the ruthless Sassenach forever from their shore. 
 
80 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 With more than Spartan courage fought the men of sixty-eight, 
 But might prevailed, their fate was sad, for England's strength 
 
 was great; 
 To gibbets doomed, in dungeons cast, were these heroic men, 
 And Davitt was a captive chained within the Lion's den. 
 
 Too long and sorrowful to tell, his sufferings worse than death, 
 No martyr ever suffered more for country or for faith, 
 Till years of cruel punishment appeased the tyrants hate, 
 And nature's nobleman came forth from out the prison gate. 
 
 'Tis thirty years since English rule his homestead waste had laid, 
 And twenty thousand Mayo men home hailed him back to Strade ; 
 Beside his ruined cottage home, like Ajax grim and bold, 
 He hurled defiance at the foe, and slavery's death-knell tolled. 
 
 'Gainst alien rule and robber law he fiercely thundered forth, 
 His rousing words were heard afar, in east and south and north ; 
 A glorious day for Ireland dawned, an era then began, 
 More potent and inspiring speech ne'er fell from lips of man. 
 
 With regal honors he was hailed by Gaels in every land, 
 
 They realized their Moses, their deliverer was at hand ; 
 
 No time had he for jubilee while people were oppressed, 
 
 His life he gladly would lay down to have their wrongs redressed. 
 
 The Boers who fronted Britain's hosts to guard their native soil, 
 The suffering English workman, ill requitted for his toil ; 
 That ancient and bewildering race, the children of Israel, 
 Had champion and defender in this son of Innisfail. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 81 
 
 With sage advice and sacrifice, this warrior true as steel, 
 Did emulate the great Saint Paul in fervent, fervid zeal, 
 Success at length his efforts crowned the peasant's chains to 
 
 break — 
 Where men once groaned 'neath tyrant rule, 'tis tyrants now 
 
 that quake. 
 
 Outward with toil and struggle, pale and prematurely aged, 
 The bloodless yet successful strife incessantly he waged; 
 'Gainst plutocratic rule he fought, e'en to his latest breath, 
 Then first submitted to a King — the King of Terrors, Death! 
 
 Though, Ireland, you have suffered hard for many hundred years, 
 At length on thy horizon dark fair Freedom's dawn appears, 
 And bright stands Michael Davitt's fame amid the patriot band 
 That's led thee to the portals of that long-sought Promised Land. 
 
 And Pilgrim throngs will wend to Strade, the Mecca of the West, 
 With garlands green to deck his grave, and wish him peaceful 
 
 rest, 
 'Till Gabriel on that last great day his rousing trumpet rings 
 And wakes him from his bed of clay to meet the King of Kings. 
 
82 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 THE IRISH FIELDS. 
 
 By Mrs. Julia A. Sullivan Brennan. 
 
 [Of Chicago. Mrs. Brennan is author of a recently published and 
 deservedly praised volume of graceful verse.] 
 
 Many have sung of her ruins old 
 That tell of her ancient glory, 
 
 And the thrilling deeds of her noble sons 
 Are told in song and story. 
 
 Others have sung of her cruel wrongs,; 
 
 Of the chains that about her cling, 
 Full well I know her hist'ry's page, 
 
 But not of its themes I sing. 
 
 But of simple things and the simple lives 
 That to me seem good and fair, 
 
 Of the gentle women and manly men 
 Whom God has nurtured there. 
 
 Of the fair green fields around their homes 
 That are charming scenes to me, ' 
 
 Spreading o'er valleys far and wide 
 Or creeping down to the sea. 
 
 Up the mountain sides they softly climb, 
 With hedges of deepest green ; 
 
 Wherever the eyes may roam or rest 
 The emerald fields are seen. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 83 
 
 And all are gay with the fairest flowers 
 
 With poppies and daisies sweet, 
 Whether you wander o'er hill or vale, 
 
 They cluster about your feet. 
 
 There are many pictures that come and go 
 
 Which memory's storehouse yields ; 
 But the fairest of these, that never fade, 
 
 Are the beautiful Irish fields. 
 
84 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 THE GREEN OLD FLAG. 
 
 [Written by a New York Irishman, whose name, unfortunately, we 
 cannot ascertain. The song, brief and simple, when well rendered, fires 
 an audience to the highest pitch of enthusiasm.] 
 
 Over Erin's isle on high 
 
 Waves a Green Old Flag — 
 Erin's sons, to do or die, 
 
 Guard that Green Old Flag — 
 It has waved, for myriad years, 
 O'er sages, saints and seers, 
 Over bloodshed, gloom and tears 
 
 Waved that Green Old Flag. 
 
 O'er warriors true and brave 
 
 Waved that Green Old Flag- 
 Over many a gory grave 
 
 Waved that Green Old Flag — 
 O'er Clontarf's tide in joy — 
 O'er Benburb and Dunboy — 
 On the fields of Fontenoy 
 
 Waved that Green Old Flag ! 
 
 In climes beyond the sea 
 
 Waved that Green Old Flag — 
 With France's fleur-de-lis 
 
 Waved that Green Old Flag — 
 With Columbia's Stripes and Stars, 
 In Freedom's righteous wars, 
 O'er that bold Brigade of Meagher's 
 
 Waves that Green Old Flag. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 85 
 
 Without stain on glittering fold 
 
 Waves that Green Old Flag; 
 With its harp of burnished gold 
 
 Waves that Green Old Flag — 
 O'er a nation's proud array — 
 O'er England's might at bay — 
 O'er united hearts today 
 
 Waves that Green Old Flag. 
 
86 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF P. W. NALLY. 
 
 By Eugene Davis. 
 
 [Convicted by a carefully packed jury in the city of Cork, the spirited 
 and popular P. W. Nally, of Balla, one of the leading Nationalists and 
 most noted athletes in Ireland, was sent to prison on a trumped-up charge 
 of treason felony in 1883, under a vindictive sentence, by the tools of a 
 government anxious to be rid of his patriotic activities. In his prison cell 
 he scornfully rejected overtures made him by government agents endeav- 
 oring to weave a net around Parnell. The brutal rigors of his jailers at 
 length broke down his herculean frame, and he expired in prison, foully 
 "done to death," September 30, 1904, on the eve of the date appointed for 
 his release. His grave is in Glasnevin. A splendid Celtic cross to his 
 memory stands in his native town.] 
 
 Hark ! how the bells in muffled sadness toll — 
 
 Lo, here's another grave ! — 
 Another name writ on the sacred scroll 
 
 Of Ireland's martyred brave! 
 Another soul that dared the despot's sway 
 
 Crushed by a despot's blow ! — 
 Another heart, that panted for the fray, 
 
 By caitiff hands laid low! 
 
 Throughout the long and weary years he bore 
 
 With unrepining will 
 His jailers' chains — unscathed to the core, 
 
 Bold and undaunted still! 
 And though they gored his living frame to death— 
 
 Beyond their grim control 
 There shone within that God blessed precious faith 
 
 Which sanctified his soul! 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 87 
 
 Strong in the faith, their lashes had for him 
 
 No craven's pangs or fears, 
 No sighs or sobs to wake the dungeon dim, 
 
 No flood of futile tears; 
 But firm and true, he faced the irons there, 
 
 By ruthless foes assailed, 
 And like a lion .battling in his lair 
 
 His courage never quailed! 
 
 Oh! let the cry go forth o'er sea and shore 
 
 Throughout the list'ning lands, 
 And let it speak with flame-tongue evermore :— 
 
 "His blood be on their hands !" 
 The stars their very courses will have spent 
 
 Ere Irishmen forget 
 To right his wrong, trusting in their strength, 
 
 Avenge his mem'ry yet! 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 THE HEROES OF CLOONE. 
 
 By Rev. James Keegan. 
 
 Hurrah for the land where the Shamrock is green, 
 Hurrah for the land where fair maidens are seen, 
 The hills of Old Breffni fore'er may they be, 
 The nurse of the Fair and the home of the Free. 
 
 The Lords of Old Breffni were valiant and proud, 
 By dangers undaunted, by foemen uncowed, 
 Shall we, their descendants, surrender like slaves, 
 While landlords and peelers exult o'er their graves? 
 
 The chieftains of Breffni, right keen were their blades, 
 And bright were the plumes of their flashing cockades. 
 Thy cliffs, Slieve-an-Erin, have echoed their cheers, 
 While the blood of the Saxon was red on their spears. 
 
 Their swords hewed the mail of the Norman and Dane, 
 Their war-axes glistened where Bagnal was slain, 
 Some fought at Boyne Water, some sailed o'er the seas, 
 And France drank the blood of the Cloone rapparees. 
 
 Hurrah for those heroes long vanished and gone, 
 Hurrah, too, for these whom we yet call our own, 
 Let Erin rejoice, and her green banner wave, 
 O'er Reynolds the fearless, and Gannon the brave. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 89 
 
 Ah, these were the men when the danger was nigh, 
 Stood fronting the foe, to defend or defy, 
 But to-day for Old Erin they're wearing the chain, 
 Though long in our hearts will their memory remain. 
 
 While the Shannon's bright waters shall mirror the moon, 
 And true hearts are throbbing 'round time-honored Cloone, 
 While green grows the grass o'er the patriot's grave, 
 We'll honor bold Reynolds and Gannon the brave.* 
 
 *Reynolds and Gannon were Land Leaguers, who were imprisoned 
 for their activity against "felonious landlordism." The poem was .written 
 while the author was an ecclesiastical student in St. Patrick's College, 
 Carlow, 1881. 
 
90 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 AN APPEAL TO THE MEN OF LEITRIM. 
 
 By Patrick Kane. 
 
 [Written during a time of coercion, famine and the Buckshot Crowbar 
 Brigade, and dedicated to the patriotic sons of Leitrim, who made con- 
 ditions unpleasant for land tyrants in Ireland.] 
 
 Men of Leitrim, are you dreaming? Hear you not the bugle's 
 
 call, 
 Through the mountains and the valleys from Cape Clear to 
 
 Donegal, 
 Calling on the Sons of Breffni, who were always staunch and 
 
 true, 
 To chase from dear old Ireland the plundering landlord crew ? 
 
 See the homes that we were born in levelled by the cruel foe, 
 Arise ye with a vengeance and strike the final blow ; 
 Let the music of your rifles ring out clear and fast and soon, 
 While we sing the song of freedom by the rising of the moon. 
 
 Oh, listen to the wailing of the orphan's pleading cry, 
 As their broken-hearted mothers see them pine away and die. 
 Hear you not the cry of martyrs from the scaffold and the tomb? 
 See you not our homesteads leveled and our land o'erspread with 
 gloom ? 
 
 Do the sons of ancient Fenagh, Mohill, Cloone and Ballinamore, 
 Bawnboy and Carrigallen still bear love of Erin's shore ? 
 In God's name, then, get ready, join Old Erin's Fenian band, 
 Hoist the flag and cross of Erin, chase the tyrants from our 
 land. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 91 
 
 Think of gallant Joseph Brady standing on the gallows pines, 
 Daniel Curley and young Kelly, Barrett, Walsh and Francis 
 
 Hines, 
 Joseph Poole and brave O'Donnell, Allen, Larkin and O'Brien, 
 Crowley, Joyce and Denis Deasey — dead at freedom's holy shrine ! 
 
 Oh, God bless the men of Leitrim, may their hearts be ever true, 
 Till they chase from bleeding motherland that plundering idle 
 
 crew; 
 May their wishes be accomplished, may their land arise from 
 
 gloom, 
 May the epitaph of freedom soon be writ on Emmet's tomb. 
 
92 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 THE BRIDE. 
 
 By Joe Mulhearn. 
 
 No summer day as she was fair ; 
 
 No sunshine brighter than her hair; 
 
 No breeze was softer than her speech; 
 
 No peer to her the pinkest peach. 
 
 No artist's soul was more refined; 
 
 No infant e'er had purer mind ; 
 
 No sweeter notes came from a dove 
 
 Nor more of joy was known by love 
 
 Than on that day when by my side 
 
 She stood, my bride, my bride, my bride! 
 
 And fairer than the fairest June, 
 And milder than the autumn moon, 
 And softer than the zephyr's balm ; 
 And stiller than the tropic's calm; 
 And more of music in her face, 
 And more celestial in her grace, 
 And more refined than e'er before, 
 And more to covet or adore 
 Was she when cold upon her bed 
 For she was dead, was dead, was dead! 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 93 
 
 Come coldest month of deepest snow; 
 Come rains that bring no bending bow; 
 Come storms of sleep by hail begun; 
 Come raging winds and scorching sun; 
 Come stern misfortune's deadly blow ; 
 Come vile deceit jar fiercest foe; 
 Come crime with shame upon its, track ; 
 Come dark remorse or madness black, 
 For she, the goddess I adore, 
 Is mine no more, no more, no more ! 
 
94 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 "STAND ASIDE." 
 
 By Rev. Michael Smyth. 
 
 [The unfair and vicious system of jury packing practiced by British 
 government satraps in Ireland, consisted in rigidly excluding Catholics 
 and Nationalists from the jury box in attempts to obtain conviction in 
 political and agrarian trials. It had for its chief exponents the notorious 
 "Peter the Packer" O'Brien, made for his zeal Chief Justice of Ireland, 
 and Malachy Kelly, Crown Solicitor for Mayo. Father Smyth, author 
 of the poem, was parish priest of Moy gownagh, County Mayo, and 
 probably the first priest in Ireland to induce his parishioners (under the 
 Lansdowne Act) to become peasant proprietors. He died, greatly re- 
 gretted, Sept. 30, 1904, at the age of forty-five.] 
 
 Hear the echo of that Right-destroying word — 
 
 "Stand aside !" 
 Hear and hearken to the Insult when you've heard 
 
 "Stand aside !" 
 To your stock and to your seed, 
 To your country, to your creed, 
 Tis anathema! — that spirit slaying sword! — 
 
 "Stand aside !" 
 
 Hast thou ever dared to play an Irish part ? 
 
 "Stand aside !" 
 Hast thou ever dared to show an Irish heart? 
 
 "Stand aside !" 
 Ere thy spirit fairly broke 
 'Neath the aliens' hateful yoke 
 Hast thou ever dared to struggle 'neath its smart? 
 
 "Stand aside !" 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 95 
 
 Have thine eyes to'ards Freedom ever dared to turn ? 
 
 "Stand aside !" 
 Has thy heart for Freedom ever dared to burn? 
 
 "Stand aside !" 
 Hast thou ever dared to pray 
 For a brighter, better day, 
 When a liberated land might cease to mourn? 
 
 "Stand aside !" 
 
 Thou'rt allied with the assassin and the thief! 
 
 "Stand aside !" 
 Thou'rt of murderer's accomplices the chief! 
 
 "Stand aside !" 
 Granted — Judge and Jury both 
 Credit Cain upon his oath, 
 Upon thine thou art unworthy of belief ? 
 
 "Stand aside !" 
 
 From the Courts and Council-chambers of the land, 
 
 "Stand aside !" 
 From all Government assemblies, small or grand. 
 
 "Stand aside !" 
 For, by every loyal soul 
 From the tropics to the pole 
 Thou art hated — thou art boycotted — thou'rt banned ! 
 
 "Stand aside !" 
 
 Weak and weaker has the voice of Insult grown — 
 
 "Stand aside !" 
 
 'Tis of Bigotry and Hate the dying moan — 
 
 "Stand aside !" 
 
96 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Ay — the day comes on amain 
 When our Race shall ne'er again 
 From the management and conduct of their own, 
 
 "Stand aside !" 
 
 Let the Bigot, then, the Coward and the Fool, 
 
 "Stand aside !" 
 Let the ever-ready Sycophant and Tool 
 
 "Stand aside !" 
 Let the Thing whose will and bent 
 Was to be and be content 
 'Neath the Slavery of anti-Irish rule. 
 
 "Stand aside !" 
 Ballina, August 24th, 1883. 
 
HON. JOHN F. FINERTY 
 
 P. SHELLY O'RYAN 
 
 FRANCIS E. WALSH 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 MO BHRON (MY SORROW). 
 
 By Maude Healy. 
 
 Oh, I have lost my love, my love, 
 
 Oh, I have lost my love! 
 There's tumult raging in my heart 
 
 It shrieks the winds above. 
 
 The waves dash over Fastnet Rock 
 
 Set in an angry sea, 
 The winds howl out of a black sky, 
 
 But what is't all to me? 
 
 My heart is wilder than the storm; 
 
 The winds shriek out my pain, 
 While lights grow dim on Fastnet Rock, 
 
 And blur through driving rain. 
 
 The steamers pitch; the steamers toss, 
 The fisher's bark goes down ; 
 
 The women in the cabin pray 
 To God they may not drown. 
 
 No prayers say I, but walk the deck, 
 And watch the lightning flash, 
 
 Nor quiver at the blinding streak 
 Nor quail at the loud crash. 
 
98 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 The wind howls out of the black sky, 
 And out of a black sea, 
 
 There's tumult riding on the waves, 
 But what is't all to me? 
 
 The lights are dim on Fastnet Rock, 
 They blur through driving rain, 
 
 But O the blackness on my soul 
 And O my heart's black pain. 
 
 There's tumult raging in my heart, 
 It shrieks the winds above, 
 
 Oh, I have lost my love, my love, 
 Oh, I have lost my love ! 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 99 
 
 MY STREAM. 
 
 By Rev. James K. Fielding. 
 
 [Of Corpus Christi parish, and President of the Irish Literary Society 
 of Chicago. Native of Mooncoin, County Kilkenny, Ireland.] 
 
 I strayed by a streamlet that flows through 
 
 A green valley, smiling and gay, 
 Where oft in my boyhood I rambled, 
 
 And loved in my childhood to play. 
 
 From its home on the Welsh mountains lonely, 
 
 It wended its serpent-like way ; 
 On its waters the silver moon glittered, 
 
 And the speckled trout there loved to play. 
 
 By ivy-clad ruins it rippled, 
 Where Norman and Dane did oft tread ; 
 
 Through daisy-decked meadows it purled; 
 And it passed by the home of the dead. 
 
 But it paused when it came to Portscully; 
 
 It wept for its heroes ; and sighed 
 For the sons and fair daughters of Erin 
 
 Who martyrs for Ireland had died. 
 
 Its bosom reflected the sunshine, 
 
 It wandered by woodland and lea, 
 But heedless of danger it rushed on, 
 
 Till at length it was lost in the sea. 
 
100 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 We, too, like that stream, are fast gliding 
 
 To eternity's ocean away; 
 The prince and the peasant are passing, 
 
 The last debt of nature to pay. 
 
 That streamlet has taught me a lesson; 
 
 My guiding star ever'' twill be — 
 "Take heed lest wiles of the world 
 
 Should wreck you on life's troubled sea." 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 101 
 
 HOME. 
 
 By Joe Mulhearn. 
 
 "I will go," said a boy, "to a land far away 
 
 In which toil shall be pleasure and life shall be gay ; 
 
 Not for fortune or fame will I seek as I roam, 
 
 But in that distant land I will make me a home." 
 
 So the river, the mountain, the desert were passed ; 
 
 But the clouds of misfortune the sky overcast, 
 
 And the lightning flashed forth from the far-spreading dome 
 
 And in ashes and dust lay the walls of the home. 
 
 "I will build," said a man in the prime of his years, 
 "For my loved ones a shade and a refuge from tears ; 
 Though it be by the ocean and sprinkled with foam, 
 At the end of the earth I will build me a home." 
 Fiercely beat the wild gale on his head and his breast 
 And the storm shrieked its wrath like a spirit unblest ; 
 In the surf of the sea plied the mermaid her comb 
 And beneath the rude wave sank the roof of the home. 
 
 "I will seek," said a man who was haggard and grey, 
 
 "For a home of my own, whether coral or clay; 
 
 In eternity's waves, or the forests of time; 
 
 For though hope be a phantom despair is a crime. 
 
 'Twas the dream of my youth ; 'twas my manhood's desire ; 
 
 In the chill of old ^age 'tis the last spark of fire, 
 
 For the lost upon earth may be garnered above 
 
 And a home is communion with those that we love." 
 
102 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 VALENTINE. 
 
 By Mrs. J. W. Burke. 
 
 All the world is full of gladness 
 
 And my heart knows naught of sadness, 
 
 As I sit and slowly ponder 
 
 On thy coming feast, Evander. 
 
 Tales of love pass in review — 
 
 Tales of love so kind and true ; 
 
 Once again I hear that whisper 
 
 Soft and sweet as chanting vesper, 
 
 As you held my hand in thine — 
 
 "Will you be my Valentine?" 
 
 And again as if made bolder, 
 
 By a love ne'er growing colder, 
 
 How you told in accents clear 
 
 Of a heart that was sincere. 
 
 And I listened, for I knew 
 
 That your love was staunch and true. 
 
 And my heart it- did respond 
 
 When you said in accents fond, 
 
 "Let it be one sweet combine, 
 
 Friend and wife and Valentine." 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 103 
 
 Tho' some years have passed away 
 Since that bright and sunny day, 
 When we vowed through life to go 
 Hand in hand for weal or woe. 
 Never has the path seemed weary, 
 Nor the days been dark or dreary, 
 For our life is full of love, 
 Full of blessings from above. 
 Reck we not the flight of time, 
 I am still your Valentine. 
 
104 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 OLD IRELAND. 
 
 By the Rev. James Keegan. 
 
 Thou art dear to me, my native land, dear ever shalt thou be, 
 My sweetest thoughts are of thy scenes, once joy of joys to me. 
 An old house 'neath an ancient hill, old friendly faces there, 
 In old times that old memories bring in intervals of care. 
 
 Ah, those were pleasant evenings then, when some old neigh- 
 bors met, 
 Exchanging tales of olden times that haunt my memory yet. 
 The fairy freaks on Muin-an-ban, the dance up by the well, 
 The wedding and the christening feast, the hurlers' glad pell-mell. 
 
 I sometimes think I see you still and hear your laughter ring- 
 Around that farmer's homely fire, whose look was like a King. 
 His was the laughing bright blue eye and grand old kingly face 
 And sweet tones like a bugle call that gladdened all the place. 
 
 Mo bhron! and all your tongues are mute and all your hearts 
 
 are still f 
 And what without you, now to me, the old house 'neath the hill. 
 I'd rather in a stranger land still break the Exile's bread 
 Than view the old home desolate when the old kind hearts are 
 
 dead. 
 April, 1885. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 105 
 
 AN IRISH NIGHT IN CHICAGO. 
 
 By Patrick Coughlan. 
 
 [Vividly illustrative of the spirit animating the Irish element militant 
 in America, particularly as represented by the Clan-na-Gael and Ancient 
 Order of Hibernians. The author, a highly esteemed member of Division 
 5, A. O. H., is a native of Bandon, County Cork. By accident, he has 
 been many years disabled, but his affliction is borne with noble fortitude.] 
 
 We tender kindly greeting to the boys and girls meeting, 
 
 While the pleasant hours are fleeting at Apollo Hall tonight; 
 And the memory we'll treasure of this night of joyous pleasure, 
 As each couple treads the measure of the dance with keen 
 delight. 
 For what sight is more entrancing than an Irish girl dancing, 
 With the love-light ever glancing from her bright and roguish 
 eye, 
 And her partner, bold and loving, through the figures proudly 
 moving, 
 As he catches looks approving from his comrades standing nigh. 
 
 Yes, a welcome we're extending, and every effort bending 
 
 To make joy for those attending our festival and ball — 
 The maidens true and tender, in all their lovely splendor, 
 
 Sure our hearts make quick surrender to each charming beauty's 
 thrall. 
 We welcome young or old men, the timid or the bold men, 
 
 The fiery or the cold men ; yes, men from any place ; 
 And we'll toast in brimming glasses those joyous lads and lasses, 
 
 Who represent the masses of our gallant Irish race. 
 
106 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 And our greeting won't be colder when welcoming the soldier, 
 
 Where could you find men bolder than the gallant Clan-na- 
 Gael? 
 Those boys, so rough and ready, whose hearts are true and steady, 
 
 And to fight they're ever ready, for their native Innisfail. 
 They'll prove the good condition of their soldier erudition, 
 
 By a splendid exhibition of their military skill, 
 And they'll show how they're preparing for that day, when they'll 
 be steering 
 
 To their distant native Erin, her tyrant's blood to spill. 
 
