DP 990 
 .D6 B7 
 Copy 1 
 
 JIddress of 
 Charles L. Brown 
 
 County 
 Donegal 
 
 January <23 $ 1917 
 
Class. 
 Book 
 
ADDRESS 
 
 OF 
 
 Charles L. Brown 
 
 PRESIDENT JUDGE MUNICIPAL COURT 
 
 COUNTY DONEGAL 
 
 JANUARY 23, 1917 
 

 
ADDRESS 
 
 I feel that I have a right to address the members of the 
 Donegal Society. My father was born at a place called 
 Churchhill in Donegal, of parents who were born in Edin- 
 burgh, Scotland, and who after their marriage took up 
 their residence at Donegal. My great grandfather, who is 
 buried in a Presbyterian Churchyard in Edinburgh, was the 
 father of eight sons, four of whom died in the Crimean War. 
 My grandmother was a Logan of the family who came over 
 with William Penn and when she and my grandfather came 
 to Philadelphia, they located on a farm and nursery property 
 at a place now called in Philadelphia — "Logan." 
 
 In the extreme northwestern corner of Ireland lies the 
 County of Donegal, whose name, according to antiquarians, 
 signifies "the Fortress of the Foreigner," ostensibly alluding 
 to the early Danish invasion. But under its ancient name of 
 "Tyrconnel," it was and still is the most Irish of all the 
 counties in Ireland. 
 
 County Donegal, the last to succumb to the prowess of the 
 Anglo-Saxon invader, and, as the home of Saint Columba, the 
 "Dove of the Church"; and Red Hugh O'Donnell, the "Sword 
 of Ulster," occupies the most glorious pages of Irish history, 
 beside those of Saint Patrick and Brian Boru. 
 
 Writers who have traveled Donegal say it abounds with 
 native Irish hospitality and civility ; that it is rich in legendary 
 lore, and that nowhere else in Erin does "The Irish" so gen- 
 erally prevail and nowhere is the dialect so pure. 
 
 Though the soil is stubborn and reluctantly yields to the 
 cultivation by man, and though the landlord and tenant laws 
 have unfortunately operated against the humble tenant, often 
 depriving him of the means of livelihood, so that in the sum- 
 mer season he is compelled to seek employment in the fields 
 
of Scotland and England, nature, as if to atone for her defi- 
 ciency, has created the most beautiful scenery, perhaps, in 
 the world. 
 
 A grand coast-line from Lough Foyle to Donegal Bay, 
 dotted with charming loughs and land-locked bays ; lined with 
 massive cliffs of varied colors, where sunshine and shadows 
 alternately chase each other; a country dotted with attractive 
 hamlets and ancient ruins ; a people — clean, healthy, witty and 
 free from guile — have made this garden spot a favorite resort 
 for those seeking healthy recreation and beautiful scenery. 
 
 It is conceded that the population of Donegal decreases 
 less than any other county in Ireland, and it is a matter of 
 repute that the emigrant from Donegal never loses the recol- 
 lection of his home; but that his heart is there — no matter 
 where he roam. 
 
 At the station of Saint Columba, above Lough Akibbon, 
 there is a graveyard where Protestant and Catholic repose 
 together. Says Stephen Gwynn, in his charming "Highways 
 and By-ways of Donegal," — "They sleep there quiet and 
 wholesome on the green hillside, with the lovely Lake below 
 them. In the very centre stands a new and conspicuous 
 monument. Some one in Wilmington, U. S. A., erected it in 
 memory of his parents — natives of the parish. There you 
 have the very spirit of this country. Hard and stubborn as 
 the soil is, ungrateful to the tillers of it, it breeds a strong 
 race. They go out over the seas and win a prosperity impos- 
 sible in their homes, but you shall scarcely hear of one who 
 does not send back constant remittances to the old people. 
 Gray stones, brown moors and blue water make a living 
 image forever in their hearts, and it pleases them (if they 
 cannot be there to close the eyes of those they love) to erect 
 some memorial that shall link their names to the home they 
 have not forgotten." 
 
 How beautifully the poet of Donegal, William Allingham, 
 has put it in "The Winding Banks of Erne." Says he : 
 
 "Adieu to Ballyshannon, where I was bred and born; 
 Go where I may, I'll think of you as sure as night and morn. 
 The kindly spot, the friendly town, where everyone is known ; 
 And not a face in all the place, but partly seems my own. 
 There's not a house or window ; there's not a field or hill 
 But east or west, in foreign lands, I'll recollect them still ! 
 
I leave my warm heart with you, though my back I'm forced 
 
 to turn. 
 So, adieu to Ballyshannon and the winding banks of Erne. 
 
 If ever I'm a moneyed man, I mean, please God, to cast 
 
 My golden anchor in the place where youthful years were 
 passed ; 
 
 Though heads that now are black and brown, must mean- 
 while gather gray — 
 
 New faces rise by every hearth, and old ones drop away ; 
 
 Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world beside; 
 
 It's Home, Sweet Home, where'er I roam through lands and 
 waters wide; 
 
 And if the Lord allows me, I surely will return 
 
 To my native Ballyshannon and the winding banks of Erne !" 
 
