THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD

This song was written in 1843, when the author was a 20-year-old student in Trinity College, Dublin.
***


Who fears to speak of 'Ninety-eight'?
Who blushes at the name?
When cowards mock the patriot's fate
Who hangs his head for shame?
He's all a knave or half a slave
Who slights his country thus,
But a true man, like you, man,
Will fill your glass with us.

We drink the memory of the brave,
The faithful and the few,
Some lie far off beyond the wave,
Some sleep in Ireland too;
All, all are gone, but still lives on
The fame of those who died,
All true men, like you, men,
Remember them with pride.

Some on the shores of distant lands
Their weary hearts have laid,
And by the stranger's heedless hands
Their lonely graves were made;
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,
Among their own they rest;
And that same land that gave them birth
Has caught them to her breast;
And we will pray that from their clay
Full many a race may start
Of true men, like you, men,
To play as brave a part.

They rose in dark and evil days
To free their native land
And kindled then a living blaze
That nothing shall withstand;
Alas, that might should conquer right,
They fell and passed away
But true men, like you, men,
Are plenty here today.

Then here's their memory, let it be
To us a guiding light
To cheer our fight for liberty
And teach us to unite!
Though good and ill be Ireland's still,
Though sad as their your fate,
Yet true men, be you, men,
Like those of 'Ninety-eight.

John Kells Ingram



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BÁS AN CHROIPÍ

Aithriseoireacht

Sínte ar thaobh an tsléibhe
Chonaic mé an Croipí bocht;
Bhí an drúcht go trom ar a éadan,
Bhí piléar trína ucht.

Bhí sé i bhfad óna chairde,
I bhfad óna theach is a mhnaoi;
Agus é ina aonar fágtha
Ar an bhféar fuar fluich ‘na luí.

Sa bhotháinín sléibhe
Bhí bean ag gol is ag caoi,
Ag caoineadh ar son a céile
Nach dtiocfadh ar ais a choích’.

"A mháthair, ná bí ag caoineadh,
Ná bí ag briseadh do chroí,
Ní fada go bhfillfidh Daidí,
Suigh síos agus lig do scíth."

"Ní fhéadaim, a mhic, ní fhéadaim,
Tá cnapán mór i m’ucht,
B’fhéidir gur páiste gan athair
Tú féin, amhic, anocht."

"A mháthair, tá Dia cineálta,
Ní ligfidh sé dochar dó;
Ná habair, ná habair, a mháthair
Ná habair nach bhfuail sé beo."

Ach d’fhan sé san áit inar thit sé,
Agus piléar trína ucht;
Nach silfidh Éire aon deoirín
Ar son a siaghdiúr’ bhocht?

Dúghlas de hÍde (An Craoibhín)



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ROUSE, HIBERNIANS

Rouse, Hibernians, from your slumbers!
See the moment just arrived
Imperious tyrants for to humble
Our French brethren are at hand.

Vive la, (1) United heroes,
Triumphant always may they be,
Vive la, our gallant brethren
That have come to set us free.

Erin’s sons, be not faint-hearted
Welcome, sing then "Ca ira", (2)
From Killala they are marching
To the tune of "Vive la".

Vive la, United heroes,
Triumphant always may they be,
Vive la, our gallant brethren
That have come to set us free.

To arms quickly, and be ready,
Join the ranks and never flee,
Determined stand by one another
And from tyrants you’ll be free.

Vive la, United heroes,
Triumphant always may they be,
Vive la, our gallant brethren
That have come to set us free.

Cruel tyrants who oppressed you,
Now with terrors see their fall!
Then bless the heroes who caress you,
The Orange now goes to the wall.

Vive la, United heroes,
Triumphant always may they be,
Vive la, our gallant brethren
That have come to set us free.

Apostate Orange, why so dull now?
Self-willed slaves, why do you frown?
Sure you might know how Irish freemen
Soon would put your Orange down

Vive la, United heroes,
Triumphant always may they be,
Vive la, our gallant brethren
That have come to set us free.

(1) Pronounced here "vive la". It comes from the slogan "vive la liberté".

(2) A marching song of the French Army of the Revolution, like the Marseillasie.