 And, as with bumpers flowing, we indulge in speeches glowing, 
 
 Of the time when we'll be going to either victory or death ; 
 We show, with much emotion, our hearts' and souls' devotion 
 
 To the land beyond the ocean, where we first drew living breath. 
 For the boys of this Division have come to the decision, 
 
 To make real that glorious vision, that grand entrancing sight, 
 When with rifles brightly gleaming and the green flag proudly 
 streaming, 
 
 For their native land redeeming the Clan-na-Gael will fight. 
 
 Now accept our invitation without any hesitation, 
 
 But fill out an application and to join our ranks contrive ; 
 Sure long enough you've slumbered by disunion still encumbered, 
 
 So now come and be numbered in our grand "Division Five." 
 We preach fraternal feeling to our countrymen appealing, 
 
 While at altars lowly kneeling, to preserve St. Patrick's faith ; 
 And recite the olden story of our saints and sages hoary, 
 
 And emulate their glory in our matchless A. O. H. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 107 
 
 THE IRISH SERVANT GIRL— A TOAST. 
 
 By Joe Mulhearn. 
 
 My genial host, I give a toast, 
 
 A worthy toast indeed, 
 For one so rare must surely 'share 
 
 The poet's richest meed. 
 No prince or dame of courtly fame, 
 
 No sapphire she, or beryl; 
 But diamond bright and pearly white, 
 
 The Irish servant girl! 
 
 Her heart is light, her fame is white 
 
 As Carntual's snows ; 
 She sings her glee and sweet is she 
 
 As famed Killarney's rose. 
 No need has she of ancestry 
 
 For never knight or earl 
 Knew maid so fine she could outshine 
 
 An Irish servant girl. 
 
 Then take I pray this wine away 
 
 And quickly to me bring 
 To toast the lass a crystal glass 
 
 Of water from the spring; 
 For temples grand in many a land 
 
 Were founded by our pearl, 
 And proudly own their altar-stone — 
 
 The Irish servant girl! 
 
108 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 RETURNING TO ERIN. 
 
 By Joe Fogarty. 
 
 For a glimpse of Erin I had been longing, 
 For nine long years or a little more, 
 
 To the instinct pressing, at last I yielded, 
 And started back to my native shore. 
 
 To New York City, with bag and baggage, 
 On a speeding special I hurried so, 
 
 My heart enraptured, with joys abounding, 
 My spirits braced by emotion's glow. 
 
 For Queenstown then, on a fast Cunarder — 
 The Lusitania, the good boat's name — 
 
 I braved the dangers of storm and tempest 
 To see loved Erin but once again. 
 
 And when I saw her, my heart flowed over. 
 
 To me what joy after painful years! 
 I felt like one in a land enchanted, 
 
 In joy and sorrow, in smiles and tears. 
 
 From sweet emotion I soon recovered, 
 My eyes enjoying that prospect grand, 
 
 And I thanked the good Lord of all creation 
 That I stood once more on my native land. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 109 
 
 Home of real heroes, to me so precious, 
 
 I'll sing thy beauty whilst life remains, 
 And with brain and hands I'll work unceasing 
 
 To help to sever thy galling chains. 
 
 Oh, sons and daughters of our ruined nation, 
 Orphaned so cruelly by the tyrant's greed, 
 
 That dyed our land in the blood of heroes, 
 Destroyed our churches and banned our creed, 
 
 Unite for sake of poor ravished Erin, 
 
 Bind up her wounds and wipe off her tears, 
 
 Dress her once more in her former splendour, 
 Great, noble, glorious, without compeers ! 
 
 Oh, bards, and sages, and noble heroes, 
 Crush cruel tyrants, break galling chains, 
 
 Raise the home rule banner and follow Redmond, 
 And freedom win for your native plains. 
 
 Oh, land of beauty, virtue and honor, 
 Your sons will free you full soon, I ween, 
 
 Blest day of freedom, your dawn is nearing, 
 When we'll float our banner o'er College Green. 
 
110 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 FLITTING BACK. 
 
 By Patrick Kane. 
 
 Oh ! my heart was rebelling 
 To leave the old dwelling, 
 With grief it was swelling 
 
 That bright, sunny day, 
 When beyond all revoking 
 The good-by was spoken; 
 My spirit was broken 
 
 When going away 
 From friends so endearing, 
 So tender and caring, 
 Their hearts all declaring 
 
 The sorrow they bore. 
 Oh! the love they were showing 
 When the train it was going, 
 Our tears were all flowing 
 
 In Ballinamore. 
 
 The song birds were singing, 
 The train bells were ringing, 
 And my poor heart was clinging 
 
 To the dear memories 
 That around me went flashing 
 As the train it went crashing 
 To the boat that went dashing 
 
 Far over the seas; 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 111 
 
 From the land of my sires, 
 Where freedom's desires, 
 Lit the glorious fires 
 
 Of tyranny's doom; 
 Where I gathered the flowers 
 In childhood's sweet hours 
 That adorn the bowers 
 
 Of beautiful Cloone. 
 
 From the vales so enchanting 
 And the music entrancing, 
 The singing and dancing 
 
 To banish all care, 
 Where friends are a treasure, 
 And rambling a pleasure, 
 Oh ! I never can measure 
 
 The joy I had there. 
 But God grant that together 
 In clear, sunny weather 
 In Old Erin's green .heather 
 
 I'll greet them once more. 
 When foreign aggression 
 And landlord^ oppression, 
 With cruel coercion 
 
 Forever is o'er. 
 
 So, with hope for tomorrow 
 I banish my sorrow. 
 Great joy I can borrow 
 
 When I kneel down to pray 
 To the Lord of creation 
 For friend or relation 
 
112 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Who in that little nation 
 Sleep cold in the clay. 
 And for the sister and mother, 
 The father and brother, 
 And the people who gather 
 
 At each Irish home, 
 May their wrongs be all righted, 
 Their hearts be delighted, 
 By kind heaven united 
 Wherever they roam! 
 May 6th, 1910. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 113 
 
 'LOVE'S MESSAGE.' 
 
 By Dr. James A. Printy. 
 
 [Dr. Printy is well known in Irish Nationalist circles in Chicago. The 
 following was written by him March 17, 1886, upon the receipt of a letter 
 containing some shamrocks sent by his cousin, a young lady living in 
 Castlebar, County Mayo, Ireland. The poem is supposed to have accom- 
 panied the "chosen leaf of bard and chief."] 
 
 Accept, my dear cousin, this token I send you, 
 This dear little shamrock so faithful and true. 
 
 The heel of oppression has made it grow stronger — 
 Aye ! strong as the love that I feel now for you ! 
 
 It grew on the hillside, where oft in the springtime 
 On a bright sunny morning it sparkled with dew, 
 
 Where your father and mother in youth loved to ramble, 
 'Twas there with fond love that I plucked it for you. 
 
 Oh, dear little shamrock, your country's bright emblem, 
 Go, hear my love's message afar o'er the sea, 
 
 To the land that extends us their pure wealth of freedom, 
 Go, tell them that Erin is soon to be free. 
 
 Yes, Erin, my country, though long thou hast suffered, 
 The hand of thy tyrants thou'lt soon cease to feel, 
 
 And we'll raise the pure granite o'er the grave of our Emmet 
 And deck it with shamrock as around it we kneel. 
 
114 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 This people that once boasted wealth, power and learning, 
 Dissension and treachery crushed in the dust, 
 
 Their wealth has been stolen, and learning denied them, 
 Their pride is still pure as the God whom they trust. 
 
 And soon, my dear cousin, if you will but listen, 
 Some calm summer evening alone by the sea, 
 
 Sweet soul-stirring strains from the harp of loved Erin 
 Shall bear these glad tidings, love's message, to thee. 
 
 4009 Sheridan Road, Chicago. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 115 
 
 SAINT RITA'S ROSE. 
 
 By Joe Mulhearn. 
 
 Gladsome spring through garden field and bower 
 
 Laughs again in sportive mirth, 
 Calling forth each perfume-breathing flower, 
 
 Gayly waking drowsy earth. 
 Glade and dell and mountain summit hoary, 
 
 Beauties each its own disclose, 
 Some in light or sweetness, some in glowing glory, 
 
 Striving with Saint Rita's Rose, 
 Soupert or Levavasseur 
 Cannot be compared with her; 
 All La France or Neyron shows 
 Fades before Saint Rita's Rose. 
 Jacqueminot is rich and rare; 
 Marshal Neil its glories share; 
 But the fields where Danube flows 
 Never matched Saint Rita's Rose. 
 
 Springing from the turf of holy Ireland 
 
 First was found that peerless bloom: 
 Not a plant of peak or plain or mireland 
 
 Brought such glory in her gloom. 
 Blossoms rare have Mexico and Hondo, 
 
 But the richest bud that knows 
 Amazon or Ganges, Oregon or Congo 
 
 Pales before Saint Rita's Rose. 
 
116 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Mignonette brings no content; 
 Edelweiss in shame is bent; 
 Not a hyacinth that grows 
 Rivals bright Saint Rita's Rose. 
 Stephanotis has no scent; 
 Lotus bloom is only lent; 
 All on earth cannot oppose 
 Beauties to Saint Rita's Rose. 
 
 Bright imagination's golden fancies 
 
 Regions blest have rilled with bliss, 
 Carpeted with lilies, phlox or pansies, 
 
 Never knowing growl nor hiss: — 
 All that bloomed in Eden or Valhalla; 
 
 All that Jew or Norseman knows ; 
 All that Gaelic dreamer fancied of Hy Brazil 
 
 Fail before Saint Rita's Rose. 
 Like the moon that reigns in light 
 O'er the stars through all the night 
 Peerless and serene she glows: — 
 Such is fair Saint Rita's Rose. 
 Visions of her splendor bright 
 Thrill the heart with pure delight; 
 All the rest that heaven bestows 
 Bows before Saint Rita's Rose. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 117 
 
 A HUNTING SONG. 
 
 By James E. McDade, Principal of the Fajlon School, Chicago. 
 
 The blossom's on the heather, 
 There's dew on waste and moor, 
 
 There's rapture in the weather, 
 The steeds are swift and sure. 
 
 The wild red deer is bounding 
 
 As shrilling of the horn 
 From grove and glen resounding 
 
 Across the hills is borne. 
 
 The crirnson east is gleaming 
 On hill and flood and field; 
 
 And who will stay for dreaming 
 When huntsman's horn has pealed; 
 
 Let lord and lady follow 
 The sweetly-shrilling horn, 
 
 While many an answering hollo 
 Across the hills is born. 
 
118 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 HIS WORKS. 
 
 By Anna Cecilia Doyle. 
 
 I love the rushing of the waters 
 Where the mighty torrents press, 
 
 Love the dainty breath of summer, 
 With its fragrant, soft caress, 
 
 Love the great things and the wondrous, 
 
 Love the smallest thing He made. 
 
 O, I love the roar of thunder, 
 
 And the lightning's flash and flare, 
 
 Love the rippling of a brooklet, 
 Flowing on without a care, 
 
 Love the marvels of His genius, 
 
 Love His hand work everywhere. 
 
 I love the wide, blue sky, all star-lit. 
 Love it when the sun flames bright. 
 
 Love the tempest and the torrent, 
 Love the shadows, love the light. 
 
 Love the world because Lie made it. 
 
 And from Llim its beauties are. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 119 
 
 SINN FEIN AMHAIN. 
 
 By Joe Mulhearn. 
 
 [Note — Sinn Fein Amhain is pronounced "shin fane a-wan," and 
 means "ourselves alone," with more extreme emphasis than the English 
 language permits of. It is the battle-cry of the Gaelic League, and 
 implies that the highest development and only ultimate hope of the Irish 
 race is in thorough and persistent self-cultivation. The Gaelic League 
 and this, its war-cry, have completely changed the spirit of the Irish 
 race — and for the better, within fifteen years. — Joe Mulhearn.] 
 
 Ta taidhbhse mor ag eirghe dubh 
 
 O'n roilig ud, os cionn an sluagh 
 
 Den' naomh a's laochraidhe in a luighe : 
 
 Ta si ag glaoidh, le neart a chroidhe, 
 
 Faoi grian geal ag eirghe glan, 
 
 Sinn Fein, a fhir, sinn fein amhain! 
 
 Sinn fein, sinn fein; sinn fei amhain! 
 
 Ta grian geal ag eirghe glan, 
 
 Sinn fein, sinn fein; sinn fein amhain!" 
 
 Ta si ag glaoidh o'n roilig fuar ; 
 
 Ta freagra o na daoine dur; — 
 
 Mar gheal is gradhna, dubh an scail 
 
 Ameasg na fir in Inis Fail: — 
 
 Acht ta an grian ag eirghe glan 
 
 A's cogar siad "Sinn Fein? Amhain? 
 
 Sinn fein, sinn fein ; sinn fei amhain ! 
 
 Cidhmuid an grian ag eirghe glan, 
 
 Sinn fein, sinn fein; sinn fein amhain!" 
 
120 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Anois ta saoirseact leis an tir: 
 
 Is mor le clu a dlighthibh nor, 
 
 A naoimh, a saoi, a laoichraidhe mor 
 
 A beusa breagh, a daoine coir : 
 
 A's faoi an grian, geal a's glan 
 
 Is amhrain ard "Sinn Fein Amhain ! 
 
 Sinn fein, sinn fein; sinn fei amhain! 
 
 Is geal an grian, a's te, a's glan: 
 
 Sinn fein, sinn fein ; sinn fein amhain !" 
 
 It was necessary to have a rhymed translation of "Sinn Fein 
 Amhain" because it is a song; but below is a prose translation 
 giving the strict sense of the original Irish : 
 
 From yonder graveyard, above the bands of prostrate saints 
 and heroes, a gigantic spirit rises darkly against the cloudless 
 brilliancy of the sunrise. Rising, she calls with all the strength 
 of her heart, "Ourselves, ye men, ourselves alone ! Ourselves, 
 ourselves; ourselves alone! The sun is rising in cloudless bril- 
 liancy ! Ourselves, ourselves ; ourselves alone !" 
 
 From the cold graves she calls ; an answer comes from sul- 
 len people; for black, indeed, and horrible is the shadow among 
 the men in the Isle of Destiny. But the sun is rising cloudlessly, 
 and they mutter, "Ourselves ? Alone ? Ourselves, ourselves ; 
 ourselves alone! We behold the cloudless sun arising. Our- 
 selves, ourselves; ourselves alone!" 
 
 And now liberty is a possession of that land; and wide is 
 the repute of her just laws, her saints and sages, her grand heroes, 
 (her splendid laws and her pure people; and under her cloud- 
 lessly brilliant sun is loudly sung "Ourselves alone! Ourselves, 
 ourselves ; ourselves alone ! Brilliant is the sun, and hot, and 
 cloudless ! Ourselves, ourselves ; ourselves alone !" 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 121 
 
 SINN FEIN AMHAIN (ENGLISH VERSION). 
 
 From graves where sleep Hibernia's dead 
 A mighty spirit lifts her head; 
 Where saints and heroes prostrate lie 
 She rises with a ringing cry, 
 And at the breaking of the dawn 
 In thunder calls 'Sinn Fein Amhain ! 
 
 Sinn fein, sinn fein; sinn fein amhain! 
 
 The night is past; behold the dawn! 
 
 Sinn fein, sinn fein; sinn fein amhain!" 
 
 That call is echoed from the graves 
 And greets the ears of fettered slaves; 
 Their brows grow dark and keen their gaze: 
 With trembling hands and eyes ablaze 
 They watch the coming of the dawn 
 And mutter low "Sinn Fein? Amhain? 
 Sinn fein, sinn fein; sinn fein amhain! 
 The night is dark, we greet the dawn, 
 Sinn fein, sinn fein; sinn fein amhain!" 
 
 Those slaves have burst their galling chains ; 
 
 A mighty race of freemen reigns ; 
 
 A race of saints that land has blest; 
 
 In peace its gentle martyrs rest; 
 
 And in the glory of the dawn 
 
 A nation sings "Sinn Fein Amhain! 
 
 Sinn fein, sinn fein; sinn fein amhain! 
 
 The night was wild, but fair the dawn. 
 
 Sinn fein, sinn fein; sinn fein amhain!" 
 
122 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 AT MONTEREY (CAL,). 
 
 By Matthew P. Brady. 
 
 [A member of the Breffnian Clan MacBrady, the writer has been long 
 known in Chicago as a leading lawyer and brilliant orator.] 
 
 On a green slope of the foothills where rose and lily grow, 
 And ever o'er the dreamy land scent-laden zephyrs blow, 
 Like a white-robed maid reclining beside the tranquil bay, 
 Lulled by its slumbrous monotone, reposes Monterey. 
 
 And just beyond a graveyard lies wherein (the head-stones show) 
 Inurned are hearts that throbbed with zeal for God here long ago ; 
 Close stands the crumbling Mission church where they were 
 
 wont to pray, 
 Attesting still the faith they held who founded Monterey. 
 
 'Mid tangled vines and poppies wild, the cross above the door, 
 The church the Mission Fathers built is standing lone and hoar 
 Between the graveyard and the town, from each an easy tread, 
 As 'twere to show that faith unites the living with the dead. 
 
 How oft within those walls of clay the chant of praise was sung, 
 In the rich sonorous Latin or dulcet Spanish tongue, 
 For the blessings of the herbage and bloom-begetting rain; 
 For health and peace and happiness by pious sons of Spain ! 
 
 The altar raised by loving hands still stands as when of yore 
 The Friars of Saint Francis there did Christ's sweet grace im- 
 plore ; 
 There still is seen the crucifix, dear symbol of His love, 
 That saintly Father Serra placed the sanctu'ry above. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 123 
 
 Before that ancient shrine have knelt, in common faith sincere, 
 The regenerated Indian and Spanish cavalier; 
 And thence, as brightness from the sun, hath beamed the liv- 
 ing ray 
 Of the holy faith of Christians in olden Monterey. 
 
 The church remains, but gone are they who loved its sacred 
 
 shrine, 
 The graveyard yonder holds their dust beneath the flow'ring vine ; 
 A stranger race of alien faith the hills hold as their own, 
 Nor love the church the Fathers built — and it stands hoar and 
 
 alone. 
 
124 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 CHRISTMAS THOUGHTS. 
 
 By Patrick Kane. 
 
 My thoughts have flown 
 To friends alone 
 
 I'm longing now to see; 
 To the dear old home 
 Where I did roam 
 
 In childhood's pleasant glee; 
 To the shady nooks 
 And silvery brooks 
 
 That ramble round so free; 
 To the God above, 
 Pure Irish love 
 
 And human liberty. 
 
 To old Drumsna 
 And dear Tooma 
 
 The cradle of my dreams ; 
 To the holy wells 
 And the fairy dells 
 
 And the wild romantic streams ; 
 Where first among 
 The glens I sung 
 
 My childish lullaby; 
 To the ancient strains 
 That still remain 
 
 In Erin o'er the sea. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 125 
 
 To Gubnasthacawn 
 Cankeel and Crawn 
 
 And Uncle Keegan's wood, 
 Drumshambo hill 
 And Murphy's mill 
 
 And Cannon's fording flood, 
 Old Ballinamore 
 And Newtowngore 
 
 Sunnaghmore and Aughavass, 
 Today with joy 
 To every boy 
 
 I drain a flowing glass. 
 
 To Cloonesarn school 
 And the golden rule 
 
 Taught by dear Master Lyons, 
 To Miss Cassidy , 
 
 Who sung to me 
 
 Some sweet poetic rhymes, 
 To old Mohill Town 
 Of great renown 
 
 Pat Keegan and Drumbore, 
 Those memories bright 
 Cheer me tonight 
 
 God bless that Irish shore. 
 
 To Glencorick's halls 
 And Fenagh's walls 
 
 Oh, brightly may they shine, 
 To the Irish race 
 Who proudly trace 
 
 The glories of their line, 
 
126 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 To the magic beams 
 And the rebel dreams 
 
 Of childhood's happy day 
 That round my soul 
 For freedom's goal 
 
 Forever fondly play. 
 
 To the bogs and lakes 
 And the corn crakes 
 
 That sing so sweet at dawn, 
 To the wise cuckoo 
 And the curlew 
 
 And the cunning Leprehawn 
 That roam around 
 That holy ground 
 
 From Cloone to Killafee, 
 Where Kilkenny's clan 
 Stand to a man 
 
 For Irish liberty. 
 
 Dear friends, so true, 
 A fond adieu, 
 
 We may never meet again, 
 But I'll pray for those 
 Who hate the foes 
 
 And those who cross the main, 
 And for those who sleep 
 Where the shamrocks creep 
 
 Amid the graves of Cloone, 
 May the flowers bloom 
 And the silvery moon 
 
 Smile o'er each honored tomb. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 1ST 
 
 In unison then 
 With Irish men 
 
 From the rebel thirty-two 
 I'll drain a bowl 
 To every soul, 
 
 May their hearts be ever true 
 To the Irish cause 
 Till tyrant laws 
 
 Forever pass away, 
 May the God above 
 With freedom's love 
 
 Bless them this Christmas Day. 
 Chicago, 111., Dec. 25th, 1910. 
 
128 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 NO IRISH NEED APPLY. 
 
 By Miss A. L. Hildebrand. 
 
 [Author of "Western Lyrics" and "Lays From the Land of the Gael" ; 
 native of Turlottgh, County Mayo.] 
 
 Shame on the lips that utter it, shame on the hands that write. 
 Shame on the page that publisheth such slander to the light; 
 I feel the blood with lightning speed, thro' all my veins fast fly, 
 At the old taunt, for ever new — no Irish need apply. 
 
 Are not our hands as stout and strong, our hearts as warm and 
 
 true, 
 As theirs, who fling this mock at us, to cheat us of our due? 
 While 'neath our feet God's earth stands firm, and o'er us hangs 
 
 His sky, 
 Where there is honor to be won — the Irish need apply. 
 
 Oh, have not glorious things been done by Irish hearts and hands ; 
 Is not our fame emblazoned far, o'er many seas and lands ? 
 There may be tears on Ireland's cheek, but still her heart beats 
 
 high, 
 And where there's valor to be shown — the Irish need apply. 
 
 Wherever noble thoughts are nurst, and noble words are said — 
 Wherever patient love endures, when hope, itself seems dead — 
 Wherever honest industry, to win its goal will try — 
 Wherever manly toil prevails — the Irish need apply. 
 
REV. JAMES K. FIELDING 
 
 REV. JAMES B. DOLLARD 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 129 
 
 If there is aught of tenderness — if there is aught of worth— 
 If there's a trace of Heaven left, upon our sin-stained earth — 
 If there are noble, steadfast hearts, that uncomplaining die, 
 To tread like them, life's thorny road — the Irish will apply. 
 
 Wherever woman's love is pure, as is unsullied! snow — 
 Wherever woman's cheek at tales of injury will glow — 
 Wherever pitying tears are shed, and breathed is feeling sigh — 
 Wherever kindliness is sought — the Irish need apply. 
 
 Till on Killarney's waters blue, the soft stars cease to shine — 
 Till round the parent oak no more, the ivy loves to twine — 
 Till Nephin topples from his place, and Shannon's stream runs 
 
 dry, 
 For all that's great and good and pure — the Irish will apply. 
 
130 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 LOVE'S FIRST NEST. 
 
 By Michael Corbett. 
 
 [A Son of Erin's account of an incident mentioned in Genesis and 
 afterward told in verse by John Milton.] 
 
 In the great primeval morning 
 
 Adam sate, 
 
 In his garden, sullen, scorning 
 
 His lone fate, 
 
 Dolefully he scanned the bourne, 
 
 But of human kind 'twas shorn — 
 
 Not a soul to him, forlorn, 
 
 For a mate. 
 
 "There's a thought my bosom churning," 
 Murmur'd he, 
 
 "Like the billows, tossing, turning 
 
 On the sea; 
 
 Whence it came is most surprising, 
 
 I can't quell the strange uprising — 
 
 On it rolls, and keeps capsizing — 
 
 Troubling me." 
 
 "Ah! just now do I remember 
 
 At the dole, 
 
 How an angel placed an ember 
 
 In my soul. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 131 
 
 And he said 'The spark will lighten; 
 As the years pass on 'twill brighten — 
 Twill enthuse, exalt, and heighten , 
 
 Ev'ry role." 
 