 The Donegal man, though it has been centuries since 
 "The Sword of Ulster" was broken at the disastrous Battle 
 of Kinsale, has inherited the righting qualities of his ancestors. 
 Gwynn relates the story of a girl describing a wedding she 
 had attended at Dunfanaghy. The girl was jubilant. The 
 bride, like herself, was a "McGettigan" ; the groom was a 
 "McGettigan," and they had each brought fifty "McGettigans" 
 to the wedding. First, they danced; and then they sang; 
 then they fought! And, oh, it was a grand wedding," 
 exclaimed the ecstatic girl. 
 
 As a matter of fact, the greatest fighters in Ireland were 
 the stout Ulster ancestors of the Donegal men. To this day 
 is remembered the mighty prowess of the O'Donnell, with 
 his Gallowglasses ; of the Maguires; the O'Gallaghers ; the 
 McDevitts ; the Kavanaghs ; the O'Doghertys ; the O'Hanlons ; 
 and the McLoons, and the McSwinneys. 
 
 Old Godfrey O'Donnell and his famous descendant, "Red 
 Hugh," called "The Sword of Ulster," fought for their country 
 and for their right to till the soil and own their homes. They 
 were of the Race of Conn, which had produced the great 
 Saint Columba, who, next to Saint Patrick, was Premier Saint 
 of Ireland, and who had spread the gospel throughout Britain. 
 
 It is related of Old Godfrey O'Donnell that, in his last 
 battle with the O'Neill, as he lay dying on a litter he insisted 
 upon being borne into the thick of the fray. Around the 
 litter raged the conflict, until the O'Neill, beaten, retired from 
 
the field. Then the triumphant Conals bore the dying con- 
 queror along the beautiful Swilley into the Street of Conwall, 
 where his soul departed amid the shouts of victory : 
 
 "And proud and high Tyrconnell shouts, but blending on the 
 gale; 
 Upon the ear ascendeth a sad and sullen wail ; 
 For on that field, as back they bore, from chasing of the foe, 
 The spirit of O'Donnel fled, — oh, woe to Ulster — woe. 
 Yet died he there all gloriously, a victor in the fight; 
 A Chieftain at his peoples' head, a warrior in his might ; 
 They dug him there a fitting grave upon that field of pride, 
 And a lofty cairn they raised above, by Fair Lough Swilley 's 
 side !" 
 
 It was this fearless courage that made the shouts of 
 "O'Donnell Aboo" so terrible to the Saxon invader. For ten 
 years, upon many hard fought fields, Red Hugh, "The Sword 
 of Ulster," and The O'Neill, the "Red Hand of Tyrone," beat 
 back the hated Sassenach. At the Yellow Ford, at Bally- 
 shannon, at the Blackwater, and wherever the Saxon could be 
 found, Red Hugh and his Gallowglasses gave them no rest. 
 
 The greatest English commanders, Lord De Burgh, Earl 
 of Kildare, Marshall Bagnal, General Norris^ Sir Conyers 
 Clifford, were beaten and left dead upon the field, and even 
 the Great Essex, the favorite of Queen Elizabeth, was so badly 
 worsted, that his Royal Mistress, in mortification, sent him to 
 the block of the executioner. 
 
 But even Red Hugh was at last defeated ; the "Sword of 
 Ulster" was broken, and Red Hugh died in a foreign land — 
 the victim of a hired poisoner. 
 
 Donegal has always been true to her Irish principles, and 
 she has been in sympathy with every movement for the eleva- 
 tion of the people. When the late Michael Davitt organized 
 the Land League, Donegal was in the grip of the land grabber, 
 and she opened her heart to the unselfish patriot, and, although 
 not to the manner born, enshrined him with her other heroes, 
 the "Sword of Ulster," and the "Dove of the Church." 
 
 And so, in Donegal they revere the memory of Saint 
 Columba, because he fortified Christianity and spread the 
 gospel; of Red Hugh O'Donnell, because he was Irish of the 
 Irish, and relentlessly opposed the Sassenach ; and of Michael 
 Davitt, because he loved the people and devoted his life and 
 
his freedom to ameliorating the condition of his fellowmen. 
 The love of the Donegal people for Michael Davitt is attested 
 by Sheehy Skeffington in his "Life of Davitt," and by Wilfrid 
 Seawen Blunt, in his "Land War in Ireland." Michael Davitt's 
 mother is buried in Manayunk, Philadelphia. In his will he 
 provided for interment in her grave, should he die in America. 
 He died in Ireland, however, and was buried in his native 
 County Mayo. 
 
 Skeffington calls him the greatest Irishman of the nine- 
 teenth century, and Justin McCarthy compares him to the 
 Abou Ben Adhem "as one who loved his fellowman." 
 
 Thus, throughout the length and breadth of the county, 
 from Donegal Castle of the O'Donnells to Greenan-Ely, the 
 palace of the Ancient Kings of Ulster; from Lough Swilley 
 to Lough Foyle; from the Fairy bridge of Bundoran to Mc- 
 Swinneys' Gun (McSwinneys' Gun is a show spot of Donegal. 
 It is a large hole in the top of a cave. When the sea beats in, 
 it forces a stream of water and rocks through the hole in the 
 cave to a height of 100 feet, with a roar that can be heard for 
 miles) ; from Malin Head to Slieve League ; from top to 
 bottom and clear across — may the good people of Donegal — 
 there — here and everywhere — get what they deserve — the 
 reward of a virtuous life; industrious life; industrious habits 
 and intense love of the traditions of their race. Good luck, 
 and plenty of it, and may her native soil respond to cultivation 
 until Donegal is as prosperous as she is beautiful !