To the Dead of '98 And there, Star of the Morning and the Sea, And unto Mary be thy prayers outpoured. O Rose! O Lily! O Lady full of grace! Ah! who can help her, but in mercy He? His, at Whose word depart 2189 Sorrows and hates, home to Hell's waste and wild. Lionel Johnson (1867-1902] TO THE DEAD OF '98 GOD rest you, rest you, rest you, Ireland's dead! Peace be upon you shed, Peace from the Mercy of the Crucified, You, who for Ireland died! Soft fall on you the dews and gentle airs Of interceding prayers, From lowly cabins of our ancient land, Yours yet, O Sacred Band! God rest you, rest you: for the fight you fought Was His; the end you sought, His; from His altar fires you took your flame, Hailing His Holy Name. Triumphantly you gave yourselves to death: And your last breath Was one last sigh for Ireland, sigh to Him, As the loved land grew dim. And still, blessed and martyr souls! you pray In the same faith this day: From forth your dwelling beyond sun and star, Where only spirits are, Your prayers in a perpetual flight arise, To fold before God's Eyes Their tireless wings, and wait the Holy Word Not unto us, they plead, Thy goodness gave Our mother to enslave; To us Thou gavest death for love of her: Ah, what death lovelier? But to our children's children give to see Thy dead beseech thee: to Thy living give In liberty to live! Lionel Johnson [1867-1902] THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD WHO fears to speak of Ninety-Eight? We drink the memory of the brave, Some on the shores of distant lands Cushla Ma Chree But, though their clay be far away Beyond the Atlantic foam, In true men, like you, men, Their spirit's still at home. The dust of some is Irish earth; And the same land that gave them birth Of true men, like you, men, They rose in dark and evil days Alas! that Might can vanquish Right- But true men, like you, men, Then here's their memory-may it be For us a guiding light, To cheer our strife for liberty, And teach us to unite. Through good and ill, be Ireland's still, Though sad as theirs your fate; And true men be you, men, Like those of Ninety-Eight! 2191 John Kells Ingram [1823-1907] CUSHLA MA CHREE DEAR Erin, how sweetly thy green bosom rises! Each blade of thy meadows my faithful heart prizes, Thy gates open wide to the poor and the stranger- Thy friendship is seen in the moment of danger, And the wanderer is welcomed with cushla ma chree. Thy sons they are brave; but, the battle once over, John Philpot Curran [1750–1817] THE GREEN LITTLE SHAMROCK OF IRELAND It thrives through the bog, through the brake, and the mireland; And he called it the dear little shamrock of Ireland The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock, This dear little plant still grows in our land, Whose smiles can bewitch, whose eyes can command, And shine through the bog, through the brake, and the mireland, Just like their own dear little shamrock of Ireland. The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock, This dear little plant that springs from our soil, And ourselves by ourselves be befriended; Fainne Gael an Lae 2193 And still through the bog, through the brake, and the mireland, From one root should branch, like the shamrock of Ireland, The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock, The sweet little, green little, shamrock of Ireland! Andrew Cherry [1762-1812] MY LAND SHE is a rich and rare land; No men than hers are braver- And think my lot divine. She's not a dull or cold land; Could beauty ever guard her, Oh! she's a fresh and fair land, Yes, she's a rare and fair land This native land of mine. Thomas Osborne Davis [1814-1845] FAINNE GAEL AN LAE "Until the day break and the shadows flee away ERE the long roll of the ages end And the days of time are done, His own appointed One, " |