 "God has made this garden charming — 
 Passing sweet; 
 
 But a man soon tires of farming 
 
 In retreat; 
 
 When with toil he's tired and weary, 
 
 And he seeks his cabin dreary 
 
 And there's none to greet all cheery, 
 
 Tis not meet." 
 
 So he prayed and sang an anthem, 
 
 For release, 
 And he asked" the Lord to grant him 
 
 Some surcease — 
 From a life he could not borrow, 
 Neither hope nor joy, but sorrow — 
 One long waste without a morrow, 
 
 In its lease. 
 
 Thus the years passed over Adam, 
 
 Dull and drear, 
 
 For a house without its Madam, 
 
 Has poor cheer. 
 
 Till one morn, as Sol was stealing 
 
 Thro' the lattice of his shieling, 
 
 A silvery voice came pealing, 
 
 To his ear. 
 
132 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Through the woodbine curtain shady 
 He did peer 
 On the whole bright world's "first lady," 
 
 Who drew near., 
 Love's first words were heard that morning 
 (Vain the hateful serpent's scorning), 
 Eden's Gaelic tongue adorning, 
 
 Sweet and dear. 
 
 "Blest, divine arch-inspiration! 
 
 Woman fair! 
 To thee naught in God's creation 
 
 Can compare, 
 Adam hails thee with emotion, 
 Offers thee his soul's devotion, 
 Spare him disappointment's potion, 
 
 Fair one, spare!" 
 
 Eve, unskilled in simulation, 
 
 Acquiesced 
 What she thought of Ad's oration 
 
 Must be guessed, 
 For they forthwith went together, 
 Gath'ring boughs and flow'rs and heather, 
 Their primeval home to feather — 
 
 Love's first nest. 
 4228 Adams Street, Chicago. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 133 
 
 MARY HOYNE. 
 
 By Joe Mulhearn. 
 
 Though verdant fields in Ireland 
 
 Have many flowers fair, — 
 Sweet blossoms lending perfume to 
 
 That land of beauty rare, — 
 The sweetest blossom blooming by 
 
 The Shannon, Lee or Boyne 
 Were dull and foul and withered if 
 
 Compared with Mary Hoyne; 
 For never did a blossom blow 
 
 Near Barrow, Bann or Boyne 
 That could compare in loveliness 
 
 With dainty Mary Hoyne. 
 
 Fair queens and fabled goddesses 
 
 Have set their lands awhirl, 
 But each might find a rival in 
 
 An Irish servant girl: 
 For none was ever queenlier, 
 
 And none more near Divine 
 Nor yet more worthy of renown 
 
 Than modest Mary Hoyne. 
 The noblest and the mightiest 
 
 Was never more Divine 
 Nor governed hearts with milder sway 
 
 Than gentle Mary Hoyne. 
 
134 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 In ancient lore of Ireland 
 
 Are many stories told 
 Of saints whose lives were never marred 
 
 By greed of fame or gold; 
 But not a saint that ever dwelt 
 
 At Clon-mac-Noise or Cloyne 
 Would shine in life with purer ray 
 
 Than patient Mary Hoyne. 
 The holiest saint that ever knew 
 
 Armagh, Kildare or Cloyne 
 Might well desire the company 
 
 Of faithful Mary Hoyne. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 135 
 
 THE IRISH BROGUE. 
 
 By P. J. Dillon. 
 
 [Of Brisbane, Australia. The poem appeared originally in The Sydney 
 Freeman's Journal.] 
 
 You may talk as you like of the tongue of Spain, 
 And the beauties of Latin and Greek explain; 
 But riddle me this! Is there one of them all, 
 Whose silvery notes of love can fall 
 From the ear to the heart of a maiden fair, 
 And create such terrible havoc there, 
 As the soothering tale of an Irish rogue 
 When told with a "taste" of the Irish brogue? 
 
 By the powers above! 
 
 Sure the god of Love 
 Learned his trade with an Irish brogue. 
 
 But of all the horrible sounds that Fate 
 
 Can send on an Irish ear to grate, 
 
 An Irish brogue with an English twang 
 
 Out-Herods the worst of the whole "jing-bang." 
 
 'Tis the hybrid voice of a hybrid mind, 
 
 And— whatever his station — a slavish kind, 
 
 But for him don't bother! the course of Kishogue 
 
 Attends this same English- cum-Irish brogue. 
 
 (And he'll want to be nursed 
 
 When he's properly cursed 
 With the terrible ban of Kishogue.) 
 
136 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 So, whether the blood in your Irish veins 
 
 Ran its infant course by Leinster's plains 
 
 Or whether the air of Ulster hill 
 
 Has nurtured your sturdy Northern will; 
 
 Whether or not you're a Munster boy, 
 
 Or a Connaught girl from the banks of the Moy, 
 
 Whenever your tongue feels inclined to collogue, 
 
 Let it keep a firm grip of its own sweet brogue ; 
 
 With its hearty ring, 
 
 And its genial swing; 
 Hurrah! for the Irish brogue. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 137 
 
 IRELAND'S ANSWER TO COERCION. 
 
 By Patrick Kane. 
 
 O, dear Ireland, grand old Ireland, thro' centuries of woe 
 You've bravely battled with the foe, and given blow for blow; 
 And now, although the tyrant smites with all his might and zeal, 
 He will find true hearts are stronger far than all your glitter- 
 ing steel. 
 
 But see, the rope is dangling from the scaffold, drear and dim, 
 And the hangman waits his victims with a ghastly face and grin ; 
 And behind him see the pirate, lurking slyly for his prey, 
 Awaiting British bloodhounds the brave Irish to betray. 
 
 The callous-hearted ruffians, their hands in blood imbrue ; 
 Nor care they if the innocent fall by their hellish crew. 
 They go forth to burn and plunder, like their fathers years ago; 
 And where'er they go their pathway tells of ruin, sin and woe. 
 
 See the poor and helpless widow dragged by bailiffs from her 
 door, 
 
 And the hungry, weeping children from their father's home- 
 stead tore, 
 
 While the harsh and cruel tyrant looks on with smiling eye; 
 
 But, by the Lord, we'll show him yet the way to do or die. 
 
138 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Then let us meet tonight, and make one solemn, fervent vow, 
 That never to the Saxon rule the Irish neck shall bow ; 
 That while we live our aim shall be to strike the tyrant down, 
 To harass him, to slay him, too, and crush his tottering crown. 
 
 Arise, brave men of Ireland ; strike for your martyr'd dead ; 
 For home and faith and country, tear down the foreign red; 
 And if you fail remember this : that when you're dead and gone 
 The fight you fought your children will bravely still fight on. 
 
 Let the chains of vile coercion never drive us to despair, 
 There is still a bright star gleaming o'er our little land so fair; 
 There are brave men ready, willing to defend the dear old sod, 
 Who would freely offer up their lives for country and for God. 
 
 Oh, may God's fiery vengeance upon the Saxon fall, 
 May it burn up his cities and fire each festive hall ; 
 God grant it may destroy him, may we live to see the day, 
 When the last cursed foe of Erin will be moldering in the clay. 
 Dec. 24th, 1887. 
 
 \ 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 139 
 
 THE MAY FLOWER'S MESSAGE. 
 
 By Mrs. J. W. Burke. 
 
 Oh, sweet May flowers of incense breathing, 
 
 You wake sweet memories lulled to rest 
 Of olden times, when life's young morning 
 
 Was like your blooms in brightness dress'd, 
 Your fragrance breathes of times and places 
 
 Like happy dreams you do entwine, 
 The past and present, for absent faces 
 
 Come hovering back and gaze on mine. 
 
 As if they'd say, "Forget we'll never 
 
 Those joyous hours we passed away 
 Ere yet we knew best friends must sever 
 
 Or found that life's not always May." 
 But the' we've since lived through December 
 
 Have had our griefs and worldly care, 
 Those happy hours we still remember 
 
 Like withered flowers — the perfume's there. 
 
 Oh, sweet May flowers, we wish to thank you, 
 
 For messages so bright you bring; 
 You say the winter is passed and over, 
 
 And sunny spring has been ushered in. 
 You bring us word of fruit and flowers, 
 
 You tell of budding leaves, flowers and trees, 
 You speak of velvet lawns where bowers 
 
 With cushioned seats invite to ease. 
 
140 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 But sweet May flowers, there's still another, 
 
 A message sweeter, you gladly bring; 
 You tell of green fields, of moss and heather, 
 
 Where in your midst the children sing 
 With happy voices as they gather, 
 
 With loving hands your treasured stem, 
 You bring back visions sweet of childhood, 
 
 You say, 'You once were one of them." 
 94 Clifton Avenue, Chicago. 
 
IE WITH REASON 1-il 
 
 AN APPEAL FOR IRELAND. 
 [Written during the Boer war.] 
 
 By Patrick Kane. 
 
 Oh, rally from the city, the mountain and the glen, 
 
 Shouting the battle cry of Ireland. 
 Like a mighty hurricane we will make the welkin ring, 
 
 Shouting the battle cry of Ireland. 
 
 The United League for ever to down the landlord crew, 
 Enroll beneath its banner you patriots brave and true, 
 
 From the verdant vales of motherland the Sassenach pursue, 
 Shouting the battle cry of Ireland. 
 
 Hear you not from o'er the foam from our own dear native home, 
 
 The appeals of the weak and the feeble, 
 Calling all her children o'er who still love their native shore, 
 
 To strike for the rights of her people. 
 
 Then hurrah for dear Erin and the United Irish League, 
 
 Down with the British hypocrisy and greed, 
 We will sweep from bleeding motherland the plundering landlord 
 breed, 
 
 Or die on the battle fields of Erin. 
 
 Erin's call from o'er the sea rings like thunder on the breeze, 
 
 Demanding the right of her nation, 
 And will we stand idly by while her homes in ruins lie, 
 
 Destroyed by the tyrant's profanation. 
 
142 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 No ! We shall never, the cause is most divine, 
 Down with the robbers — -march into line! 
 
 By the memory of our martyrs whose spirits on us shine, 
 We will strike for Liberty of Ireland. 
 
 So you rugged sons of toil, who love poor Erin's Isle, 
 
 Join in the battle of our sireland, 
 Until every Irish foe in the grave is sleeping low, 
 
 Or banished from the green vales of Ireland. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 143 
 
 "DOOLEY'S" LAMENTATION. 
 
 By John F. Finerty. 
 
 [When manager of The Chicago Journal, the humorist, Peter Finley 
 Dunne, creator of "Dooley," facetiously wrote': "It is generally understood 
 that the ancestors of John F. Finerty were born in Ireland." To which 
 retorted, under the pen name "Jonathan Indigo," the editor of The Citizen:] 
 
 Air— "Patrick Sheehan." 
 
 My name is Pether Dooley, 
 
 My age is thirty-two 
 I'm a native of sweet Archey Road, 
 
 Not far from Healy's Slough! 
 My parents were thrue Irish, 
 
 Though "Scotch" is now in vogue, 
 And they blarneyed all creation 
 With their "pure Roscommon brogue !" 
 
 Whin first I met McGarry, 
 
 In the year of '92, 
 He filled me with philosophy 
 
 On the banks of Healy's Slough! 
 But soon he grew unruly — 
 
 I made of him some fun — 
 So I changed his name to Dooley 
 
 An' mine to Finley Dunne! 
 
 How many an hour I rambled 
 
 'Mid hills of sand and junk! 
 How many a time I gamboled 
 
 'Mid fields of cabbage-skunk, 
 
144 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 'Twas sweet to watch the sunset, 
 And hear the bull-frogs mew, 
 
 In those days of happy innocence 
 On the banks of Healy's Slough ! 
 
 Bad luck to you, McGarry, 
 
 An' your pure Roscommon brogue! 
 You led me into throuble 
 
 You blarneying owld rogue! 
 Your tongue ran on so clever, 
 
 Your words seemed ever new, 
 An' you soaked me with philosophy 
 
 On the banks of Healy's Slough ! 
 
 But now I have grown famous — 
 
 My works are much in vogue — 
 An' the English rave in chorus 
 
 Of my "pure Roscommon brogue!" 
 They've "pirated" my labors — 
 
 The ruthless Saxon crew — 
 I'll abuse them to my neighbors 
 
 On the banks of Healy's Slough ! 
 
 Then fare you well, McGary ! 
 
 An' farewell Pether Dunne! 
 I'm swallowed up in "Dooley" 
 
 An' vanished is my fun! 
 Oh for the owld time evenings 
 
 When I heard the bull-frogs mew, 
 And watched the purple sunset 
 
 On the banks of Healy's Slough! 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 145 
 
 ST. PATRICK'S DAY. 
 
 By Thomas Baird. 
 
 [Native of County Derry, Ireland, now engaged on the Chicago daily 
 press.] 
 
 St. Patrick, whose work as a wonder 
 
 Is the theme of oration and song, 
 Was a diligent, true son of thunder 
 
 In an age of oppression and wrong, 
 While the doctrine of loving each other 
 
 Lay dormant and dead from its birth, 
 And no man called his fellow his brother 
 
 On the face of God's beautiful earth; 
 
 While envy and terror and battle 
 
 Drove men to the brink of despair, 
 Reduced them to dumb driven cattle 
 
 Or the plane of the beast in his lair, 
 This shepherd and son of the mountain, 
 
 In prayer, 'neath the sunset of even, 
 Slaked his thirst at Jehovah's own fountain, 
 
 Lit his lamp at the altar of heaven. 
 
 That bright little isle of the ocean, 
 
 Old Erin, the home of the brave, 
 Still remembers St. Patrick's devotion 
 
 And treasures the gift that he gave, 
 And her daughters whose constancy blesses 
 
 Our civilization and fame 
 Come forth on this day with their tresses 
 
 And weave a bright wreath for his name. 
 
146 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 MY MOTHER'S WISH. 
 
 By Miss Julia A. Sullivan Brennan. 
 
 In my mother's heart, e'er she cradled me, 
 Was the wish her native land to see; 
 And v as I slept beneath her heart, 
 The longing grew of my life a part. 
 
 And when I lay on my mother's breast, 
 
 With Irish song she lulled to rest 
 
 My infant cries, and my infant pain, 
 
 By the same sweet song was soothed again. 
 
 But God's dear Voice called her soon away, 
 To a far off land and Eternal Day, 
 And childhood morns and youthful fears 
 Gleamed through the mist of orphan tears. 
 
 Yet her spirit lived within my breast, 
 And the yearning grew and would not rest, 
 To cross the sea to that ancient place 
 Where sleep the dead of my mother's race. 
 
 I knelt at last 'neath an Irish sky 
 In a churchyard green as the wind swept by; 
 It whsipered "Peace, they are all at rest, 
 They are all with God who loveth best." 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 147 
 
 My grief was hushed and the longing past, 
 I had gained my mother's wish at last, 
 O'er all my being peace was shed, 
 As I knelt and prayed before her dead. 
 
148 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 CALL TO ARMS. 
 
 By Patrick Kane. 
 
 Oh, you rebel sons of Ireland, come hear your mother's call, 
 From Dublin down to Galway, from Cork to Donegal, 
 From each fairy glen and mountain, where the silvery waters fall, 
 Strike for the green fields of Ireland. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for rebels true and brave 
 Hurrah! Hurrah! for Erin o'er the wave; 
 
 We must free our bleeding motherland or win a soldier's grave, 
 Beneath the green shamrocks of Erin. 
 
 Too long we have been waiting and watching for a sign, 
 Till some great mighty nation with Ireland would combine; 
 The Boers have shown the British how the smoking rifles shine — 
 Now is the time, boys, for Ireland. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Hurrah ! Hurrah ! the battle has begun, 
 Hurrah ! Hurrah ! Attention ! Get your gun. 
 With the United men of Ireland we'll make the tyrants run 
 Away from the green hills of Ireland. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 149 
 
 (We know through long dark centuries the treachery and woe 
 From the evil days of Strongbow to Ned's coronation show; 
 That prison, rope and famine left in graveyards sleeping low 
 Thousands of heroes in Ireland. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Hurrah! Hurrah! for Erin's noble dead; 
 Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for dynamite or lead, 
 To drive the brutal robbers with their ' foreign flag of red, 
 Away from the green vales of Ireland. 
 
 Then, by the memory of the brave whose souls have passed away, 
 Ancf by the name of all on earth we love in life today, 
 We swear to fight, until we sweep from every hill and brae 
 The foreign horde that preys on holy Ireland. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Hurrah! Hurrah! come join the patriot band, 
 Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for Erin motherland, 
 Moral force or physical, who take a sturdy stand 
 To drive the foreign foe from dear Ireland. 
 
150 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 THE BATTLE OF DUNDEE. 
 
 By Joseph Q. Murphy. 
 
 [Mr. Murphy, who had a remarkable talent for rapid and brilliant 
 writing, was a well-known young business man of St. Louis, agent for a 
 Chicago men's furnishing firm. He died suddenly at his home, 411c 
 Finney avenue, St. Louis, some years after the following now celebrated 
 poem was written.] 
 
 On the mountain's side the battle raged, there was no stop nor stay, 
 Mackin captured Private Burke and Ensign Michael Shea. 
 Fitzgerald took Fitzpatrick, Brannigan took O'Rourke ; 
 Finnegan took a man named Fay — and a couple of lads from Cork. 
 Suddenly they heard McManus shout, "Hands up, or I'll run 
 
 you through;" 
 He thought he had a Yorkshire "Tyke" — 'twas Corporal Don- 
 
 oghue. 
 McGarry took O'Leary, O'Brien got McNamee, 
 That's how the "English fought the Dutch" at the battle of 
 
 Dundee. 
 
 Then some one brought in Casey, O'Connor took O'Neil ; 
 
 Riley captured Kavanagh, while trying to make a steal. 
 
 Hogan caught McFadden, Corrigan found McBride, 
 
 And Brennan made a handsome touch when Kelly tried to slide. 
 
 Dacey took a lad named Walsh ; Dooley got McGurk ; 
 
 Calligan turned in Fahey's boy — for his father he used to work. 
 
 They marched to fight the English — but Irish was all they could 
 
 see — 
 That's how the "English fought the Dutch" at the battle of 
 
 Dundee. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 151 
 
 Spillane then took O'Madigan ; Shannahan took Magee; 
 While chasing Jerry Donovan, Clancy got shot in the knee. 
 He cursed the Queen's whole army, he cursed the English race, 
 Then found the man who fired the shot, 'twas his cousin, Mar- 
 tin Grace. 
 Then McGinnis took an A. O. H v who came from Limerick town, 
 But Sullivan got an Orangeman from somewhere in County 
 
 Down. 
 Hennessey took O'Hara, Hennegan took McFee — 
 That's how the "English fought the Dutch" at the battle of 
 Dundee. 
 
 The sun was sinking slowly, the battle rolled along; 
 The man that Murphy "handed in" was a cousin of Maude Gonne. 
 Then Flannigan dropped his riflle, shook hands with Bill McGuire, 
 For both had carried a piece of turf to light the schoolroom fire. 
 Then Rafferty took in Flaherty; O'Connell got Major McCue; 
 O'Keefe got hold of Sergeant Joyce and a Belfast lad or two. 
 Some swore that "Old Man Kruger" had come down to see 
 
 the fun ; 
 But the man they thought was "Uncle Paul" was a Galway man 
 
 named Dunne. 
 Though war may have worse horrors, 'twas a frightful sight to see 
 The way the "English fought the Dutch" at the battle of Dundee. 
 
 Just when the sound of firing in the distance fainter grew, 
 Ryan caught McCloskey, and Orderly Donegan, too. 
 O'Toole he found McCarthy; O'Mahony got Malone; 
 Duffy got a pair of lads from COnnaught, near Athlone. 
 Then Dineen took O'Hagan ; Phelan got Kehoe ; 
 Dooney captured Callahan, but Gallagher let him go. 
 
152 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 You'd have thought the "Belfast Chicken" had tackled the "Dub- 
 lin Flea/' 
 The way the "English fought the Dutch" at the battle of Dundee. 
 
 The Powers began to intervene — the Waterford Powers, I mean — 
 And took a lad named Keenan, and a Captain named Mulqueen ; 
 Then Brady captured Noonan ; Maher got McAdoo ; 
 McGovern got O'Hanlon, and Colonel McLaughlin, too. 
 'Twas now the hour of sunset, the battle was nearly o'er, 
 When McCormick came in with Hoolihan and Lieutenant Roger 
 
 Moore. 
 But 'twas a great day for Ireland, as you can easily see; 
 That's how the "English fought the Dutch" at the battle of 
 
 Dundee. 
 
 They marched them all to Kruger's town, for supper and a bed; 
 
 O'Halloran was the rear guard ; the way McNulty led ; 
 
 When they got them to the race course the Boers were full of 
 
 glee, 
 While Kruger ne'er expected "so many English to see." 
 They told him they were Irish; it puzzled the old man's head, 
 For the Irish he'd seen were dressed in green, while these were 
 
 togged in red. 
 But 'tis a passing story ; on history's page you'll see 
 That "'twas the English fought the Dutch" at the battle of 
 
 Dundee. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 153 
 
 CHRISTMAS AT PRETORIA TRACK. 
 
 By P. G. Smyth. 
 
 [Written for The Chicago Chronicle, Christmas Eve, 1899, at a time 
 when the race track pen at Pretoria was daily receiving large consign- 
 ments of British troops captured by the Boers.] 
 
 Yes, it's quite a bloomin' outrage and it's quite a blawsted shame, 
 And I pity Mr. Kipling, and I weep for England's fame. 
 But soldiers must be soldiers and just bear it all the same, 
 Though we've got to spend our Christmas at Pretoria. 
 
 Who'd think it, oh, who'd think it, that this vulgar farmer race, 
 With hayseed on their collars and with whiskers on their face, 
 Would have the gall to round us up and run us in this place — 
 Victoria's royal soldiers at Pretoria. 
 
 A mazed and motley muster of assorted sons of Mars, 
 Artillery and infantry, with lancers and hussars, 
 Corralled like blooded horses behind blooming' race course bars, 
 'Neath the rifles of the guard at Pretoria. 
 
 Yet safer for a Briton is this jolly old grand stand 
 Than the kopjes and the nullahs of this awful Transvaal land, 
 Where his precious life he carries in a most uncertain hand — ■ 
 'Tis better to spend Christmas at Pretoria. 
 
154 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 About the grounds we're swarming all as merrily as ants ; 
 
 We have highlanders from Galway and Northumberlands from 
 
 Hants ; ■ 
 We have warriors in petticoats and warriors in pants, 
 Combining to keep Christmas at Pretoria. 
 
 Each day a new consignment comes a-troopin' in the door, 
 And we sing to raise their spirits, for they're feelin' mighty sore : 
 "Oh, dear Uncle Paul, we're comin', a few hundred duffers more, 
 To spend Christmas with you in Pretoria." 
 
 'Twould be a shame and pity, but I fear the boys would grin, 
 If General Methuen should himself come droppin' in, 
 His ludship would feel leary, for when startin' out to win, 
 He had his luggage labeled "for Pretoria." 
 
 No kissin' 'neath the mistletoe, no holly on the wall, 
 And not a blessed Santa Claus save bloomin' old Oom Paul, 
 With his title of ancient vintage and his whiskers Donegal, 
 As he pays his daily visits at Pretoria. 
 
 He treats us well, old jiblets, but we can't help feelin' grief 
 At thinkin' on old England, the plum pudding and roast beef, 
 And Bass' ale and porter — oh, make haste to our relief, 
 Is our prayer this Christmas evening from Pretoria. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 155 
 
 IN MEMORY OF THOMAS NAUGHTON. 
 
 [Born in Adare, County Limerick, Ireland, 1873. Died while fighting 
 for Boer independence in South Africa, June, 1901.] 
 
 By Patrick Coughlan. 
 
 As I sit sad and lonely, when night shades are falling, 
 
 And darkness is spreading its shadows o'er me ; 
 My heart is made light by fond memories recalling 
 
 The comrades and friends whom I'll never more see. 
 And thus Thomas Naughton, I picture you often, 
 
 A splendid young type of the true and the brave, 
 So gentle and kind, oh, what eye would not soften, 
 
 To think of you lying in that lone foreign grave. 
 
 How happy and bright were the days of your childhood, 
 
 When you knew naught of trouble, of sorrow or care — 
 When you played in the meadows, or rambled the wildwood — 
 
 The hills and the vales round your native Adare. 
 Oh ! 'twas there you first heard of your country's proud story, 
 
 Ere the Sassanach robbers had crossed o'er the sea, 
 And you swore in the future you'd strike for her glory, 
 
 And fight to the death so your land should be free. 
 
 From the home of your fathers you crossed the wide ocean, 
 And made your abode in this land of the West, 
 
 But your heart ever yearned with fondest devotion, 
 
 For the home of your boyhood, the scenes you loved best; 
 
156 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Where you sported and played by the Maigue's rippling waters, 
 And joined in the manly old sports of the Gael — 
 
 The hurling and football, as played by our fathers, 
 Ere the rule of the Saxon had cursed Innisfail. 
 
 Of the wrongs of old Erin sure none spoke out bolder — 
 
 You were always prepared for that long wished for day, 
 When, returning to Ireland, a trained and tried soldier, 
 
 Her people you'd rally and lead in the fray. 
 But fruitless and vain were your hopes — your ambition, 
 
 Though in freedom's grand cause against England you bled ; 
 Like Sarsfield, your hopes ne'er attained their fruition — 
 
 You wished for dear Erin your blood had been shed. 
 
 The friends of your exile by Michigan's water ; 
 
 Though sad was your fate still we're fond of your fame — 
 We're proud of your deeds in the cause that you fought for — 
 
 The halo of glory shall shine round your name 
 In the old place at home your requiem is chanted — 
 
 The banshee is wailing round sainted Adare — 
 The Abbey's gray walls — by ghosts ever-haunted — 
 
 Re-echoed that cry in the still midnight air. 
 Chicago, May 3rd, 1902. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 157 
 
 YOU'RE WELCOME, MICK McQUAID. 
 
 By Rev. James Keegan. 
 
 [Mick McQuaid, the hero of Col. William Lyman's series of stories 
 of that name, in which he is variously and amusingly depicted as evan- 
 gelizer, land agent, lawyer, doctor, member of parliament, etc., is a well- 
 known mountebankish character of Irish fiction. The Irish priest and 
 patriot, Rev. James Keegan, came to America in 1883 and was for some 
 time parish priest of St. Malachy's, St. Louis, Mo. He was a native of 
 Cloone, Leitrim County, Ireland. He died Jan. 5, 1894, at the age of 
 thirty-five, while on a visit to his parents in his native place.] 
 
 You're welcome, Mick McQuaid, agrah, 
 
 You droll old funny dear, 
 With your dudheen and your caubeen 
 
 And your ways so quaint and queer, 
 Cead mille failthe Mick, avick, 
 
 From Connaught's kindly shore; 
 "lis you will make the jokes and fun 
 
 Through Ireland's Isle once more. 
 
 Oh, Mick, you are the darling boy 
 
 The colleens all admire, 
 Your cracks still make the saddest laugh, 
 
 Your stories never tire. 
 Was e'er so droll a rogue as you? 
 
 Was e'er so brisk a blade? 
 Cead mille failthe three times three, 
 
 You're welcome, Mick McQuaid. 
 
158 RHYME WITH REASON . 
 
 They tell us since the times have changed 
 
 That Irish fun has fled, 
 That Paddy's humor 's gone for good 
 
 And Biddy's mirth is dead, 
 That dance and pattern are no more, 
 
 No pipers now to play, 
 And not one jovial priest or squire 
 
 From Howth to Galway Bay. 
 
 They say we'll soon unlearn to laugh , 
 
 Nor know old potheen's taste, 
 That Irish wit, like Irish land, 
 
 Is mostly gone to watse. 
 But I'll make bold to call them liars, 
 
 And say: "Be not afraid, 
 The sun of Irish wit shines clear 
 
 While we have Mick McQuaid." 
 
 I'd rather hear you, Mick, avick, 
 
 In sunshine or in shower, 
 Than sweetest strains of melody 
 
 In Beauty's love-lit bower. 
 To you must Corporal Trim give way 
 
 And warriors old and young; 
 Who fears not your good blackthorn 
 
 Must yield before your tongue. 
 
 You're welcome, Mick, to many a hearth 
 
 Within our own Green Isle, 
 Where a kindly heart doth beat 
 
 Or kindly face doth smile, 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 159 
 
 You're more than music to the young, 
 
 To old, their pipe or tea, 
 You make the very cripples jump, 
 
 The babies dance for glee. 
 
 You're dearer to us than our friends, 
 
 You and your jovial squad, 
 With tipplin' Joe and Thady bluff 
 
 And Terry lank and sad. 
 Your tramp I'd sooner than a peer, 
 
 Your widow than a maid; 
 Cead mille failthe, knave of hearts, 
 
 You're welcome, Mick McQuaid. 
 
 You're welcome, Mick, to foreign lands, 
 
 Where'er the Celt may roam, 
 Your caubeen, pipe and blackthorn 
 
 Shall find a cozy home. 
 We hear the dear familiar brogue 
 
 Oft heard in days of yore, 
 Till memories of the dear old land 
 
 Rise 'round our hearts once more. 
 
 We list the shrewd philosophy 
 
 E'en Horace's self might own, 
 And think of maxims taught our youth 
 
 In fond parental home. 
 You give us pleasure, wisdom, mirth, 
 
 Boons for which saints have prayed; 
 Then come again and long remain, 
 
 You're welcome, Mick McQuaid. 
 
160 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 YOU'LL YET BE FREE, DEAR MOTHERLAND. 
 
 By Patrick Kane. 
 
 Ah! fairest land of mother earth, 
 
 You'll yet emerge from Saxon gloom, 
 And in the day of freedom's birth 
 
 You'll send oppression to its doom; 
 You'll burst the yoke, the jail and rope, 
 
 That British hounds have used for years, 
 For by the Heavens we pray and hope 
 
 To free you from jour galling tears. 
 
 What though the gold of bribers false, 
 
 Are used by treachery to slay, 
 Or send your sons to bloody vaults, 
 
 Their lives in pain to ebb away? 
 Such threats no terror have for those 
 
 Who love to strike a blow for you: 
 They nerve us on to meet your foes, 
 
 For vengeance, vengeance, long is due. 
 
 Think not, fair land, we have forgot 
 
 The wrongs you bore from Britain's Queen, 
 The burning of the peasants' cot 
 
 Forgotten by us ne'er has been. 
 No, no, for vengeance now we cry, 
 
 Who'll lead us on to victorv? 
 With swords, upon the field we'll die, 
 
 Or free your hills from sea to sea. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 161 
 
 Your martyred spirits from the graves, 
 
 Will guide us on the battle field, 
 And o'er the dust of foes and slaves 
 
 We'll hoist your banner, ne'er to yield; 
 No quarter then to foreign foe, 
 
 No mercy on the viper vile, 
 Till every foe is buried low 
 
 Within your sweet and holy Isle. 
 
 'Tis then with joy you will proclaim 
 
 To every nation o'er the earth, 
 That British rogues no more can claim 
 
 The land that gave your children birth, 
 That you are free, dear mother land, 
 
 That British landlord rule is o'er, 
 That with the nations free and grand, 
 
 You take your place forever more. 
 
162 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 TO A BLACKBIRD. 
 
 By Rev. J. K. Fielding. 
 
 Our cottage stood beside a hill 
 
 In a daisy-studded dell; 
 Around the glowing turf at night 
 
 The peasant tales did tell. 
 
 The roses red around it grew, 
 Woodbine its fragrance shed, 
 
 And daily to our cabin door 
 The blackbird came for bread. 
 
 On an old oak tree that screened that cot 
 From the sunshine and the rain, 
 
 At dawn of day, at dim twilight, 
 We heard his joyous strain. 
 
 Sweet bird, how happy we were then! 
 
 We knew no grief nor care. 
 Thrice welcome ever you had been 
 
 Our humble meal to share. 
 
 But lo ! a change, the spoiler came ; 
 
 Ah! sad our lot had been; 
 No flower there now, nor bird, nor tree — 
 
 The wild weeds mark the scene. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 163 
 
 Shall I e'er forget that whitewashed cot? 
 
 The gentle blackbird's lay? 
 Ah, no, dear bird! not till I'm laid 
 
 Deep in my cot of clay. 
 
 Then come and seek me 'neath a tree, 
 
 Where the whooping owl is heard; 
 And sing a dirge, my beautiful, 
 
 My ever dear-loved bird. 
 
164 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 IRISH NAMES. 
 
 By John Ludlow. 
 
 [Originally published in The New York Tribune.] 
 Names wid the musical lilt of a troll to thim, 
 Names wid a rollickin' swing an' a roll to thim, 
 Names wid a body an' bones an' a soul to thim — 
 
 Shure, an' they're poethry, darlint.asthore! 
 Names wid the smell o' the praties an' wheat to thim, 
 Names wid the odor o' dillisk an' peat to thim, 
 Names wid a lump o' the turf hangin' sweet to thim— 
 Where can yez bate thim, the whole world o'er ? 
 
 Brannigan, Flannigan, Milligan, Gilligan, 
 
 Duffy, McGuffy, Mullarky, Mahone, 
 Rafferty, Lafferty, Connelly, Donnelly, 
 
 Dooley, O'Hooley, Muldowny, Malone; 
 Maddigan, Caddigan, Hallahan, Callahan, 
 
 Fagan, O'Hagan, O 'Houlihan, Flynn, 
 Shanahan, Lanahan, Fogarty, Hogarty, 
 
 Kelly, O'Skelly, McGinnis, McGinn. 
 
 Names wid a fine old Hibernian sheen to thim, 
 Names wid the dewy shamrocks clingin' green to thim, 
 Names wid a whiff o' the honest potheen to thim — 
 
 Shure, an' they're beautiful, darlint asthore! 
 Names wid the taste o' the salt o' the earth to thim, 
 Names wid the warmth o' the ancisthral hearth to thim, 
 Names wid the blood o' the land o' their birth to thim — 
 
 Where can yez bate thim, the whole wurruld o'er?/- 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 165 
 
 Brannigan, . Flannigan, Milligan, Gilligan, 
 
 Duffy, McGuffy, Mullarky, Mahone, 
 Rafferty, Lafferty, Connelly, Donnelly, 
 
 Dooley, O'Hooley, Muldowny, Malone; 
 Maddigan, Caddigan, Hallahan, Callahan, 
 
 Fagan, O'Hagan, O'Houlihan, Flynn, 
 Shanahan, Lanahan, Fogarty, Hogarty, 
 
 Kelly, O'Skelly, McGinnis, McGinn. 
 
166 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 SONG OF THE LITTLE VILLAGES.* 
 
 By Rev. James B. Dollard. 
 
 The pleasant little villages that grace the Irish glynns 
 Down among the wheat fields, up amid the whins, 
 The little white-walled villages crowding close together, 
 Clinging to the old sod in spite of wind and -weather. 
 Ballytarsney, Ballymore, Ballyboden, Boyle, 
 Ballingarry, Ballymagorry by the Banks of Foyle, 
 Ballylaneen, Ballyporeen, Bansha, Ballysadare, 
 Ballybrack, Ballinalack, Barna, Ballyclare. 
 
 The cosy little villages that shelter from the mist, 
 Where the great West Walls by ocean spray are kissed ; 
 The happy little villages that cuddle in the sun 
 When blackberries ripen and the harvest work is done. 
 Corrymeela, Croaghnakeela. Clogher, Cahirciveen, 
 Cappaharoe, Carrigaloe, Cashel and Coosheen, 
 Castlefinn and Carrigtohill, Crumlin, Clara, Clane, 
 Carrigaholt, Carrigaline, Clogh Jordan and Coolrain. 
 
 The dreamy little villages, where by the fire at night, 
 Old Shanachies with ghostly tale the boldest hearts affright; 
 The crooning of the wind blast is the wailing banshee's cry, 
 -And when the silver hazels stir they say the fairies sigh. 
 Kilfenora, Kilfinane, Kinnity, Killylea, 
 Kilmoganny, Kiltamagh, Kilronan and Kilrea, 
 Killashandra, Kilmacow, Killiney, Killashee, 
 Killenaule, Killmyshall, Kilogrlin and Killeagh. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 167 
 
 Leave the little villages over the black seas go, 
 Learn the stranger's welcome, learn the exile's woe, 
 Leave the little villages, but think not to forget 
 Afar they'll rise before your eyes to rack your bosoms yet. 
 Moneymore, Moneygall, Monivea and Moyne, 
 Mullinahone, Mullinavate, Mullagh and Mooncoin, 
 Shanagolden, Shanballymore, Stranorlar and Slane, 
 Toberheena, Toomyvara, Tempo and Strabane. 
 
 On the Southern llanos — north where strange light gleams, 
 
 Many a yearning exile sees them in his dreams ; 
 
 Dying voices murmur (passed all pain and care), 
 
 "Lo ! the little villages, God has heard our prayer." 
 Lisdoonvarna, Lissadill, Lisdargan, Lisnaskea, 
 Portglenone, Portarlington, Portumna, Portmagee, 
 Clonegam and Clonegowan, Cloondara and Clonae, 
 God bless the little villages and guard them night and day! 
 
 *A11 the names are genuine. 
 
168 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 McGINNIS THAT WAS. 
 
 By Berton Braley. 
 
 McGinnis is dead ; but begorry, 
 
 He left a great record behind ; 
 He died at the height av his glory, 
 
 An' he was the glorious kind ! 
 His inimies called him a grafter, 
 
 An' maybe he was, but I know 
 He was head av the legions av laughter 
 
 An' I'm happy to think av him so. 
 
 He was brimmin' wid blarney an' banter, 
 
 An' buzzin' wid humor an' fun, 
 He rollicked through life at a canter 
 
 Whin it wasn't a race or a run ; 
 To women — the best or the worst one — 
 
 His voice was a tindher caress, 
 He'd spind his last cint like the first one 
 
 Wid a manner no words cud express. 
 
 He was fond av good dinners and suppers, 
 
 An' fond av good liquor as well, 
 An' though he was oft on his uppers 
 
 Be hivens, you never cud tell; 
 For his smile was a warm one an' winnin': 
 
 His manner was gracious an' bland; 
 In virtuous ways or in sinnin' 
 
 Oho, but McGinnis was grand! 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 169 
 
 McGinnis is dead an' departed, 
 
 But he was a man to the ind ; 
 Big-handed, big-voiced, big-hearted, 
 
 A frind that was always a frind! 
 From New Year's clear through to December 
 
 He wint the whole route, good or bad, 
 Ochone, we'll be proud to remember, 
 
 An' sure to be missin' the lad ! 
 
170 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 MY CHRISTMAS CANDLE. 
 
 By Mrs. Julia A. Sullivan Brennan. 
 
 My Christmas candle's shining, 
 
 And in its cheerful glow 
 I see another gleaming 
 
 Of long, oh long ago. 
 
 'Twas my father lit that candle ! 
 
 Again his voice I hear ; 
 "God grant you're all around me 
 
 On Christmas Eve a year." 
 
 So tall and fair I see him stand 
 With hair all snowy white; 
 
 While loving faces gathered round, 
 That happy, happy night. 
 
 Peace, peace, my soul ; go bravely on, 
 
 Nor shed I selfish tears; 
 For all the loved ones gone to God, 
 
 Throughout the passing years. 
 
 For small and smaller grew the band 
 
 Around the candle light ; 
 And fewer drew the table round, 
 
 Upon that festal night. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 171 
 
 And thus my Christmas Candle brings 
 
 Its memories sad and sweet ; 
 And strong the wish within my heart, 
 
 My loved again to meet. 
 
 In God's good time in God's Own place, 
 
 I'll see the faces bright; 
 That gathered in the dear old home, 
 
 That happy, holy night. 
 
172 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 A CHRISTMAS TOAST. 
 
 By Patrick Kane. 
 
 Fill up your glasses to the brim, 
 
 And drink and love together — 
 A flowing bowl to honest men, 
 
 When at freedom's shrine they gather, 
 And to our kin across the sea, 
 
 Whose memory we treasure, 
 God give them health and liberty 
 
 In an overflowing measure. 
 
 We'll toast to childhood's cherished home, 
 
 In fair and plundered Erin, 
 Where through the woods I first did roam, 
 
 Wild, rollicking and daring; 
 And to each nook and silvery brook 
 
 Each briar, bush and bramble 
 Where bluebells spring arid lovers sing 
 
 As through the vales they ramble. 
 
 We'll toast old Erin's lovely air, 
 
 So soft and so beguiling, 
 Her flowery carpets, rich and rare, 
 
 In scenic valleys smiling, 
 The silvery music of the rills 
 
 Made by the great Creator, 
 That, rippling 'mid the emerald hills, 
 
 Sing glorious songs of nature. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 173 
 
 Then, brothers, drain your glasses dry, 
 
 And drink this toast in chorus: 
 May hate of tyrants never die 
 
 Till we free the land that bore us; 
 May landlord despots pass away, 
 
 Without bloodshed or slaughter — 
 Such is my wish this Christmas day 
 
 To Ireland o'er the water. 
 
174 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 COIGNY. 
 
 By Maude Healy. 
 
 [Coigny, or Coygne, in archaic Gaelic meant meat, and it was the meat 
 dealt out to pensioners of a great chief.] 
 
 O Patrick Magee was a bit of a rogueen, * 
 
 A rascally lad with a touch of the brogueen. 
 
 He loved a good drink, and he loved a good dinner, 
 
 And as he grew fat sure his purse it grew thinner. 
 
 Said Patrick "I'm thinking my stomach's too healthy, 
 'Tis sorry I am that I was not born wealthy, 
 But I have a scheme, and no plan could be finer, 
 I'll hire myself out as professional diner. 
 
 " 'Tis a bit of a joke and a bit of a story, 
 A toast, and this gossoon will be in his glory." 
 So Pat fell to studying jokes and repartee, 
 And now at fine banquets he sits and eats hearty. 
 
 O Patrick Magee, you're the plague of a rogueen, 
 
 And it's I that have laughed at your wit and your brogueen. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 175 
 
 THE OLD CHURCHYARD. 
 
 By Rev. James K. Fielding. 
 
 [The churchyard of Rathkieran is situated in the parish of Mooncoin, 
 County Kilkenny, Ireland. It occupies a most delightful site, commanding 
 a magnificent view of the Suir Valley. About two hundred yards from 
 the east end of the church itself is pointed out the site of St. Kieran's 
 monastery, also a rath from which the place takes its name. Written in 
 June, 1894.] 
 
 In a verdant Leinster valley 
 
 Where a river running pure, 
 Glides by hamlet, cot and castle 
 
 Till it joins the lordly Suir, 
 Stands a churchyard grim and hoary, 
 
 And around it like a guard 
 Are the trees that Kieran planted 
 
 In an old churchyard. 
 
 And the pilgrim as he passes 
 
 Wonders what may' be the tale 
 Of that ruin once the glory 
 
 Of the land of Innisfail: 
 Comes an answer from the gable 
 
 Towering high above the sward — 
 Ah! it tells a thrilling story 
 
 Of that old churchyard. 
 
 Centuries have passed and many 
 Since o'er lea and grassy dell, 
 Clust'ring came the faithful people, 
 
176 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 At the call of vesper bell. 
 There they vowed to fight for Erin, 
 
 And the priceless faith to guard — 
 Ah! they kept it pure and spotless 
 
 In that old churchyard. 
 
 Soon the tyrant's hand passed o'er it — 
 
 Henry's bloodhounds mad with ire 
 Desecrated shrines and altars, 
 
 Set the holy church on fire. 
 There the dust of saints and sages 
 
 Rests beneath the verdant sward — 
 Hallowed with the blood of martyrs — 
 
 In that old churchyard. 
 
 Tower of Erin's ancient glory, 
 
 Well may Oss'ry's sons today 
 Look with pride upon thy ruins — 
 
 Crumbling, falling to decay! 
 Death and exile, fire and famine — 
 
 Such, the Saxon laws' award 
 To thy children faithful ever 
 
 In that old churchyard. 
 
 Ah ! my weary spirit wanders 
 
 To a grave by kind hands blest, 
 Where in springtime grows the primrose 
 
 Fertilized by one loved best. 
 Hallowed spot, I long to slumber 
 
 With the loved ones 'neath the sward, 
 Where the daisies deck the green sod 
 
 In that old churchyard. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 177 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 By Patrick Kane. 
 
 My thoughts fly to Erin's green hills over the ocean 
 To the ancient old church where I first heard devotion, 
 To the green clothed valleys of Tooma so bright, 
 With its beautiful primroses glittering and white, 
 To its rugged old ditches, its berries and sloes, 
 Where the Pooka can ramble or dwell in repose, 
 'Mid the oziers and bushes that tremble and sway 
 'Round the home of my birth with its gables so gray. 
 
 How sweet it was there with the gorsoons to play 
 
 'Mid those beautiful shades on a bright summer's day, 
 
 Reciting or singing, or casting the stone 
 
 By Mickey's old stream now so airy and lone, 
 
 Where oft I have heard from the lips of the old 
 
 That beneath this old cascade were treasures of gold 
 
 So carefully guarded by ghosts that were seen 
 
 By the fairy-seeing people each night at this stream. 
 
 Nigh this ghost-haunted stream was my father's old gate 
 With its teeth-setting creak, warped from rain and from heat, 
 Where oft I have driven a staple and hasp 
 In the rugged old post my young hands could not grasp, 
 Where I bid "Cuss," my dog, leap it o'er at a bound 
 If intruders dare enter our garden or ground, 
 For by our old dwellings were apples and bees 
 And gooseberries, currants and sweet cherry trees. 
 
178 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 « 
 
 When the harsh winter came with its mantle of snow 
 To Cloonsarnes old school with repugnance I'd go 
 Bearing two sods of turf, one hugged under each arm, 
 To please the schoolmaster and keep myself warm, 
 While Eddy O'Rourke, my young cousin so shy 
 Would stay home with the ladies to spark on the sly, 
 For we loved the one girl, he dare not deny, 
 And to steal her affections he often did try. 
 
 But alas; since I roamed from this beautiful spot 
 Where the flowers profusely embellished each cot, 
 Where the heart and the hand or the shilling to spend 
 Were ready to greet either stranger or friend ; 
 How dark, oh, how dismal, how drear is the ruin 
 That spreads o'er the kind loving homesteads of Cloone. 
 It shades the bright pictures my soul loves to trace, 
 For the grabbers and land-thieves are wrecking the place. 
 
 Oh! but sweet are the memories drawn from the past 
 And its bright in my innermost soul they shall last, 
 For I vowed to the heavens, where'er I may roam, 
 To remember those kind-hearted neighbors at home; 
 To aid the old country, wherever I be, 
 Till the flag of old Ireland flies proudly and free, 
 Till the red coat, the landlord, the bailiff and spy 
 Like reptiles from Erin are driven to die. 
 
 December 7, 1885. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 179 
 
 THE SONG MY MOTHER SINGS. 
 
 By Thomas O'Hagan, LL.D. 
 
 [Native of Toronto, Canada. Now editor of The New World, Chicago.] 
 
 sweet unto my heart is the song my mother sings 
 
 As eventide is brooding on its dark and noiseless wings ; 
 Every note is charged with memory — every memory bright with 
 
 rays 
 Of the golden hours of promise in the lap of childhood's days ; 
 The orchard blooms anew and each blossom scents the way, 
 And I feel again the breath of eve among the new-mown hay; 
 While through the halls of memory in happy notes there rings 
 All the life-joy of the past in the song my mother sings. 
 
 1 have listened to the dreamy notes of Chopin and of Liszt, 
 
 As they dripp'd and droop'd about my heart and filled my eyes 
 
 with mist; 
 I have wept strong tears of pathos 'neath the spell of Verdi's 
 
 power, 
 As I heard the tenor voice of grief from out the donjon tower; 
 And Gounod's oratories are full of notes sublime 
 That stir the heart with rapture 'thro the sacred pulse of time; 
 But all the music of the past and the wealth that memory brings 
 Seem as nothing when I listen to the song my mother sings. 
 
180 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 It's a song of love and triumph, it's a song of toil and care ; 
 It is filled with chords of pathos and it's set in notes of prayer ; 
 It is bright with dreams and visions of the days that are to be 
 And as strong in faith's devotion as the heart-beat of the sea; 
 It is linked in mystic measure to sweet voices from above, 
 Ariel is starr'd with ripest blessings thro' a mother's sacred love ; 
 O sweet and strong and tender are the memories that it brings 
 As I list in joy and rapture to the song my mother sings. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 181 
 
 THE ROCK OF CASHEL. 
 
 By Patrick Shelly O'Ryan. 
 
 [Written at the age of 17 by the author, a talented newspaper man, 
 lawyer and lecturer of Chicago, whose premature demise was the occasion 
 of deep and general regret.] 
 
 Those storied ruins, though mouldering and decayed, 
 
 In beauty matchless are for us arrayed ; 
 
 Their crumbling walls, their pillars falling fast, 
 
 Speak mute and fondly of a golden past. 
 
 An age there was, forgotten now, unknown, 
 
 When held these halls the glory of a throne. 
 
 How silent now ! Their echoes long have slept ; 
 
 Yet, through their chambers wide the strains once swept 
 
 Of deep resounding harp, vibrating long, 
 
 In ringing chords and loud, the victor's song. 
 
 How quiet now, how stilly and how calm! 
 
 'Tis like the peace succeeding some quaint psalm, 
 
 As toned in half-lit cloisters long ago, 
 
 By choir monastic, weirdly faint and slow, 
 
 And yet, these moss-clad columns, tott'ring now, 
 
 Beheld the diadem on prelate's brow, 
 
 Watched the accompaniments of pomp and pride 
 
 That marked the ceremonies of festal tide — 
 
 The mitred prince, with robes begemmed and bright, 
 
 The censers swinging at the sacred rite, 
 
 The serving throng that flaming tapers bore, 
 
 While sage and saint, and prince and priest adore ; 
 
 They heard the anthem swell with varying strain, 
 
182 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Now low, now high, now soft, and hushed again, 
 Now pealing forth, as organ-like and strong, 
 It spoke the numbers of praiseful song; 
 Anon, 'twas plaint and sad, as sorrow's tone 
 The Miserere wafted to the Throne. 
 
 We love those ruins, their turrets and their tow'rs, 
 
 The lonely haunt of many lonely hours ; 
 
 We pass with rev'rent tread the hallowed clay, 
 
 The shrine, it were, where ages' ashes lay. 
 
 In solitude, how sweet to walk the aisle, 
 
 When fancy's fet'ters are unloosed the while, 
 
 Bring back the glories of the olden time 
 
 In visions bright and shape them into rhyme ! 
 
 On many a time and oft the scenes we paint 
 
 Of romance stirring, or of legend quaint; 
 
 Through years of war and woe, of strife and feud, 
 
 Unaltered, save by Time, these walls have stood ; 
 
 Bright days and dark, alike they've lived to know, 
 
 As well the hour of triumph as of woe. 
 
 Waked were they often with the clarion shrill 
 
 Of Erin's septs assembling 'round each hill, 
 
 W T hile from the pinnacle blazed the beacon bright 
 
 Which called the clansman brave and armored knight ; 
 
 And oft the vow they've heard soft whispered paid 
 
 Before the altar of some royal maid. 
 
 In trial and triumph, what our land has been, 
 
 They stand a witness, silent, sad, serene. 
 
 ^ % %. SJS * :|c Jfc ^ }[! ^ ^c 
 
 And oft, where circ'lar window opes to view 
 A landscape, lovely in its every hue, 
 We've stood and mused, enraptured as we thought, 
 And drank the sweet delight the moment brought. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 183 
 
 Below, the abbey, old and gray and hoar, 
 
 Monument and tomb of times and men no more, 
 
 The foreground forms of picture fair to see, 
 
 With meadow, valley, river, hill and tree, 
 
 And here, half-hid, a homestead shown among 
 
 The branching shades that 'round its haggards clung. 
 
 What soothing pleasure, saddening to feel, 
 
 When o'er its face at eve night's shadows steal! 
 
 But, now, 'twas bathed in the sun's soft beams, 
 
 As sinking in the west his parting streams 
 
 The hilltops gilded with a wond'rous glow 
 
 Which varied, ling'ring, e'er he went below. 
 
 'Tis oft we've gazed, grown fonder as we viewed 
 
 The gayer tints replaced by sombre hued. 
 
 'Tis oft we've felt our soul to sadness stray, 
 
 When eve cast on the scene its shroud of gray. 
 
 And oft we've hoped, nor hoped we trust in vain, 
 
 As day departed from that fair domain, 
 
 That peaceful, tranquil, calm, from trouble free, 
 
 The parting' of life's day to us may be. 
 
184 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 HOLY OLD IRELAND. 
 
 [Author Unknown. 
 
 Oh, give me a rifle and let me away, 
 
 To the green fields of holy old Ireland, 
 To Erin Machree for to join in the fray 
 
 For the freedom of holy old Ireland. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 For a rebel am I, from dame nature's old mold 
 And my father was rebel stout, hearty and bold, 
 
 And a rebel I'll be till my body lies cold, 
 In the green fields of holy old Ireland. 
 
 Oh, may the angels of light ever smile from above, 
 On Emmet, Wolfe Tone, and all those that we love, 
 
 We will pray for those sons who unselfishly strove 
 For the freedom of holy old Ireland. 
 
 And if 'mid the storms of battle we will die, 
 
 We will yield up our lives without struggle or sigh, 
 
 If that green banner of England should triumphantly fly, 
 Over the green fields of holy old Ireland. 
 
 Oh, then, make a grave where the bright sunbeams rest, 
 
 Where it will shine o'er my tomb like a smile from the west, 
 
 When my body will be at peace in that Isle I love best, 
 In the green fields of holy old Ireland, 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 185 
 
 FROM THE DREAM OF COLOSSUS. 
 
 By Patrick J. Coleman. 
 
 [Native of Kilcoleman, Mayo County, Ireland. At present on the 
 editorial staff of The Rosary Magazine, Somerset, O.] 
 
 And Gold is lord of the market place and Hate sits throned in the 
 
 tyrant's heart, 
 And Justice veileth her virgin face and shrinks abashed from the 
 
 brawling mart. 
 And Mercy hideth in fens and caves and vultures of force and 
 
 falsehood gnaw 
 The bones that whiten on freemen's graves ; for Wrong is mas- 
 ter and Might is law. 
 But ye who grovel in dust and raise your idols false in the street 
 
 and mart 
 Go! preach your gospel of blood and lust to the sensualists's 
 
 sordid heart! 
 Go forth in the cause of Bond and Stock; the weak despoil in 
 
 the holy name 
 Of the gentle Christ Whom ye scourge and mock and nail each 
 
 day to the cross of shame. 
 Go! force your laws on the heathen blind in the name of Him 
 
 Whom your lives blaspheme! 
 There are other gods than your Saxon kind, there are other 
 
 dreams than your Saxon dream. 
 What prize we today of passionate Greece? A marble torso, a 
 
 temple's frieze. 
 She sleeps with the dead, but her lightning soul outleaps on the 
 
 lips of Demosthenes. 
 
186 
 
 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Who careth now for the kings she quelled? From the mind of 
 
 man they are passed and gone, 
 But the world's true heart is captive yet to the classic grace of 
 
 her Parthenon. 
 Rome's spectre flits with the past's pale ghosts, but her sun-like 
 
 splendors ever shine 
 And we catch the tramp of her haughty hosts in the golden 
 
 thunder of Virgil's line. 
 Her sceptre proud of the seas shall pass, her empire fade like 
 
 a blown-out flame, 
 And England's glory shrink at last to the single star of Shake- 
 speare's name, 
 And her kings shall fail and the towers they pile to shrine their 
 
 fame, and their names be hid 
 With the noteless monarchs who raised by Nile the empty pride 
 
 of the pyramid. 
 For the dead are dead and are soon forgot, but the great deed 
 
 lives, and the hero's name 
 And the poet's dream are the lamps of earth and star the dusk 
 
 of the years with flame. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 187 
 
 WHAT CATHOLICS HAVE DONE FOR AMERICA. 
 
 By J. T. Gallagher, M. D., Charlestown, Mass. 
 
 Men have said and preached and written for a hundred years 
 
 and more, 
 That the Catholics were never an advantage to this shore. 
 
 They have shouted, lay and cleric, of the "patriotic" clan, 
 That America owes nothing to the "Roman" Irishman. 
 
 Come and read our country's story, and behold how they have lied, 
 See how Catholics discovered, and the Irish for her died! 
 
 Lo, Las Casas, famous Pinson, with Columbus in command, 
 Leaving sunny Spain behind them for a visionary land. 
 
 And Americus Vespucius, kneeling at the papal throne, 
 Asking God to bless and guide him in his quest for lands unknown. 
 
 What were they ? I ask the bigots were they Catholics by birth ? 
 Found they not for all God's people, best and greatest land on 
 earth ? 
 
 At what altar prayed the Cabots, great De Soto and Champlain, 
 And the world-renowned Balboa, who first saw the peaceful Main ? 
 
 Ponce de Leon, Varrazani, valiant Cortez and La Salle, 
 Father Marquette, Monk La Carron, who Lake Huron loved so 
 well, 
 
188 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 And the Admiral Magellan, who first sailed the globe around, 
 And Cartier, who Canada and the grand St. Lawrence found? 
 
 Few I name, but they are potent in revealing this broad land 
 From the snow-clad hills of Greenland to the southern polar 
 strand. 
 
 Turn a page, and view the founders of our cities and our States, 
 From Quebec to St. Augustine, onward to the Golden Gates. 
 
 Read the Revolution's story — written by a truthful hand — 
 See the Catholics who suffered and the outer ramparts manned. 
 
 At Long Island, Trenton, Princeton, Brandywine and German- 
 town, 
 
 Monmouth, Moultrie and Point Stoney, Valley Forge of sad 
 renown. 
 
 And whose blood bedewed each valley and encrimsoned every 
 rill, 
 
 From the banks of Yorktown River back to blood-stained Bun- 
 ker Hill. 
 
 Who was founder of our navy in those dark and doubtful days ? 
 Will Jack Barry and McDonough ever win the bigot's praise? 
 
 Know they not that sons of Patrick, who it seems they cannot 
 
 bear, 
 Saved our Washington and army from starvation and despair? 
 
 Do they know that "Romish" Poland, "Popish" Spain and "Pa- 
 pist" France, 
 
 Sent their ships to aid our struggle — warlike men with gleam- 
 ing lance? 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 189 
 
 Have they heard of great Pulaski, Rochambeau and Lafayette, 
 The immortal Kosciusko, whose fame's sun shall never set. 
 
 Gallant Moylan, and O'Brien; Carroll, he whose noble hand 
 Signed the scroll of Independence on behalf of Maryland. 
 
 And the thousand other brave men, who fought well for Free- 
 dom's Chart, 
 
 And whose names and deeds are graven on the Nation's grate- 
 ful heart? 
 
 And, again in the Rebellion! Lo, the records brave and bright 
 Of the fearless sons of Erin in the awful bloody fight. 
 
 At Fair Oaks and Lookout Mountain, Gettysburg of deathless 
 
 fame; 
 Shiloh, Corinth and Antietam — Glory yet delights in name. 
 
 And at Vicksburg — dogged stronghold — they charged through 
 
 shot and shell 
 Till the rebels ran before them as from out the muoth of hell. 
 
 Heard they of heroic Meagher, dashing Sheridan and Shields, 
 Dauntless Corcoran, Phil Kearney, hero of Chantilly's fields. 
 
 But why thus pursue the story of the Catholics' high deeds ; 
 It is simply wasting paper, for the bigot never reads. 
 
190 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 LEITRIM, AWAKE 
 
 By Patrick Kane. 
 
 Arise, brave men of Leitrim, with your countrymen arise, 
 Hurrah today for freedom! fling your banner to the skies. 
 Unite in Ireland's holy cause, and swear both one and all 
 To free the land that bore you, from Cape Clear to Donegal. 
 
 Come from the hills of Ballinamore, from Fenagh's verdant vales, 
 From Morrill, Cloone and Newtowngore, from Carrick's green- 
 clad dales, 
 From Carrigallen, Camber, Sunachmore and Mullaghbawn, 
 And bring your rifles with you, boys, to greet the rising dawn. 
 
 From Dromad, Kesh and Drumsna to Breffny of renown ; 
 From Drumlee and Kiltyclogher, and Drumkeeran's ancient 
 
 town; 
 Killeshandra and Drumshambo will not be far behind 
 When Erin's flag of green and gold is fluttering in the wind. 
 
 Assemble in your thousands, determined every man 
 To take your place as freemen should in freedom's holy van ! 
 To fight to guard the guerdon left you by your fathers when 
 They fought and died to leave to you the heritage of men. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 191 
 
 Remember stormy ninety-eight, Lord Edward's cruel death; 
 And brave young Emmet's dying words, when, with his latest 
 
 breath, 
 He said no stone should mark his grave until his land was free ; 
 Then up, arise, and strike one blow again for liberty. 
 
 To the great, good God above us we lowly bend the knee. 
 O God, our Father, hear us ; for we've always trusted Thee ; 
 Grant our long-divided people union, strength and love, to guide 
 Us on the day our ranks are found on freedom's winning side. 
 October 9, 1886. 
 
192 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 THE HILLS OF IRELAND. 
 
 By P. G. Smyth. 
 
 The emerald hills of Ireland 
 
 In the glory of summer days, 
 Under the blue of heaven 
 
 Basking in purple haze, 
 When the whitehorn's scent comes floating 
 
 And the gold of the furze bloom gleams- 
 The beautiful hills of Ireland, 
 
 They haunt our tenderest dreams. 
 
 The bleak, bare hills of Ireland — 
 
 Oh, hard is the peasant's toil 
 That grubs for a poorest living 
 
 In pockets of poorest soil ! 
 God and the gray rocks know it, 
 
 Their misery, want and woe, 
 Who were chased to those stony deserts 
 
 From the rich, fair fields below. 
 
 The terrible hills of Ireland 
 
 When the shades of eviction fall, 
 When up through the slushy boreen 
 
 Come sheriff and peelers and all, 
 And out in the wild, wet weather 
 
 The starving family's thrown — 
 Oh, those terrible hills of Ireland 
 
 And the mournful scenes they've known! 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 193 
 
 Yet, dear, dear hills of Ireland, 
 
 Be your skies of gray or blue, 
 From far away, this Patrick's Day, 
 
 Our love we send to you. 
 Be your fairies of good or evil 
 
 To bless or to ban the place, , 
 
 Fortress homes of the Gael, 
 
 Still manned by the good old race; 
 Be your joys of an earthly heaven 
 
 Or your woes of an earthly hell, 
 A health to you, hills of Ireland, 
 
 And ye true hearts there that dwell! 
 Chicago, St. Patrick's Day, 1908. 
 
194 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 THE GOBLIN DANCE AT CORRIGA CROSSROADS. 
 
 By Rev. James Keegan. 
 
 When midnight spreads her darksome cope 
 And no fair star's faint beam of hope 
 
 From heaven brings joy to earth. 
 Unholy sprites from realms accurst, 
 From ruins and tombs in legion burst, 
 
 To hold unhallowed mirth. 
 
 To Corriga's high and mist-capped hill, 
 Ill-famed of yore for deeds of ill, 
 
 They come from east and west. 
 Uncouth and wild — a horrid show — 
 To drown the memory of their woe 
 
 In fiendish fun unblest. 
 
 Some come as men in robes of red, 
 As living flame from foot to head, 
 
 Eternal misery's weed; 
 As women, some in gowns of blue — 
 Of fire that wraps and pierces them through, 
 
 Their flesh the fuel to feed. 
 
 They meet upon the crossroads wide, 
 The cross they trample in their pride, 
 
 To trample on again. 
 With lurid fires they light the night, 
 The mockery of their past delight, 
 
 Augmenting more their pain. 
 
REV. JAMES KEEGAN 
 
 REV. MICHAEL SMYTH 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 195 
 
 What mortal e'er hath looked upon, 
 That sight unseen by any sun, 
 
 Life holds for him small bliss ; 
 The tone of woe ne'er leaves his voice, 
 His heart unlearneth to rejoice, 
 
 He lives as one amiss. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 IN MEMORY OF FATHER KEEGAN. 
 
 By Patrick Kane. 
 
 The news is sad just sent to me, 
 From dearest friends across the sea, 
 That one whose love and memory 
 
 I ever shall revere. 
 Whose life on earth gave all delight, 
 The poet, priest and scholar bright, 
 Is lying low this very night, 
 
 For him I shed a tear. 
 
 Dear Father James, now in the tomb, 
 You're laid to slumber in your bloom, 
 Across the sea in ancient Cloone, 
 
 Where I spent many a day. 
 And the clear old friends who loved you best, 
 With broken hearts laid you to rest 
 In that lone tomb forever blest 
 
 On which the sunbeams play. 
 
 Poor wandering exiles, forced to flee 
 From dear old Ireland, o'er the sea, 
 Will offer up their prayers for thee 
 
 In this great land of the west. 
 For like a spotless virgin flower, 
 You were taken in your youthful hour 
 To decorate the heavenly bower 
 
 Of Him who loved you best. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 197 
 
 The moon for aye may roam the sky 
 And cast her silvery glances sly 
 Around the plains wherein you lie 
 
 To illuminate the gloom. 
 And the winds of heaven, night and day, 
 May all their mournful music play 
 Amid the stones so grim and gray 
 
 That mark your silent tomb. 
 
 But bleeding Erin, mother dear, 
 Your memory shall for time revere, 
 Because^you loved her most sincere 
 
 In thought and word and deed. 
 And on her honored scroll of fame 
 In lettered gold shall place your name, 
 Though alien lordly robbers claim 
 
 Your native hills unfreed. 
 
 And long your bright poetic pen 
 
 She shall guide poor Erin's faithful men 
 
 And show them they can freedom win 
 
 If they stand firm and true. 
 While with heart and soul and hand 
 We'll pray for you and motherland 
 Until we meet on the Golden Strand, 
 
 Dear Father James, adieu. 
 
198 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 MY WANDERER. 
 
 By Maude Healy. 
 
 Wanderer of the World, come home ! 
 A peat fire glows in Maeve's houseeen. 
 The red sun lights the amber sky ; 
 
 1 run the length of Maeve's boreen, 
 And look to your lost ship and cry. 
 
 O Wanderer of the World, come back ! 
 The candles glimmer through the pane ; 
 The white moon rises like a soul, 
 But newly purged of earth's red stain, 
 While I in crimson, clinging robes 
 Stretch out my empty arms in vain. 
 Black clouds across the white moon roll, 
 But red fires in Maeve's houseen burn, 
 O Wanderer of the World, return ! 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 199 
 
 THE IRISH RECORD. 
 
 By Mary E. Blake. 
 
 Who casts a slur on Irish worth, a stain on Irish fame ? 
 Who dreads to own his Irish blood, or wear his Irish name ; 
 Who scorns the warmth of Irish hearts, the clasp of Irish hands ? 
 Let us but raise the veil tonight and shame him where he stands. 
 
 The Irish Fame ! it rests enshrined within its own proud light ; 
 Wherever sword or tongue or pen has fashioned deed of might. 
 From battle charge at Fontenoy to Grattan's thunder tone, 
 It holds its storied past on 'high unrivaled and alone. 
 
 The Irish blood ! its crimson tide has watered hill and plain, 
 Where'er were wrongs to crush or freeman's rights to gain. 
 No dastard thought, no coward fear, has held it tamely by 
 When there were noble deeds to do or noble deaths to die. 
 
 The Irish heart ! the Irish heart ! God keep it fair and free — 
 The fullness of its kindly thought, its wealth of honest glee, 
 Its glorious strength, its ardent faith, its uncomplaining trust — 
 Though every worshiped idol breaks and crumbles into dust. 
 
 The Irish hands ! Aye, lift them up embrowned by honest toil — 
 The champions of this western world, the guardians of its soil! 
 When flashed their battle swords aloft a waiting world might see 
 What Irish hands could do and dare to keep a nation free. 
 
200 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 They bore our starry flag above, through bastion, gate and wall ; 
 They stood before the foremost rank, the bravest of them all ; 
 And when before the cannon's mouth they held the foe at bay, 
 Oh, never could old Ireland's heart beat louder than that day. 
 
 So when a craven fain would hide the birthmark of his race, 
 Or slightly speak of Erin's sons before her children's face, 
 Breathe no weak word of shame or scorn, but crush him where 
 
 he stands, 
 With Irish worth and Irish fame as won by Irish hands ! 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 201 
 
 ON VINEGAR HILL. 
 
 By P. G. Smyth. 
 
 [The fight at Enniscorthy, by Leinster peasants against trained and 
 overwhelming British forces, was one of the most notable events in the 
 Wexford insurrection of 1798. Descendants of the participants in the 
 struggle are numerous in Chicago, including John J. Coburn, the well- 
 known lawyer, and Nicholas J. Sinnott, prominent in commercial circles.] 
 
 Blaze the guns round Vinegar Hill, 
 
 Freedom's sons with their flame surrounding, 
 Musketry's roar and trumpet shrill 
 
 The doom of the insurrection surrounding, 
 Tyranny's cohorts, rank on rank, 
 
 And — noblest sight for the world to see — 
 Brave men, circled from front to flank, 
 
 All willing to die for liberty. 
 
 Father Clinch from his saddle falls, 
 
 Fencible blood from his saber streaming, 
 Against the gray old windmill's walls, 
 
 The glow of the hostile lightning gleaming. 
 , Against the base of the grim, great mound 
 
 Fierce beat the waves of that scarlet sea, 
 While patriot guns preach the gospel sound — 
 
 Dearer than life is liberty. 
 
 Coburn and Neville undaunted stand 
 
 Hurling rocks on the charging yeomen; 
 
 While Sinnott, with gory pike in hand 
 Havoc makes 'mid the Hessian foemen, 
 
202 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 And gallant thousands rally and bleed, 
 Shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee, 
 
 Writing in crimson their Irish creed — 
 Sweeter than life is liberty. 
 
 But coward Butcher General Lake 
 
 Has fired the roofs that the wounded cover, 
 Through "Needham's gap" his fencibles take 
 
 Courage on track of the brave to hover. 
 Pass the heroes to honored graves 
 
 On stony slope or on daisied lea, 
 'Neath yeomen's bullets or Hessians' glaives, 
 
 Hearts all silent, but souls all free. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 203 
 
 DREAMLAND. 
 
 By Anna Cecilia Doyle. 
 
 Once I dwelt in dreamland, 
 And every day was fair, 
 The sun was always shining, 
 There was no sorrow there. 
 
 The sun of love was shining 
 
 I see its glory yet, 
 
 And my heart grows sick with longing, 
 
 With longing and regret. 
 
 once I dwelt in dreamland, 
 And gladly I'd return, 
 
 For those I dearly love there 
 Oft times how I yearn. 
 
 Their faces rise before me 
 In the crowded city street, 
 
 1 hear their voices calling, 
 And the sound is passing sweet. 
 
 Now, I am an exile, 
 And I know that land no more, 
 But some day I'll go back there 
 And be happy as before. 
 
204 RHYME 'WITH REASON 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 By James E. McDade. 
 
 A poet dreamt a dream so frail, 
 
 So flowery-fragile, and so fair, 
 , Well might his raptured soul despair 
 To paint such glories ere they pale. 
 
 About him adamantine towers, 
 
 Proud pyramids, and walls of brass 
 Sublimely watched the ages pass, 
 
 Rock-based against the fleeting hours. 
 
 Those towers, a thousand years agone, 
 
 Time's flood engulfed; but that frail dream 
 Blooms on the bosom of the stream 
 
 Like dew-pearled lotus in the dawn. 
 
RHYME WITT! REASON 205 
 
 THE WOODS OF WISCONSIN. 
 
 By P. G. Smyth. 
 
 A feverish heat in the heart of the city, 
 
 A wan, haggard hue on the faces that pass; 
 The whip of necessity cracks without pity, 
 
 And Business, the slave-driver, urges the mass. 
 Poor atoms that drift on life's turbulent river 
 
 'Mid hearts that are hardened and feelings that freeze, 
 Oh, were we but once in 
 The woods of Wisconsin 
 How sweetly we'd rest 'neath the shade of the trees! 
 
 Not here the grand freedom that Nature is craving, 
 Not here the grand peace that is balm to the soul, 
 With grinding and grasping, with striving and saving, 
 
 With days grey and sordid and nights dark with dole ; 
 But oh, for blue lakes amid tall forests glowing, 
 The fragrance of pines on the health-giving breeze — 
 Ay, were we but once in 
 The woods of Wisconsin 
 What joy would be ours 'neath the shade of the trees! 
 
 While hot demon breath sends the fetid dust whirling, 
 
 And fierce beats the sun on humanity's hives, 
 The slime of the city is seething and swirling 
 . In lungs and in livers, in hearts and in lives. 
 Dear heart-healing balsam that floats in the forest, 
 
206 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Beloved woodland air, wafting solace and ease, 
 We wooed you when once in 
 The woods of Wisconsin 
 We dwelt in delight 'neath the stately old trees. 
 
 Thus ever we sigh with a passionate praying 
 
 To leave the dull streets for the sun-dappled sward, 
 Where murmuring pines in the summer wind swaying, 
 
 Sound like the sweet soothing voice of the Lord. 
 For there dwelleth purity, rapture and beauty, 
 The soul to invigor, the heart to appease — 
 'Twas thus we found once in 
 The woods of Wisconsin 
 A Fountain of Life 'neath the shade of the trees ! 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 2l)7 
 
 A DREAM OF ERIN. 
 
 By Thomas O'Hagan. 
 
 I dreamt a dream, 'twas Ireland seen 
 
 In distant years beyond, 
 Enthron'd and crown'd a beautous queen 
 
 Earth's idol cherish'd fond, — 
 And nations pass'd before her 
 
 And courtiers grac'd her halls, 
 And the song of Mirth and Freedom 
 
 Prov'd her battlement and walls. 
 
 The wounds and scars of olden days 
 
 Had left her maiden brow, 
 And manly hearts stood by her side, 
 
 And swords spoke of a vow — 
 That Ireland, dear old Ireland, 
 
 Should forevermore be free, 
 And her patriot sons in union 
 
 Drive the Saxon o'er the sea. 
 
 I saw the Shannon pour along 
 
 In joyous accents clear, 
 Its tide of music sweet and strong — 
 
 Each wave was filled with cheer; 
 And hast'ning on in proud acclaim 
 
 Swept Barrow, Suir and Lee; 
 For a nation's heart was throbbing 
 
 In each wavelet to the sea. 
 
208 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 land of woe and sorrow, 
 
 When shall come the vision bright? 
 When shall beam a glad tomorrow ? 
 When shall fade thy starless night? 
 
 1 have watched and waited for thee, 
 I have hoped for thee in fear, 
 
 I have caught thy ray of sunshine 
 Through the ocean of a tear. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 209 
 
 IN MEMORY OF A FRIEND. 
 
 By Patrick Kane. 
 
 [Dedicated to the memory of my late room mate and brother in Ire- 
 land's cause, Michael B. Ryan, son of James P. Ryan, parish of Bulga- 
 den, County Limerick, Ireland.] 
 
 Oh, Michael dear how fast, how fast 
 Your hour has come, your life is past, 
 And now I know you're gone at last 
 
 To slumber in the clay. 
 While in the silence of my room 
 I trace your shadow in its gloom 
 And pray for you, now in the tomb 
 
 Each weary night and day. 
 
 Ah me, how strange this room has grown 
 Since you hath left me here alone 
 To miss your sweet, melodious tone 
 
 In songs of Ireland; 
 To read the books, to think and pause 
 Of how you loved poor Ireland's cause, 
 And swore to drive the brutal laws 
 
 Of England from our land. 
 
 To think upon the joys we've had, 
 The arguments that made you mad 
 'Bout Irish leaders, good and bad 
 
 That oft gave hope and cheer; 
 But death relieved you from such care, 
 And in this room so lone and drear 
 I'll kneel and for thee say a prayer 
 
 Blest with a silent tear. 
 
210 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Oh, had you died on Irish soil 
 
 Where shamrocks green would o'er you smile, 
 
 And tender friends would love and toil 
 
 To dress your grave alone 
 Amid proud Limerick's green clad dales, 
 Where Sarsfield and his Clan-na-Gaels 
 Drove the brutal Saxon from the vales 
 
 Of historic Garryowen. 
 
 But alas! dear faithful friend, you're laid, 
 'Mid Calvary's cold and gloomy shade, 
 And your silent grave the strangers made 
 
 Far from your native shore; 
 But Michael, dear, I'll pray for thee, 
 No matter where on earth I'll be, 
 Until we meet in heaven free; 
 
 Good-bye, dear Mike, asthore. 
 
Rhyme with Season 211 
 
 TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 By Patrick Kane. 
 
 the memory of my mother, Anne Keegan Kane, who died 
 June 6, 1880.] 
 
 When some are gone to quiet rest, 
 And memories sad remain my guest, 
 I think of those who loved me best, 
 
 Across the ocean's spray. 
 Of some who now are slumbering cold, 
 In Cloone's dear graveyard, bleak and old, 
 Where dearest friends have turned to mold 
 
 In consecrated clay. 
 
 Oh, mother, in your youthful bloom, 
 You died and left your home in gloom ; 
 Why did you leave it so — so soon — 
 
 Your absence to deplore? 
 You were the nearest friend to me, 
 The dearest earthly friend could be; 
 Oh ! may I meet you pure and free 
 
 On heaven's golden shore. 
 
 Then to my father's humble home, 
 My silent thoughts do slowly roam, 
 And dwell upon them sad and lone, 
 
 In that secluded place. 
 How brave he struggles heart and hand, 
 To hold his own against a band 
 Whose wrecks and plunders o'er the land, 
 
 Are visible to trace. 
 
212 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Then thoughts of those old neighbors kind, 
 I brightly treasure in my mind, 
 God grant that I may live to find, 
 
 Those people kind and true. 
 When yet I hope that I shall pay 
 A visit on some future day, 
 And with them all to pass away, 
 
 A pleasant month or two. 
 
 Alas! those thoughts of home and friends, 
 My soul with sorrow slowly rends, 
 Just like the blooming rose that sends, 
 
 Its fragrance through the air. 
 J burst with griefs that overflow, 
 Then down on bended knees I go, 
 And for those dear ones lying low, 
 
 I say my silent prayer. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 213 
 
 TO A LOVED ONE IN ERIN. 
 
 By Patrick Kane. 
 
 Bright are the heather blossoms on old Gubnisthacawn, 
 Bright are the blooming flowers spread over the dewy lawn. 
 But brighter still than blooming rose, and fairer far to me, 
 Is she, who lives in Leitrim, in Erin, o'er the sea. 
 
 She's more modest than the violets that in the meadows grow; 
 She's purer than the rippling streams that by those valleys flow, 
 The mellow music of her voice, her brown and flowing hair 
 Inspired my heart to love but her, the fairest of the fair. 
 
 The memories of the rustic bridge, the old and shady lane, 
 Where oft I've met this dearest one as home from school she 
 
 came. 
 How sweet the blushes veiled her face, as there by chance we met, 
 Just like the hue upon a rose with dew of morning wet. 
 
 I love her still, through good and ill, my heart can never change, 
 Although I've roamed through many lands, through prairie and 
 
 through range, 
 And to her still my heart appeals in quest of sweet repose, 
 That yet beside this dearest one my life on earth may close. 
 
 I love the vales where first she trod in childhood's pleasant glee, 
 I love the land that gave her birth, I hope to see it free; 
 I love the streamlet by her home, where often I've been told 
 That leprechauneen fairies guard the hidden crocks of gold. 
 Written 1885. 
 
214 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 IN THE LAP OF THE BOG. 
 
 By Cahir Healy. 
 
 Weary was I of the clamor and rush of the town, 
 
 Of its lies and its sins and seductions, its walls of brown, 
 
 And its squalid dreams. 
 And my soul was athirst for the gold-starred brae, 
 The cabin, rose-grown, and the heather in May; 
 
 The glint of weeny streams. 
 
 Strained were my ears for the swish of the wind in the grass, 
 The rapture of fiddling, the songs of the sidhe that pass 
 
 On their steeds of fog; 
 And the tales by the fire, and the laugh and the tear, 
 Where reigneth not gold nor the devil, — out here 
 
 In the lap o' the bog. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 215 
 
 THE AMERICAN CITIZEN. 
 
 By Eugene Davis. 
 
 [The writer, a native of Clonakilty, County Cork, after studying some 
 time in France for the priesthood, was a friend and companion of the 
 Fenian Head Centre, James Stephens, with whom he was excluded from 
 France at the instance of the British government by a servile French cab- 
 inet that directly afterwards met its downfall. After traveling extensively 
 in Europe, he became a member of the staff of The Dublin Nation. He 
 was an able, graceful and copious writer. He died some years ago in 
 Brooklyn, N. Y.] 
 
 He boasts no tawdry garter, no coat of arms, nor crest, 
 
 No ribbon of a royal guild is flaunting from his breast; 
 
 He cannot point to pedigrees grown gray with age and dim-- 
 
 To be a son of Adam is quite good enough for him! 
 
 No titled prig, no dude is he, for since his race began 
 
 He is what God meant him to be — he's every inch a man ! 
 
 A man with proud, unfettered soul of aspirations high, 
 
 And chainless as the eagle bird whose palace is the sky; 
 
 Strong and undaunted as the rock that breasts the angry foam. 
 
 Equality his citadel and liberty his home. 
 
 His birthright is his charter — he bows before no throne, 
 
 He serves no earthly master — he kneels to God alone ! 
 
 Yet what a scepter he doth yield ! He holds within his hand 
 A staff of gold that makes him king and sovereign of the land. 
 He hews the pines, he plows the fields, he fructifies the soil, 
 And builds a gran'ry for the grain that groweth from his toil; 
 And with the wealth thus treasured up from busy day to day, 
 Erect of gait and resolute, he goes his missioned way. 
 
216 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Progress and peace his destined goal and work his sacred creed, 
 He lifts the world to higher heights by thought and word and 
 
 deed! 
 "Old Glory" floating o'er his head, its flagstaff strong as death, 
 Held firmly in his grawny hand — more valued than his breath, 
 He marches on with rapid step, forever in the van — 
 This peerless knight of humankind— THE TRUE AMERICAN J 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 217 
 
 AN IRISH WAR SONG. 
 
 By Patrick Kane. 
 
 [Written Feb. 3, 1887, in New York City, when Ireland was at the 
 mercy of the land thieves and eviction made men desperate.] 
 
 Oh, look on bleeding motherland, behold the savage crew 
 Of plundering pirate landlords, who the Irish race pursue. 
 Through centuries of blood and tears, through ages red with gore, 
 They've murdered and evicted us and drove us from our shore. 
 
 And shall we keep appealing still upon the bended knee? 
 No ; moral force can never free that land across the sea. 
 The bayonet, bomb, the cannon's roar, the shock of dynamite 
 Will teach those plundering robbers that Irishmen can fight. 
 
 Behold those swarming vipers in their coats of cruel red, 
 With bailiffs and informers, destruction far to spread. 
 Through ruined Irish homesteads they scatter giref and woe — 
 Now God Almighty help our race and mercy to us show. 
 
 Think of the Dublin martyrs, all murdered in their prime, 
 The perjury that butchered Allen, Larkin and O'Brien. 
 The blood of noble Emmet, Lord Edward and Wolfe Tone, 
 Of Barrett and O'Donnell, lies red at Britain's throne. • 
 
 The land is ours ; then up, arise, and guard the blessed sod 
 In memory of the heroes who bravely o'er it trod, 
 In memory of our fathers' bones, now mouldering in the clay, 
 In memory of our plundered land in agony today. 
 
218 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Then cursed be the lordly crew, their bailiffs and their spies, 
 And every grabbing ruffian, no matter where he lies. 
 Old Lowther and Lord Leitrim and all those vipers vile, 
 Come, speed the day when we will drive those reptiles from 
 our isle. 
 
 Arise, arise, oh noble friends, no matter where you be, 
 Let creed and faction stand aside, strike home for liberty ; 
 Let's rally round the old green flag and amid the cannon's roar, 
 The sword alone must free our land, now and forever more. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 219 
 
 WE'LL SING OF IRELAND. 
 
 [This and the following song, published by request, were favorites 
 of the late John Dowling, of Chicago, whose untimely demise was a 
 cause of general sorrow.] 
 
 "A Song!" cried each bright-eyed fellow. 
 
 "Now what shall we sing about? 
 Shall we sing of the bounding billows, 
 
 Of battlefield or of rout, 
 Of foreign fields where freedom wields 
 
 Her sword in the deadly fray? 
 No! we'll sing of thee, dear Ireland, 
 
 Three thousand miles away. 
 
 We'll sing of the sunny meadows 
 
 And we'll sing of the flowing streams, 
 Of the glens that sleep in shadows 
 
 That haunt us in our dreams. 
 Of the dancing rills and the high green hills 
 
 And the fields we ne'er may see. 
 Then here's to the fields of Ireland 
 
 With a hearty three times three. 
 
 "We'll sing of the great departed 
 
 And the valleys where they lie, 
 The true and the fearless-hearted 
 
 Who taught men how to die; 
 And every man of every class 
 
 We'll guard his memory, 
 Who died on the green hills fighting 
 
 For Ireland's liberty. 
 
220 
 
 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 "Then fill your glasses cheering 
 
 And drain your goblets dry 
 To the men who died for Erin, 
 
 To those who yet may die 
 'Neath prison bars or 'neath the stars, 
 
 In camp or garden gay — 
 We'll sing of thee, Gra Gal Machree, 
 
 Three thousand miles away." 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 221 
 
 FOR FREEDOM AND FOR ERIN. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 Thank God at last the day is past 
 
 For begging and beseeching, 
 And bugle notes now take the place 
 
 Of orators and speeching. 
 The busy camp, the soldiers' tramp, 
 
 Instead of senseless cheering, 
 And men to dare — to do and die 
 
 For Freedom and for Erin. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Then march away with banners gay, 
 Brave hearts that know no fearing, 
 
 And let our foes reel 'neath our blows 
 For Freedom and for Erin. 
 
 Too long we've prayed and begged for aid 
 
 In shameful degradation; 
 Our own withheld their paltry pelf 
 
 That might redeem their nation; 
 But unsubdued by field and flood 
 
 The dauntless hearts appearing 
 To fight our fathers' good old fights 
 
 For Freedom and for Erin. 
 
222 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Oh, comrades, who would dare and do 
 
 Brave souls sublime, undaunted, 
 The day of trial is at hand 
 
 When souls like yours are wanted; 
 Your rifles shine, fall into line, 
 
 The old green flag uprearing, 
 Send forth the cry who fears to die 
 
 For Freedom and for Erin! 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 m 
 
 MISSING. 
 
 By Annie F. Kinsella. 
 
 My childhood's haunts today I view, 
 The old farmhouse around, 
 
 And memories sweet of bygone days 
 Are breathing from the ground. 
 
 The blackbird sways upon the bough, 
 The rose hangs on the thorn, 
 
 And balmy as a maiden's breath 
 The air of summer morn. 
 
 The robin's song is just as blithe, 
 And, borne on zephyrs warm, 
 The clover's scent is still as sweet — 
 But ah, one vanished charm! 
 
 A gentle face, a form of light, 
 Long passed to calm repose; 
 
 Kind Nature ne'er renewed her bloom- 
 She vanished with the rose. 
 
224: RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 THE EXILES FROM MAYO. 
 
 By Andrew Kenny. 
 
 [Dedicated to the Mayo Men's Benevolent Association of Chicago.] 
 
 Hail, Motherland, the endless stream 
 
 Of exiles from thy shore, 
 For long has been the fertile theme 
 
 Of song and speech galore. 
 Since Brendan and Saint Columbkille 
 
 To oceans turned the pro/ 
 Of them we boast, tonight we toast 
 
 The exiles from Mayo. 
 
 At parting we have seen thee weep 
 
 Thy pilgrims to all lands, 
 Where footprints they have graven deep 
 
 On Time's historic sands. 
 But weep no more, the worst is o'er, 
 
 For whether joy or woe, 
 No cause for shame, regret or blame 
 
 Has Ireland for Mayo. 
 
 Our absence has intensified, 
 
 Since from thee we did part, 
 The love for thee that shall abide 
 
 While beats each loyal heart. 
 We meet tonight, far from thy sight, 
 
 Our hearts are all aglow, 
 We drain the glass and sing the lass 
 
 From the County of Mayo. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 225 
 
 And speak of each distinguished son, 
 
 Of soldier, patriot, sage; 
 Whose names an honored place have won, 
 
 On History's brightest page ; 
 They served thee well, as all can tell, 
 
 And battled with thy foe, 
 Twined with the fame of each bright name, 
 
 Proud memories of Mayo. 
 
 The last proud Queen of Innisfail 
 
 Our County people boast, 
 When Granuaile did galleys sail 
 
 'Round Mayo's rugged coast. 
 There at Clew Bay, in grand array, 
 
 Three hundred years ago, 
 None dared gainsay her royal sway, 
 
 Famed Sea Queen of Mayo. 
 
 When Humbert brought his troops from France, 
 
 To pay the debt long due, 
 Bold Mayo men with pike and lance 
 
 To Ireland's cause were true. 
 The strife began, the yeomen ran, 
 
 As swift as forest roe ; 
 From Castlebar were chased afar 
 
 The redcoats from Mayo. 
 
 Mayo's great sons, George Henry Moore 
 
 And Father Pat Lavelle, 
 First raised the cry 'gainst landlord's rule, 
 
 The Land League rung its knell; 
 Naught could withstand Mayo's demand: 
 
 The landlords all must go 
 And free the soil for those who toil 
 
 In Ireland and Mayo. 
 
226 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Among the patriarchs of old 
 
 Stands high thy honored name; 
 McHale, "The Lion of the Fold," 
 
 Undying is thy fame. 
 Linked with the Moses of his race, 
 
 Nemesis to thy foe, 
 Davitt, who's laid in ancient Strade, 
 
 Adds lustre to Mayo. 
 
 In Ireland's roll of marytr dead, 
 
 The last who won the crown ; 
 With halos circling 'round each head, 
 
 Was Nally from Rockstown. 
 To Heaven on high their blood does cry, 
 
 For vengeance on the foe, 
 Whose blighting breath brought grief and death 
 
 To Ireland and Mayo. 
 
 All hail to thee, historic spot, 
 
 Blest be all Irish earth ; 
 Perish his name who honors not 
 
 The land that gave him birth. 
 In unity, and charity, 
 
 To all except the foe, 
 We'll prove that we shall worthy be, 
 
 Of Ireland and Mayo. 
 
 6730 Lowe Ave., Chicago. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 227 
 
 IN MEMORIAM, JOHN F. FINERTY. 
 
 By Joe Fogarty. 
 
 Erin, call your children from the four ends of the earth, 
 Tell them softly, gently, to cease their joy and mirth, 
 To don the sad black crape, the sable badge of grief, 
 For death has called and taken Ireland's greatest chief. 
 John Finerty, the honest man, the noblest of them all, 
 Is numbered with the honored dead, he's now beyond recall; 
 That voice is stilled forever, that thousands loved to hear, 
 That manly form is vanished that thrilled with hope and cheer. 
 
 With fear our foes oft trembled at the mention of his name, 
 
 Whilst Irish cheers a million fold attestified his fame; 
 
 A hero on the firing line, an orator in the hall, 
 
 A true man always ready to answer freedom's call, 
 
 Fluent and keen his mighty pen, in voicing Erin's cause, 
 
 Untiring in his constant fight against oppressive laws. 
 
 No braver son had Ireland to wield both sword and pen, 
 
 And in defense of Erin's rights he'd face ten thousand men. 
 
 The landlord class he did assail, with Charles Stewart Parnell, 
 With vigor and with vehemence he tolled their funeral knell; 
 He lived to see them vanish like snow before hot rain, 
 Usurping breed of shoneens, spawn of a vicious reign; 
 For Ireland, all for Ireland, was his slogan night and day, 
 With hands upraised and ready he always sought the fray. 
 With Redmond for Home Rule he kept fighting manfully, 
 He told the Saxon hypocrites that Ireland must be free. 
 
228 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Death, cruel death, assailed him in sight of freedom's goal, 
 And a nation's tears bewail him, with grief beyond control ; 
 Ireland will ne'er forget the noble work he's done, 
 Whilst Galway with heartrending keen laments her favorite son ; 
 Our church has lost a pillar, too, bold, stern, stout and strong — 
 He stood beside her priests and nuns 'gainst prejudice and wrong. 
 "By force," he said, "we're not subdued, but by another means — 
 Disunion is the weapon that keeps intact our chains. 
 
 "Then let us all be soldiers in this fight for liberty ; 
 With shouts of joy we'll rend the skies when motherland is free." 
 Such was the watchword of the chief that we lament today, 
 A soldier's place his sole desire, in the midst of all the fray. 
 He fought uphill for native land, with courage all his own, 
 And long with love he strove to place dear Banba on her throne. 
 He shed light on Saxon ways, with his trustry, strong X-ray, 
 He unmasked them before the world in the clear, bright light 
 of day. 
 
 Poor Ireland has a champion lost, her swordsman is no more, 
 A wave of grief a mountain high has swept the Shamrock shore. 
 He's parted with this world of woe, has bowed to death's decree, 
 But in spirit he'll be with us in our fight for liberty. 
 His life works should a model be for every Irish heart, 
 And Erin's chains will crumble when each man does his part. 
 'Twixt tears and sobs my feeble pen indites his elegy — 
 May the joys of heaven be thine, John, forever in eternity. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 229 
 
 THE UNITED THIRTY-TWO COUNTIES AND ALL 
 TRUE IRISHMEN. 
 
 By Patrick Kane. 
 
 (Air— "Red, White and Blue.") 
 
 Oh, Ireland; dear Ireland, my darling, 
 
 Arise from your slumber once more. 
 Let the war cry of freedom give warning, 
 
 That tyrants must fly from thy shore. 
 You have fought them through cruel coercion, 
 
 The Famine, the Scaffold, the Grave; 
 Now burst the foul bonds of oppression, 
 
 Away with each hireling and slave. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Then hurrah, for the brave sons of Erin, 
 Who surround valiant Redmond today, 
 
 May their hearts be undaunted and daring, 
 Till they sweep the land-tyrants away. 
 
 Men of Leitrim, Fermanagh and Derry, 
 
 Louth, Cavan and brave Donegal. 
 Dear Longford, brave Waterford and Kerry, 
 
 Respond to the great leader's call. 
 Old Dublin, Westmeath and brave Sligo; 
 
 Tyrone, the great land of O'Neill, 
 Antrim, Kilkenny and Carlow, 
 
 March forth to John Redmond's appeal. 
 
230 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Now, Armagh, King's County and Mayo, 
 
 Limerick, Queen's County and Clare, 
 Roscommon, Wexford and Wicklow, 
 
 Join the soul of Wolfe Tone in Kildare; 
 Meath, Monaghan and Galway, so glorious, 
 
 With Tipperary, that never was afraid, 
 And from Cork to New York rings the chorus, 
 
 Away with the tyrant brigade. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 231 
 
 HURRAH FOR THE MOLLY MAGUIRES! 
 
 By M. Keating. 
 
 [A peasant woman at Ullster, named Molly Maguire, was successfully- 
 defended by friendly neighbors against Orange persecution. The de- 
 fenders formed a secret organization for the protection of their homes 
 and families. This organization, spreading, took the name of "the Molly 
 MagUires" and eventually became The Ancient Order of Hibernians 
 (Board of Erin). The society took an active part against William 
 O'Brien in the late Munster elections, during which the following was 
 circulated as a campaign ditty.] 
 
 (Air— "The Men of the West.") 
 
 Come all ye true sons of old Erin 
 
 And listen a while to my song, 
 The whole truth from me you'll be hearin', 
 
 And be sure I will not keep ye long. 
 The Order of Ancient Hibernians, 
 
 That great Institution of Friends, 
 Has been slandered and misrepresented 
 
 By traitors to serve their own ends. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Then hurrah! for the cause that we love, boys, 
 
 Home Rule sure our country requires, 
 Three cheers for those true Irish heroes, 
 
 Hurrah! for the Molly Maguires. 
 
 Maybe you'd be wanting to know, boys, 
 Why they call us the "Molly Maguires"? 
 
 'Twas all on account of a fight, boys, 
 
 That took place 'twixt the Yeos and our sires — 
 
232 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 A widow and orphan were ruined, 
 And thrown on the road to expire, 
 
 And our forefathers fought and defeated 
 The foes of poor "Molly Maguire." 
 
 The priests of our holy religion 
 
 In the old days were hunted to death 
 For preaching the Gospel of Truth, boys, 
 
 On the mountains, and caves underneath. 
 'Twas treason and death to defend them, 
 
 But brave men and true were our sires, 
 And the foremost to stand 'gainst their foes, boys, 
 
 Were the men they call "Molly Maguires." 
 
 The objects for which we are striving 
 
 Are Freedom and Friendship 'twixt all 
 True men who will serve dear old Ireland, 
 
 From Cork up to Ould Donegal. 
 'Midst the true-hearted Exiles of Erin, 
 
 Who from Ireland was forced to retire — 
 "For Unity, Friendship, and Freedom," 
 
 Is the motto of "Molly Maguire." 
 
 We stand for a United Ireland, 
 
 Against faction and Unionist foes, 
 We appeal to all true sons of Erin, 
 
 These traitors to strongly oppose. 
 In the British Police Court in Dublin, 
 
 Our critics were proved to be liars, 
 So unite and stand fire for Old Ireland, 
 
 And cheers for the Molly Maguires. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 233 
 
 NOT IN THE DOCK. 
 
 By Thomas O'Dwyer. 
 
 [Thomas O'Dwyer, manager of the Emmet Memorial Hall, Chicago, 
 had many lively adventures in Ireland during his efforts in the national 
 cause, which resulted in his being tried before Chief Baron Palles and 
 his eventual departure from Ireland.] 
 
 Old loyal comrades, tried and true, I spring a new surprise, 
 For safety to a foreign shore another exile flies; 
 My native land I now must leave in sorrow and in pain ; 
 I can't e'en say farewell to ye before I cross the main. 
 
 Faithful was I to Erin's cause in time of direst need, 
 
 So I must leave poor Granuaile, my heart to grieve and bleed, 
 
 From traitors, spies and perjurers I turn in scorn away 
 
 And start from Gold's Cross station just at the break of day. 
 
 On Friday when in court I'm called, to fresh renew my bail, 
 The silence will cause friends to smile and hungry foes to wail, 
 John Kenny will go scurrying round and search in wild dismay, 
 And black will be his looks to find his victim's flown away. 
 
 The country will the tidings hear in pleasure and surprise 
 To know I've baffled Kenny and that constable so wise; 
 No second unjust trial for me, no fetters and no jail, 
 So judge, spies, peelers, bailiffs, all, I'm giving ye leg bail. 
 
 As seaward rolls the train I sing this humble parting song, 
 Farewell, my comrade boys and girls, these dear old vales along, 
 Your kind good will I know I bear across the rolling main, 
 I hope I soon will dance with you in Mohorough again. 
 
234 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 JAMES FITZHARRIS. 
 
 By Patrick Kane. 
 
 [James Fitzharris departed this life Aug. 20, 1910, in Dublin County 
 Poorhouse, after serving 15 years in British dungeons for his country's 
 liberty. He was convicted on the perjured evidence of Farrell, Carey and 
 other paid spies of the British government, and the rack-renting land- 
 lords of Ireland. He was tried in 1883, with Edward McCaffery, Joe 
 Mullet, James Mullet, Joe Brady, Daniel Curley, Tim Kelly and Michael 
 Fagin, and discharged in 1898. Indeed, I must say that Irishmen should 
 blush for the way they neglected poor Fitzharris. May he rest in peace.] 
 
 He was lost to all that knew him, 
 
 No friendly hand was nigh 
 As he lay within the poorhouse 
 
 To pine away and die, 
 
 To pine away and die, 
 They heedless passed him by, 
 But the patriot soul went onward 
 
 To meet the Lord on high. 
 
 Yet welcome to Fitzharris 
 Was that lonely poorhouse grave, 
 
 Where no coward's taunt or insult 
 Could sting that soul so brave, 
 Could sting that soul so brave! 
 Oh, his life he nobly gave 
 
 That the holy flag of Ireland 
 
 To the breeze should freely wave. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 235 
 
 God rest thy soul, Fitzharris, 
 
 May the shamrocks o'er you bloom, 
 May the heavenly sun of freedom 
 
 Smile sweetly on your tomb, 
 
 Smile sweetly on your tomb, 
 
 May your land arise from gloom 
 And for you may sons of Ireland 
 
 In their memories aye find room. 
 
 From the cradle to the dungeon 
 
 He loved poor Ireland's cause 
 And swore to free his nation 
 
 From vile coercion laws, 
 
 From vile coercion laws, 
 That laid the land in gloom — 
 
 Now deserted in the poorhouse 
 He meets a martyr's doom. 
 
 Oh, Erin, Mother Erin, 
 
 Your children all should know 
 That the son you have neglected 
 
 For you struck many a blow, 
 
 For you struck many a blow 
 
 Against your cruel foe 
 Till the prison and the poorhouse 
 
 Laid the noble patriot low. 
 
236 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 A LOST FRIEND. 
 
 By Patrick Kane. 
 
 [To the memory of Peter Kilkenny, son of Anthony of Tooma, Cloone, 
 Leitrim, who was drowned March 10, 1896, aged 18 years, in the streams 
 he loved.] 
 
 Peter, asthore, you sleep at rest amid the hills of Cloone ! 
 And flowers wild bloom o'er your breast to decorate your tomb ; 
 And clad in robes of mourning, at home and o'er the sea 
 Your dearest friends 'mid sorrow's tears in silence pray for thee. 
 
 I remember well to see you, when but a prattling child, 
 
 When thro' lanes and dells you wander'd to pluck the flowers 
 
 wild; 
 Where blackberries and strawberries in shady bowers grow, 
 Round Crawn and Gubnisthcawn, where the silvery waters flow. 
 
 But for me those joys are over, you're sleeping with the dead, 
 And poor Erin's golden sunshine now smiles around your bed. 
 The little birds will sing their songs beneath its warm glow, 
 While the heavenly dew will nourish all the flowers that o'er 
 you grow. 
 
 You sleep within the silent walls where my loving parents lie, 
 And where, I hope, when Erin's free, my chance may be to die ; 
 Where my uncle James lies slumbering, who nursed me on his 
 
 knee, 
 Ah Cloone, asthore ! I love you more, for each sad memory. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 237 
 
 They laid you down in youthful bloom, with prayers and silent 
 
 tears, 
 Just like a weary child to sleep, for centuries of years; 
 And the summer breeze may whisper, and the wintry winds 
 
 may roar 
 Through that City of the Silent, where you slumber, P. asthore. 
 September 12, 1896. 
 
238 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 AMERICA'S REPLY TO ENGLAND IN REFERENCE 
 
 TO THE PROPOSED ANGLO-AMERICAN 
 
 ALLIANCE, 
 
 By Michael V. Gannon. 
 [Long well known in Chicago as lawyer, orator and Irish Nationalist.] 
 
 Alfred, what is the voice you hear 
 On the wind of the western sea? 
 
 The sentinel listens from out Cape Clear 
 And says what the voice may be ; 
 
 Tis a proud free people calling loud: 
 "We'll have nothing to do with thee !" 
 
 And they say to you, Alfred, look 
 
 We have severed the chord that bound, 
 
 We cannot have done with the glorious tale 
 As long as you are around, 
 
 And your braggart host that proudly boast 
 They are seizing Liberty's ground. 
 
 We answer you not of the self-same race, 
 Nor blood of the self-same clan, 
 
 But Celt and Teuton face to face 
 Talk back to you man to man, 
 
 That they never will trust you, hypocrites base, 
 And know that no freeman can. 
 
039 
 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Now fling them out to the breeze 
 
 Shamrock, thistle and rose — 
 The shamrock will never unite with these, 
 
 It knows its friends from foes, 
 And will stick to the glorious Stars and Stripes 
 
 Wherever the war wind blows. 
 
 A message to bind and thrill indeed, 
 
 Why man but open your eyes, 
 Afridi and Boer and Irishman 
 
 Make answer to all your lies, 
 And Freedom shrieks from wounds received 
 
 Wherever your red flag flies. 
 
 Yes, this is the voice on the blufl March gale, 
 
 We know you well and long, 
 And now to your kite you would have us the tail, 
 
 But we heed not your siren song. 
 Your friendship is death, O, the deadliest death, 
 
 And your record a record of wrong. 
 
240 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 IN MEMORY OF MICHAEL FLANAGAN. 
 
 [Died recently at Providence, R. I. In sympathy addressed to John 
 Mulkern and all Roscommon bards.] 
 
 By Joe Fogarty. 
 
 In tears of gall my pen is dipped, 
 
 My heart is sad and sore, 
 Another bard is gone for aye 
 
 That loved green Erin's shore. 
 The brave and true Mike Flanagan, 
 
 Roscommon's joy and pride, 
 Is laid to rest in an exile's grave 
 
 Beyond the bounding tide. 
 
 There's grief in all Roscommon, 
 
 Around its lakes and rills, 
 There's sadness in each household 
 
 And gloom upon the hills. 
 The Nearys are lamenting sore 
 
 Their gallant exiled chief, 
 John Mulhern is in mourning deep, 
 
 His heart is rent with grief. 
 
 The exiled bards have raised a keen, 
 
 It pierced the foreign skies, 
 Salt tears we shed in torrents 
 
 At the news of his demise; 
 For Michael was a faithful son, 
 
 Ever true to motherland, 
 And in her fight 'gainst tyrants 
 
 He e'er took manful stand. 
 
MRS. J. W. BURKE 
 
 DR. THOMAS O'HAGAN 
 
 JO E MULHEARN 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 241 
 
 With voice and pen, with sword and gun, 
 
 With purse and every means, 
 He gave his firm, persistent aid 
 
 To break her galling chains. 
 Farewell, brave Flanagan, noble friend, 
 
 May thine be grand reward 
 For ever and for ever 
 
 In the mansions of the Lord. 
 
24:2 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 WHEN IRELAND WILL HAVE HOME RULE. 
 
 By Joseph Mahon. 
 
 [A popular young lawyer of Chicago.] 
 
 When laws can stop the blades of grass 
 
 From growing as they grow, 
 Then Parliament will give Home Rule 
 
 To Erin's Isle, I trow. 
 And when the leaves in summer time 
 
 Wear autumn's dying mien, 
 Then Erin's Parliament will meet 
 
 At home in College Green. 
 
 When nature's law of self-defense 
 
 (Her first law) is repealed, 
 Then England's King will give to us 
 
 The power that England wields. 
 When selfishness no longer sways 
 
 The acts of humankind, 
 Then Englishmen will freely cut 
 
 The galling ties that bind. 
 
 But till that day the Irish slave 
 
 Who begs for freedom's right 
 Will lie 'neath Briton's iron heel 
 
 A craven, spineless wight. 
 "Who would be free must strike the blow," 
 
 Their Gaelic spirit spoke. 
 Up from your knees with manhood's might, 
 
 Throw off the Saxon yoke. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 243 
 
 TO MY FATHER. 
 
 By Patrick Kane. 
 
 [Dedicated to the memory of my father, James Kane, who died March 2, 
 1902, and lies buried in Cloone, County Leitrim, Ireland.] 
 
 Beneath the black and lonely tomb 
 Oh, Father, you repose in gloom, 
 Surrounded by the hills of Cloone 
 
 Clad in their verdure green; 
 While your poor children o'er the sea 
 From British robbers had to flee 
 To the glorious home of liberty, 
 
 Where freedom smiles serene. 
 
 You died, dear Father, in your pain, 
 With broken heart and tortured brain, 
 While those you loved across the main 
 
 In exile wandered round. 
 And now, with mother, you lie low 
 While summer sun or winter snow 
 May for all ages come and go 
 
 To dress your silent mound. 
 
 You sleep in bleeding Erin, dear, 
 That single thought my sorrows cheer, 
 For well I know you need not fear 
 
 The judgment's clarion sound. 
 You'd Father Nagle ere you died — 
 One of old Ireland's priests of pride — 
 He laid you by dear mother's side 
 
 In consecrated ground. 
 
244 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 And o'er your grave in smothered moans, 
 
 Amid the monumental stones, 
 
 I knelt and prayed in earnest tones 
 
 For you and mother dear. 
 Unto the spotless virgin fair; 
 Oh, may she hear my humble prayer 
 And take you gently to her care 
 
 Where sin cannot appear. 
 
 I 'rose and bade your tomb adieu, 
 Also our home and neighbors too, - 
 And with my sisters o'er the blue 
 
 Wide ocean fled from Ireland; 
 For I received a saddening blow 
 From the land I loved through all my woe, 
 Which leaves me wandering to and fro 
 
 An exile from my sireland. 
 
 Then welcome Death, welcome today, 
 Oh, come and take my soul away; 
 I long, like Father in the clay, 
 
 To fly from misery. 
 But, Erin dear ! till death appears, 
 Through weal or woe, through blood or tears, 
 I've pledged to you my future years 
 
 Whate'er my destiny. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 245 
 
 ENGLAND. 
 
 By James Jeffrey Roche. 
 
 [Formerly editor of Th£ Boston Pilot, later American consul in Genoa, 
 Italy, lately deceased.] 
 
 Her robes are of purple and scarlet, 
 And the Kings have bent their knees 
 
 To the gemmed and jeweled harlot 
 Who sitteth on many. seas. 
 
 They have drunk the abominations 
 
 Of her golden cup of shame; 
 She has drugged and debauched the nations 
 
 With the mystery of her name. 
 
 Her merchants have gathered riches 
 
 By the power of her wantonness, 
 And her usurers are as leeches 
 
 On the world's supreme distress. 
 
 She has scoured the seas as a spoiler; 
 
 Her mart is a robber's den, 
 With the wrested toil of the toiler, 
 
 And the mortgaged souls of men. 
 
 Her crimson flag is flying, 
 
 Where the East and West are one ; 
 Her drums while the day is dying 
 
 Salute the rising sun. 
 
246 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 She has scourged the weak and lowly 
 And the just with an iron rod; 
 
 She is drunk with the blood of the holy- 
 She shall drink of the wrath of God! 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 247 
 
 A LITTLE PACK OF DYNAMITE. 
 
 By John Power. 
 
 [Written in days of the degenerate policy to retaliate for English 
 oppression.] 
 
 Let poets sing of Erin's sons so chivalric and brave, 
 And of the glorious victories they won on land and wave, 
 And tell with what infectious dash they always down the foe, 
 And how their bones lie bleaching where the Rhine and Volga 
 
 flow. 
 Let poets sing the sufferings of a brave downtrodden race, 
 And of their love for motherland which time could not efface, 
 And sing that naught but moral force can right poor Ireland's 
 
 wrongs — 
 But a little pack of dynamite is worth a million songs. 
 
 'Tis easy sing of Erin, of her soft and golden clime ; 
 
 'Tis easy sing the glories of her great and olden time; 
 
 'Tis easy sing her suffering, no pen or tongue can tell. 
 
 And sing of Britain's cruel laws that first were framed in hell; 
 
 'Tis easy sing her patriot sons upon the gallows tree ; 
 
 'Tis easy say the Emerald Island must and shall be free. 
 
 O, what a train of those old strains around my memory throngs — 
 
 But a little pack of dynamite is worth a million songs. 
 
24£ RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 O Erin, weeping mother, sitting by the heaving sea ; 
 
 If songs could break thy shackles, you would long ago be free. 
 
 In moral suasion put no trust, on rhyming don't depend ; 
 
 But in the deadly missile, you've a true and trusty friend ; 
 
 The tyrant's hand is on thee, thy limbs his fetters bind; 
 
 But there's a power more potent, aye, and stronger than the 
 
 wlind 
 Will cause him to surrender all that Unto thee belongs — 
 O, a little pack of dynamite is worth a million songs. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 249 
 
 IN MEMORIAM, DAN CONBOY. 
 
 [Respectfully dedicated to a patriotic and faithful friend, Daniel F. 
 Conboy, aged 30 years, who died August 21, 1907. Born in the Parish of 
 Fuerty, County Roscommon, Ireland.] 
 
 By Patrick Kane. 
 
 Oh, friend of human liberty, oh, soul sincere, sublime, 
 Why did you leave us so, so soon, in sorrow to repine? 
 Your mother and your brothers to the Heavenly Father pray 
 That we may join you, Daniel dear, upon some future day. 
 
 Oh, how we miss you from our midst, no more to hear your voice, 
 Which seemed like melody to us and made our hearts rejoice. 
 We look in vain for your return from the daily hours of toil, 
 Oh, Dan, how sad we miss you with your sweet endearing smile ! 
 
 We miss your songs of Ireland, your soft and mellow tone, 
 Your stories of the martyred dead, poor Emmet and Wolf Tone, 
 And while flowers grow or waters flow, or smiles the silver moon, 
 Their names shall guide poor Erin's sons to freedom or the tomb. 
 
 Poor Erin, too, will miss you, where first in childhood's glee, 
 You roamed among the haunted vales of dear old Fuerty; 
 Where the leprechauns and fairies sing their quaint lullaby, 
 'Mid the rippling rills and green-clad hills of Erin o'er the sea. 
 
 The love you gave to Ireland can never fade away 
 While burns the lamp of liberty to guide us to the fray, 
 And the vows you made to Erin's cause in golden letters stand 
 Amid the councils of the brave, the patriots of our land. 
 
250 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 They laid you down just in your bloom, 'mid prayers and silent 
 
 tears, 
 Just like a weary child to sleep for everlasting years, 
 And may the sun of happiness forever smile on you! 
 Until we meet on the golden strand, dear Dan, a fond adieu! 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 251 
 
 SNATCHED FROM THE SAXON. 
 
 By Jeremiah Harrington. 
 
 [On a trip across the water, in 1896, Edward J. Ivory, now of Chicago, 
 was arrested on charges manufactured by a spy or detective named Jones 
 for alleged implication in a dynamite plot to work havoc in English cities. 
 After being kept in severe solitary confinement for some months, during 
 which strong inducements were made to have him plead guilty, the pris- 
 oner was released through the efforts of John F. Mclntyre, previously 
 district attorney of New York, who was sent over by the Irish National 
 Alliance to defend him. On Mr. Ivory's return to New York, Feb. 3, 
 1897, he was made the subject of a great popular ovation.] 
 
 (Air — "God Save Ireland.") 
 
 Friends of Ireland now we meet, 
 Proud, exultant, here to greet 
 
 One who has dared to serve his native land, 
 And who to set her free from cursed England's tyranny, 
 
 For his efforts in the dock did lately stand. 
 
 "God save Ivory!" say we proudly, 
 
 "God save Ivory !" say we all ; 
 He'll be ready with the rest, 
 For to lower England's crest, 
 
 When the bugle to the battle loud does call. 
 
 The vile perjured "Jones" was there 
 For his pay to smoothly swear 
 
 To steal his victim's liberty or life; 
 But he's back again once more, with free men on a free shore, 
 
 Again to join for victory in the strife. 
 
252 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 "God save Ivory!" say we proudly, 
 
 "God save Ivory!" say we all; 
 He'll be ready with the rest to lower England's crest, 
 
 When the bugle to the battle loud does call. 
 
 Then let us our voices raise, 
 Grudging not full meed of praise 
 
 To Wynne, Smith and O'Rourke, the noble three 
 Who to serve their friend and his honor to defend, 
 
 Gave up their all, and crossed the angry sea. 
 
 Then men raise your voices loud in chorus, 
 
 Join in the measure heartily, 
 With a hip-hip-hip hurrah! and to these bright happy days 
 
 We salute with heart and hand the noble three. 
 
 All that's gained we realize, 
 
 We have fought and won the prize, 
 
 By the aid of Mclntyre, Erin's son, 
 And for many years our people's voice and prayers, 
 
 Will ascend for him who fought the fight — and won. 
 
 Then cheer, men, cheer for Mclntyre, 
 
 The man who braved the lion in his den: 
 "I'll bring Ivory back," said he, "I'll obtain his liberty," 
 
 And he's in the land of freedom once again. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 253 
 
 MEN OF ERIN, GIRD FOR BATTLE. 
 
 By Thomas O t Hagan. 
 
 Men of Erin, gird for battle, 
 
 You have glorious work to do, 
 Stalwart patriots, men of Ireland, 
 
 Heroes steadfast, loyal and true. 
 Let no false star guide your footsteps, 
 
 Falter not at Freedom's call, 
 High your standard floats above you, 
 
 Plant it on the outer wall. 
 
 Men of Erin, gird for battle, 
 
 Not with sword in bloody strife, 
 But with Justice as your armor, 
 
 Healing wounds and shielding life; 
 Strike the foe, but not with rapier, 
 
 Bullets are but thoughts in lead; 
 Swords' and sabres' clash and clamor, 
 
 Have no message for the dead. 
 
 Men of Erin, gird for battle, 
 
 Follow straight where Duty leads; 
 Valor rests not in loud clamor, 
 
 Freedom's sword is starr'd with deeds. 
 Every rood of land calls to you, 
 
 Tongued with Wrong's bitter wail; 
 Every memory of six centuries 
 
 Breaks in blood within your vale. 
 
254 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Men of Erin, gird for battle, 
 
 Sacred are your flag and cause, 
 Love of Kindred — Mercy : — Justice — 
 
 These are greater than all laws. 
 Heaven hath place for every hero 
 
 Clad in armor, wrought in light, 
 Leading man from chains and serfdom 
 
 To the heights of Truth and Right. 
 
 Men of Erin, gird for battle, 
 
 Know you not the dead are near? 
 Leaders in the fight of centuries 
 
 Leaders without fault or fear ; 
 Fill the ranks and aye press forward, 
 
 Victory now doth point the way, 
 And the darkest clouds have vanished 
 
 As her sceptre lights the day ! 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 235 
 
 AN ULTIMATUM. 
 
 By Patrick Kane. 
 
 If Ireland doesn't get Home Rule, 
 
 And House of Lords will carp and fool, 
 
 We'll organize an airship school, 
 
 Agra machree! 
 Away we'll fly just like a kite 
 For London, on some lively night, 
 And shower them hard with dynamite, 
 
 Agra machree! 
 
 Sulphuric acid by the ton, 
 
 Down from the clouds will quickly run 
 
 Upon' the idle Lordly scum, 
 
 Agra machree! 
 The squirts will make them jump and hop, 
 When on their baldy crowns they drop, 
 And spin them round just like a top, 
 
 Agra machree! 
 
 Then on the Dublin Castle hacks 
 
 We'll shower shells, long nails and tacks, 
 
 Until the thieves lie dead in packs, 
 
 Agra machree! 
 For poor King George I fain would cry 
 When we go roaming through the sky, 
 But every tyrant Lord must die, 
 
 Agra machree! 
 
256 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Oh, had I but my humble say 
 
 I'd fly away this very day, 
 
 And soon their sins I'd wash away, 
 
 Agra machree! 
 And all the ranting, chattering tribe 
 Who lie, deceive, disrupt and bribe, 
 Would sleep down by old Satan's side, 
 
 Agra machree! 
 
 Then peace and joy would soon abound, 
 With love and unity all around, 
 When traitors shall no more be found, 
 
 Agra machree ! 
 And I would sure enjoy the sight, 
 And with heart and soul get in the fight, 
 Because they are a human blight, 
 
 Agra machree! 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 257 
 
 A REQUEST. 
 
 By the Late General Sir William F. Butler. 
 
 [Native of Waterford, philanthropist and patriot, opponent of British 
 greed in South Africa and scorner of anti-Irish proclivities in Ireland.] 
 
 Give me but six-feet three (one inch to spare) 
 Of Irish ground, dig it anywhere; 
 And for the poor soul say an Irish prayer 
 Above the spot. 
 
 Let it be hill where cloud and mountain meet, 
 Or vale where grows the tufted meadow sweet, 
 Or boreen trod by peasants' shoeless feet; 
 It matters not. 
 
 I loved them all — the vale, the hill, 
 The moaning sea, the flagger-lilied rill, 
 The yellow furze, the lake-shore lone and still, 
 The wild bird's song. 
 
 But more than hill or valley, bird or moor, 
 More than the green fields of my river Suir 
 I loved those hapless ones — the Irish poor — 
 All my life long. 
 
 Little I did for them in outward deed, 
 And yet be unto them of praise the meed, 
 For the stiff fight I waged 'gainst lust and greed ; 
 I learnt it there. 
 
258 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 So give me Irish grave, 'mid Irish air, 
 With Irish grass above it — anywhere; 
 And let some passing peasant give it prayer 
 For the soul there. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 259 
 
 ANOTHER PATRIOT GONE. 
 
 By Patrick Kane. 
 
 [Dedicated to the sacred memory of a good Irish patriot, Charles 
 Keegan, of Cankeel, Clcone, County Leitrim, Treland, who departed this 
 life June 24, 191 1. May he rest in peace.] 
 
 Just like a mighty thunder crash, 
 Or like the livid lightning's flash, 
 That fells the oak and rends the ash, 
 
 The mesasge came to me; 
 Your uncle dead ! that note so brief, 
 Brought to my heart a load of grief, 
 And here I try to get relief 
 
 And set my sad thoughts free. 
 
 Descendant of a grand old line — 
 
 On history's page their virtues shine — 
 
 A worshiper at Freedom's shrine, 
 
 He passed his life away. 
 With him in childhood's happy hours, 
 'Mid Cloone's sweet fragrant hawthorn bowers, 
 'Mid Leitrim's gray historic towers, 
 
 Most gayly sped the day. 
 
 In consecrated ground he lies, 
 Beneath the changeful Irish skies, 
 Where Freedom's flag shall yet uprise, 
 Despite the tyrant's frown. 
 
260 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Twas nightly in the Rosary, 
 He prayed that glorious liberty 
 Would yet illume from sea to sea, 
 His land — without a Crown ! 
 
 The prayers were said, the grave was made, 
 With tearful eyes his corse they laid, 
 With kindred dust in sacred shade, 
 
 There where his people rest. 
 Where fragrant blossoms wild abound, 
 And decorate each hollowed mound, 
 While birds and bees flit gently round 
 
 That graveyard in the west. 
 
 Sound sleep they by the singing streams 
 Where whitethorns shine and gold furze gleams, 
 No nightmares grim, no troublous dreams 
 
 Disturb them night or noon; 
 But love and glory, joy and pride, 
 About that honored soil preside, 
 And faith and hope stand side by side, 
 
 To guard the graves of Cloone. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 261 
 
 THE PARTING. 
 
 By Joe Mulhearn. 
 
 [Noje — A stor mo chroidhe is pronounced "a-sthore mo hree" and 
 means "O treasure of my heart." It is the author's farewell to his only 
 child upon her entering a convent.] 
 
 A stor mo chroidhe the hour is here: — 
 The dreaded hour of many a year, 
 When you and I must sundered be 
 Till life has passed, a stor mo chroidhe ! 
 Your baby breath was joy to me; 
 Your voice was music in its glee; 
 Your hand could soothe my griefs away, 
 And youth returned in childish play. 
 
 In hope the fairest earth can know 
 Or crushed beneath the weight of woe, 
 Whatever fate might bring to me 
 Was linked with you, a stor mo chroidhe. 
 When land and gold had slipped away 
 And thinning locks grew silver grey; 
 When friends and hope were lost to me, 
 You still were left, a stor mo chroidhe. 
 
262 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 A stor mo chroidhe, when life was bright 
 You were the sun that gave it light; 
 When hope had fled all else was night, 
 But you were sunshine in my sight ; 
 When trouble came, and woe befell, 
 And sadly rang the loved one's knell, 
 One bud alone was left to me, 
 And you were all, a stor mo chroidhe ! 
 
 <> — - 
 
 For me it brims the cup of woe; 
 
 And yet 'tis best that you should go 
 
 And bear to others, as to me, 
 
 A paradise, a stor mo chroidhe; 
 
 And may your skies be ever bright, 
 
 And may your heart be always light, 
 
 And blessings yours eternally, 
 
 My light of life, a stor mo chroidhe! 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 263 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN DEW. 
 
 By Francis E. Walsh. 
 
 Hither to me, mo cruiskeen dhas ! 
 
 Light of my heart, asthore, are you — 
 Oh ! fill for me a flowin' glass 
 
 Of the glorious, warmin' mountain dew. 
 
 Though hills and plains and bogs and drains 
 May lie upon our homeward way, 
 
 We've mirth and cheer and company here — 
 So where we are awhile we'll stay. 
 
 While some in gold may seek delight 
 And more find joy in eyes of blue, 
 
 We'll while away the cheerful night 
 With glorious, warmin' mountain dew. 
 
 The miser's hoard, though careful stored, 
 Can neither peace nor pleasure give, 
 
 The maiden's kiss is fleeting bliss, — 
 Imprinted oft but to deceive. 
 
 The miser dies, the lover sighs — 
 Their joys in life are short and few — 
 
 So fill for me asthor maehree, 
 Mo vanonin gra, the mountain dew. 
 
264 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 When Nature made the storms that rave 
 Around our mountains of the west 
 
 She said, "The rain will grow the grain 
 And then let Genius do the rest." 
 
 And Genius came and in her palm 
 She pressed the grain that lately grew 
 
 Till 'neath her spell bright drops there fell- 
 It was the glorious mountain dew. 
 
 Hither to me mo cruiskeen dhas, 
 Light of my heart, asthore, are you ! — 
 
 Oh ! fill for me a nowin' glass 
 Of the glorious, warmin' mountain dew. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 265 
 
 A MOTHER'S KISS. 
 
 By P. J. O'Keeffe. 
 
 [Mr. O'Keefe suffered imprisonment for his nationalistic activities 
 during Land League days in Ireland. He is now a well-known lawyer 
 in Chicago. He says : "This poem was written by me in the winter of 
 1884, while engaged as a special writer on The Chicago Herald. The 
 scene under memory's lamp in this instance lay in the land of my birth, 
 where that good mother now lies asleep beneath the green rich sward 
 of the Golden Vein in dear old Ireland."] 
 
 Hark! 'tis college days 
 And eager wait 
 The boys with anxious face 
 To tread again the homeward path 
 And joyously their friends embrace 
 And hear the sweet old village chime 
 Ring out its peal so merrily 
 For Christmas Day. 
 
 No gayer throng did ever 
 From college portals step, 
 
 Why not! Are they not moving West? 
 Beside the mountain's rugged crest 
 To where the sun doth set, 
 To see again the childhood home 
 And sit beneath its well-known dome 
 On Christmas Day? 
 
266 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 The iron horse may shriek aloud, 
 Its bell may ever beat 
 And notice give to all of speed, 
 Yet think they still its progress slow, 
 Nor do they excuse heed 
 Nor care a jot for any rest, 
 But anxiously keep looking west 
 For Christmas Day. 
 
 Hurrah! hurrah! arrived at last, 
 Nor look they to the right or left, 
 But each his own home seeks 
 To see within the circle gay 
 Before the sun will set 
 The mother fond who always bound 
 Them sit bright turf fire around 
 For Christmas Day. 
 
 God bless the turf fire and bless 
 Such memories as those which bring 
 In after years such scenes to mind — 
 The midnight bell and holly leaf, 
 Old Santa Claus and Christmas tree 
 Are well enough. 
 But sweeter far 
 Than all such memories to me 
 Is mother's kiss 
 On Christmas morn. 
 
 Chicago, January 14, 1911. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON &67 
 
 THE LASS FROM COUNTY MAYO. 
 
 Though the daughters of Erin are famed, the world over, 
 For wit and for beauty, for charms all their own. 
 
 Yet there's one, in the land of the shamrocks and clover, 
 Who's first of the first, and who's second to none ! 
 
 She can boast not of riches, of rank or of station ; 
 This true hearted colleen, who loves me I know, 
 
 But I'd not love her more were she queen of a nation, 
 Instead of the lass from the County Mayo ! 
 
 Chorus : — As pure as the dew drop, that falls on the heather, 
 As sweet as the primrose with sunshine aglow, 
 Our lives link together in love's silken tether, 
 She's my Irish lass from the County Mayo. 
 
 Sure the mold of her ankles a duchess might covet, 
 
 Her waist fills with envy the grand ladies, all, 
 While her sweet tempting mouth and those bright eyes above it, 
 
 The heart of a king on his throne would enthrall, 
 All the lads in the county would love to be bolder, 
 
 They worship the ground that she walks on, I know, 
 But she wears the golden token of love ties that hold her, 
 
 She's my Irish lass from the County Mayo ! 
 
268 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 THE BRIDGE OF MUIGNABO. 
 
 By Rev. M. Smyth. 
 
 When bould Sir Thomas Brady had generously made for us 
 The Bridge of Muignabo, and the price of it had paid for us, 
 We cordially resolved for the gra he had displayed for us 
 
 Our great reciprocation in ovations for to show. 
 And so to make a day of it in innocence and jollity, 
 Around the dacent neighbourhood, to simple folk and quality, 
 We scattered invitations to share the hospitality 
 
 And aid the celebrations at the Bridge of Muignabo. 
 
 From Inver to Loughmurragher 
 Aich village sint us rations in, 
 The not a single curragh or 
 
 A cart but there came lashins in; 
 And then, to help to ate it, there 
 Came droves of deputations in — 
 In haste 
 To faist 
 Came hungry counthry clameriaghs, their wives and their 
 
 relations in, 
 Labourers and lacksters, smiths, carpenthers and masons in, 
 To ate their share an' welcome at the Bridge of Muignabo. 
 
 Our council was a caution for sinse and regularity, 
 Both vartues loudly called for because of the disparity 
 Betune the local ginthry and resident vulgarity — 
 
 The landlord high and mighty and the tenant poor and low. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 269 
 
 For what the great might smile upon as folly and frivolity 
 The poor man, non-conversant with the capers of the quality, 
 Might aisily regard as a spacies of morality 
 
 Displaisin' to the neighbours at the Bridge of Muignabo. 
 
 Though high folk grew censorious 
 
 And called the project villainous, 
 Though low folk swore to "Rory" us 
 And boldly spoke of "pillin' " us 
 For toadies, yet victorious 
 
 In spite of all their silliness, 
 "They'll see," 
 Said we, 
 That in the ways of dacency they needn't thing of dhrillin' us, 
 For, och, mavrone ! the good ould dhrop is still in us 
 
 That never shamed a native at the Bridge of Muignabo. 
 Then lashins of good liquor we sent to Linnivinny for — 
 Liquor that the government were never paid a pinny for — 
 Liquor, och ! a glass of it you'd freely give a guinea for, 
 Rale whate complate, an' oh ! but oghano ! 
 'Tis sweetly Sargeant Sweeney, that paragon of vigilance, 
 Who searches for the native with meritorious diligence, 
 'Tis sweetly he would smile if he got the laist intelligence, 
 Of where the crather came from to the Bridge of Muignabo. 
 
 The ateables wor various, 
 
 But there was sich a store o' them 
 
 To name them would but wary us 
 
 And make us sick and sore o' them; 
 But spakin' raly sarious, 
 
 For gurnet we'd galore o' them, 
 With cods 
 In squads, 
 
270 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Fluke, bullogogues and bundhels, we had close on sixty score o' 
 
 them, 
 With lots o' barrelled mackerel, a dozen creels or more o' them 
 To grace the celebrations at the Bridge of Muignabo. 
 
 The very sowl and substance of lordly generosity 
 
 Came bould Sir Thomas Brady, in grandeur and pomposity, 
 
 To open up the ball, when, with ordherly velocity, 
 
 The food began to cercle and the poteen for to flow. 
 The Bridge-flure was done up, with the fiddlers left and right 
 
 of it, 
 And whin they all struck up, och ! the fun was at the height of it, 
 And everyone detarmined to stay and make a night of it, 
 
 In great exhilaration, at the Bridge of Muignabo. 
 
 The dance came soon and sudden and , 
 
 The crush was fit to smother one, 
 The floor was nice and wooden and 
 
 As good as any other one, 
 So, till the sun was buddin' and 
 _ The music ceased to bother one, 
 We danced 
 And pranced, 
 And then a toast we gave our host — a "strong-and-all-together" 
 
 one — 
 "Health, wealth and way to find — in fact — 'another one' 
 To build another blessing like The Bridge of Muignabo !" 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 271 
 
 "THE TOP O' THE MORNING." 
 
 By John Locke. 
 
 O, m'anam an Dhia, but there it is ! — 
 
 The dawn on the hills of Ireland; 
 God's angels lifting the night's black veil 
 
 From the fair, sweet face of my sireland ; 
 O Ireland ! isn't it grand you look, 
 
 Like a bride in her rich adorning. 
 And with all the pent-up love of my heart 
 
 I bid you "the top o' the morning." 
 
 This one brief hour pays lavishly back 
 
 For many a year of mourning; 
 I'd almost venture another flight, 
 
 There's so much joy in returning — 
 Watching out for the hallowed shore, 
 
 All other attractions scorning, 
 O Ireland ! don't you hear me shout — 
 
 I bid you "the top o' the morning !" 
 
 Ho, ho ! upon Cleena's shelving strand 
 
 The surges are grandly beating, 
 And Kerry is pushing her headlands out 
 
 To give us the kindly greeting. 
 Into the shore the sea-birds fly 
 
 On pinions that know no drooping, 
 And out from the cliffs with welcomes charged 
 A million waves come trooping. 
 
272 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 kindly, generous Irish land, 
 So leal and fair and loving, 
 
 No wonder the wandering Celt should think 
 And dream of you in his roving ! 
 
 The alien home may have gems and gold, 
 Shadows may never have gloomed it, 
 
 But the heart will sigh for the pleasant land 
 Where the love-lights first illumed it. 
 
 And doesn't old Cove look charming there ! 
 
 Watching the wild waves motion; 
 Leaning her back up against the hills, 
 
 And the tips of her toes in the ocean ! 
 
 1 wonder I don't hear Shandon's bells — 
 O maybe their chiming's over; 
 
 For it's many a year since I began 
 The life of a western rover ! . 
 
 For thirty summers, asthore machree, 
 
 Those hills I now feast my eyes on 
 Ne'er met my vision, save when they rose 
 
 Over memory's dim horizon; 
 E'en so, 'twas grand and fair they seemed 
 
 In the landscape spread before me; 
 But dreams are dreams, and my eyes would ope 
 
 To see Texas' sky still o'er me. 
 
 For often upon the Texan plains 
 
 When the day and the chase were over, 
 
 My thoughts would fly o'er the weary wave 
 And around this coast-line hover; 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 273 
 
 But my prayer would rise, — that some future day 
 
 All danger and doubting scorning, 
 I might help to win for my native land 
 
 The light of young Liberty's morning. 
 
 Now fulkr and truer the coast line shows — 
 
 Was ever a scene so splendid! 
 I feel the breath of the Irish breeze — 
 
 Thank God! that my exile's ended. 
 Old scenes, old songs, old friends again, 
 
 The vale and the cot I was born in ! 
 O Ireland ! up from my heart of hearts 
 
 I bid you "the top o' the morninV 
 
274 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 'IRELAND OVER THE WATER." 
 
 By Jeremiah O'Donovan Rossa. 
 
 Here's a health to the victims of tyranny's wrong, 
 And a health to the weak who're oppressed by the strong, 
 And a health to the men, be their creed what it may, 
 Who can say "God Save Ireland," wherever they pray. 
 And let them kneel to God above, 
 In church or chapel, kirk or grove, 
 Here's heart and hand, and hope and love, 
 For Ireland over the water. 
 
 Our long-suffering mother is ravished by knaves, 
 And, dishonored, she weepingly nurses us slaves. 
 The tyrants have made us a hell upon earth, 
 And we labor in chains, while they revel in mirth. 
 We'd hardly be more sorely tried, 
 More scattered through the world wide, 
 Had Christ by us been crucified, 
 
 In Ireland over the water. 
 
 But we're told our misfortunes are owing to our guilt, 
 That we're paying for some blood which our forefathers spilt, 
 That England to us is the heaven-sent stroke, 
 And we strike against God when we strike at her yoke. 
 This teaching finds us blood-red graves, 
 In lands beyond the salt sea waves, 
 And leaves us crouching, cringing slaves, 
 In Ireland, over the water. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 275 
 
 It is said, and I think 'tis by Machiavel, 
 That tyrants in teaching the Bible excel, 
 In order the better to plunder the poor, 
 And make them submit to the wrongs they endure, 
 
 And thus they offer us "The Word." 
 
 They tell us pray and trust the Lord, 
 
 And then they rob with fire and sword 
 In Ireland, over the water. 
 
 To our ruthless invaders the creed mattered nought, 
 They made heaven subserve for the conquest they sought, 
 And the Catholics sent by the Pope for the pence, 
 Just hit as hard as the Puritan saints. 
 
 Since Adrian's grant, 'tis fraud, 'tis force, 
 
 'Tis bulls, 'tis bayonets, foot and horse, 
 
 'Tis cravens, or 'tis Cromwell's curse 
 In Ireland, over the water. 
 
 Can the creeds that love and freedom and manhood elsewhere, 
 
 Be fruitful of nothing but slavery there ? . 
 
 Will the "Protestant Boys" never give us a hope, 
 
 But hugging their fetters, afraid of a Pope ? 
 
 Our Pagan sires our strifes would shun, 
 They saw their heaven through the sun 
 Their God smiled down on every one 
 In Ireland, over the water. 
 
 Our children of Roman and Protestant birth 
 Proclaim our disgrace through the brothels of earth, 
 Yet the preachers preach on, we have nothing to do 
 But to "carry the Cross" and "give Caesar his due." 
 
#76 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Christ never said 'twas Caesar's coin, 
 The land is ours, then let us join 
 Our hearts and hands across the Boyne 
 For Ireland, over the water. 
 
 But the bigots start uo, to prevent the embrace, 
 And the phantoms of faction are flung in our face, 
 "To Hell with the Pope"— "Hell with William the Third" 
 Then like demons we fight "for the love of the Lord." 
 The world's contempt rewards our pains, 
 We're slaves, and with our very chains 
 We batter out each other's brains 
 In Ireland, over the water. 
 
 This creed of dissension is nursed in the land, 
 While the creed of our martyrs is prisoned and banned — 
 Sheares, Crowley, Fitzgerald, Lynch, Duffy and Tone, 
 Emmett, Larkin, and Orr died for Ireland alone. 
 For Freedom's cause at Freedom's shrine 
 This was the creed of Mike O'Brien, 
 Let it be yours as well as mine, 
 
 For Ireland, over the water. 
 
 And then for the struggle to end in success — 
 When the Keoghs will protect us and the voteens will bless, 
 For 'tis but for failure that "rebels" are damned, 
 That scaffolds are mounted and prisons are crammed, 
 Come North and South, our land to save, 
 Can't we be Irish, true and brave, 
 And neither Rome's nor England's slave 
 In Ireland, over the water. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 277 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 By Patrick Kane. 
 
 [To my father-in-law, Edward McKain, staunch Irish patriot from cradle 
 to grave. Died, January 19, 1905.] 
 Gloomy and sad the winter day 
 You heard the call and went away, 
 Your dust to lay 'neath hallowed clay 
 
 And face the great beyond, 
 And we who wept beside your bier 
 Shall keep before us bright and clear 
 Your pleasant face, your words of cheer, 
 In memory dear and fond. 
 
 Around your grave may songbirds sing 
 Their anthems unto Heaven's great King, 
 While loyal hearts white roses bring 
 
 To flaunt the graveyard gloom, 
 As summer's pleasant, balmy breeze 
 Comes 'mid the mourning, rustling trees 
 And chirps of birds and hum of bees 
 
 Make music round your tomb. 
 
 Your native Carlow's worthy son, 
 You longed to see the old fight won, 
 With final victory flashing on 
 
 Our flag without a stain ; 
 But broader than that flag unfurled 
 Your heart that grasped the whole wide world 
 For rigfrt to win and wrong down hurled, 
 
 Dear father — Ed McKain, 
 
278 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 MY HEART'S DELIGHT. 
 
 By Francis E. Walsh. 
 
 Air — "Merrily Kiss the Quaker." 
 
 Oh! Katty, you are my colleen dhas, 
 
 So merry you are and sprightly ; 
 I love to see you trip the grass 
 
 So airily and so lightly. 
 No fairies light that dance at night 
 
 Among the Coosauns yonder, — 
 Even had one been the Fairy Queen, — 
 
 Can step it one bit grander. 
 
 Chorus. 
 So, Katty, you are my heart's deligth, 
 
 Merry you are and sprightly ; 
 You trip and you dance, you laugh and glance 
 
 Airily still and lightly. 
 
 Your eyes beat all I ever knew 
 
 For sly and roguish glances, 
 But when they look so kind and true 
 
 Oh ! how that look entrances ! 
 You little sprite! 'tis real delight 
 
 To hear your merry laughter, 
 For in my ear it is ringing clear 
 
 For surely two days after. 
 
RHYME WITH REASON .-279 
 
 I'd walk from here to iar Cape Clear 
 
 And back if 'twas your pleasure, 
 Through wild and wood, o'er field and flood, 
 For you are my heart's own treasure. 
 The darkest night with you is bright, 
 
 The day is dark without you; 
 With you no man for heaven" need long — 
 
 You bring a heaven about you. 
 
 And, shure, you know, oh, Katty agra ! 
 
 There's none on earth before you; 
 I never can tell how deep, how well 
 
 How fondly I adore you. 
 I'll always bless the sod you press, 
 
 The sky that bends above you, — 
 By day's sweet light — by stars of night — 
 
 I only live to love you! 
 
 Chorus. 
 So, Katy, you are my heart's delight, 
 
 So lovely you are and sprightly ; 
 You trip and you dance, you laugh and glance 
 
 So merrily and so lightly. 
 
280 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 By J. J. Finnan. 
 
 [In memory of the late Thomas Desmond, one of the Catalpa heroes. 
 Mr. Finnan is an old Fenian and comrade of Desmond and none knew 
 him better or loved him more.] 
 
 He's dead, he's gone, the grand old Irish rebel, 
 Whose thrilling words gave vigor to the faint; 
 Whose mellow voice rose high — into a treble — 
 When he, the woes of Motherland would paint; 
 Whose live was pure as a young novice kneeling, 
 Prepared, to consecrate her days to God ; 
 Who never tired nor wearied of appealing, 
 To Irishmen to free her native sod. 
 
 Who took no stock in pitiful concessions 
 Doled out to kindred, who but fret or whine, 
 Or beg their lords to pardon their transgressions, 
 As sinners would before a Heavenly Shrine ; 
 Who never for a moment relished talking 
 Unless it roused or stirred some stagnant blood ; 
 Who always counseled brothers to keep walking 
 Along the path that leads to Nationhood. 
 
 One of that noble chain, "The Men of Sixty-Seven," 
 That now grows short, though still devoid of kinks— 
 For most is broken — gone, I trust to Heaven— 
 And now we lose the strongest of its links \ 
 
RHYME WITH REASON 281 
 
 Who never thought that senile "moral suasion" 
 Would free his land or have her rights restored; 
 Whose creed was plain — no quibbling, no evasion, 
 Go blaze the trail to Freedom with the sword." 
 
 Who for one among our many exiled millions 
 That in this land of freedom found a home, 
 Was chosen to free that band of Irish felons, 
 Who pined in durance far across the foam, 
 With gallant Breslin — Well did they the duty 
 The countless Celts had made their heart's desire — 
 Did Saxon faces look like things of beauty, 
 When that bold skipper dared them thrice to fire ? 
 
 That deed re-echoed on the shores of nations 
 
 Whose people asked the cause of all the din, 
 
 And then they joined us in our jubilations, 
 
 Until old earth, with pleasure seemed to spin. 
 
 And though those heroes now have crossed death's portals, 
 
 That daring deed, that daring deed alone, 
 
 Will niche their names along with our Immortals, 
 
 Beside the names of Emmet and Wolfe Tone. 
 
 And both today are joined in God's Own City, 
 And fraternize with more than mortal glow ; 
 And look with love, with more than human pity, 
 On friends and brothers weeping here below, 
 With one regret, their Motherland lies bleeding 
 While tyrants still above her domineer; 
 But saints will join them in the ceaseless pleading 
 To God to bring the hour of vengeance near, 
 
282 RHYME WITH REASON 
 
 Of all the Desmonds, who for Ireland's glory, 
 Died, and gloried in her cause to fail ; 
 Of all their names that live in song and story, 
 The one I mourn was truest of them all ; 
 And we were friends and each the other trusted, 
 And both would die for Mother Ireland's sake ; 
 For I'm a link— well worn, and deeply rusted, 
 And soon will come the time when I must break. 
 
 It pains me sore to see his old place vacant, 
 Nor meet him more, nor grasp his manly hand, 
 For rocks loom round, that he for years had beaconed, 
 With no one near to pilot me to land. 
 I'll join with friends and all true Irish lovers 
 In prayer, who weep and mourn for his loss — 
 I feel his spirit still around me hovers, 
 Although his clay is cold in Holy Cross. 
 California, November, 1910 
 
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