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AN CAIPTÍN MÁILLEACH

Moladh ar an gCaiptín Séamas Bán Ó Máille as Cnoc Mhuire, Co Mhaigh Eo. Ghlac sé páirt san Éirí Amach agus crochadh é ina dhiadh sin.
***


Is mise Caiptín Máilleach,
Fear claímhe, píc' is láige,
Fear cneasta, gnaíúil grámhar
Ar aonach, damhs’ nó spóirt.
Is mé a sheasfadh dána
I mbearnain bhaoil le háthas
Ar ceart dom’ bhuín ‘s mo chairde
Dá mba ‘ndán dom an róp.

Ceal airm, dín nó éide
I ngleannta doimhne ‘s sléibhte
Chleachtaigh muid fian-réiteach
Do thíocht na bhFrancach cróga;
I mBeárnain mhaol na Gaoithe
Sa gCaistilbeár na dhéigh sin
Ruaig muid na Breathnaigh bhréagach’
Is ár bpíce len a dtóin!

Ach! anois tá mo chnaipe déanta,
Go bhfóire an Tríonóid Naofa ‘rm,
An Mhaighdean gheal ‘s a hAon-Mhac
Go dtarrthaí mé go deo
Mar is mise an Caiptín Máilleach
Fear ceart de chineál Gráinne,
Fear tíre nó fear sáile,
Fear troda, siams’ nó spóirt.

Mo mhallacht ar an mBrúnach
Mark Grady is a chúmplacht,
Na Diolúnaigh is na Diúcaigh,
Is na Dáibhisigh bréana fós;
Bhíodh ár scrios ‘s ár sciúirse
Ó Swinford go Cúl Luachra,
Ó Scrig go Tullaigh Luachra
Na middlemen ‘s na Yeos.

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PÁID O’DONOGHUE

One of the favorite recitations of PH Pearse
***


The Yeos were in Dunshaughlin, and the Hessians in Dunreagh,
And spread thro’ fair Moynalty were the Fencibles of Reagh,
While Roden’s godless troopers ranged from Skreen to Mullachoo,
When hammered were the pikeheads first by Páid O’Donoghue.

Young Páid, he was as brave a boy as ever hammer swung,
And the finest hurler that you’d ever find the lads of Meath among;
And when the wrestling match was o’er no man could boast he threw
The dark-haired smith of Curroghá, young Páid O’Donoghue.

So Pádraig lived a happy life and gaily sang each day
Beside his ringing anvil some sweet old Irish lay,
Or roamed light-heartedly at eve thro’ the woods of lone Kilbrue,
With her who’d given her pure heart’s love to Páid O’Donoghue.

But Ninety-Eight’s dark season came and Irish hearts were sore;
The pitch-cap and triangle the patient folk outwore;
The blacksmith thought of Ireland and found he’d work to do:
"I’ll forge some steel for freedom," said Páid O’Donoghue.

Tho’ the Yeos were in Dunshaughlin and the Hessians in Dunreagh,
Tho’ spread thro’ fair Moynalty were the Fencibles of Reagh;
Tho’ Roden’s godless troopers ranged from Skreen to Mullachoo,
The pike-heads keen were hammered out by Páid O’Donoghue.

And so in Curroghá each night was heard the anvil’s ring,
While scouting on the roadways were Hugh and Phelim King,
With Gillic’s Mat, and Duffy’s Pat, and Mickey Gilsenan, too,
While in the forge for Ireland worked young Páid O’Donoghue.

But a traitor crept amongst them, and the secret soon was sold
To the captain of the Yeomen for the ready Saxon gold;
And a troop burst out one evening from the woods of dark Kilbrue,
And soon a rebel prisoner bound was Páid O’Donoghue.

Now Pádraig Óg pray fervently, your earthly course has run;
The captain he has sworn you’ll not see the morrow’s sun.
The muskets they are ready, and each yeoman’s aim is true;
Death stands beside thy shoulder, young Páid O’Donoghue.

"Down on your knees, you rebel dog," the yeoman captain roared,
As high above his helmet’s crest he waved his gleaming sword.
"Down on your knees to meet you doom, such is the rebel’s due;"
But straight as pike shaft ‘fore him stood bold Páid O’Donoghue.

And there upon the roadway where in childhood he had played,
Before the cruel yeoman he stood quite undismayed –
"I kneel but to my God above, I ne’er shall bow to you;
You can shoot me as I’m standing," said Páid O’Donoghue.

The captain gazed in wonder, then lowered his keen edged blade,
"A rebel bold as this," he said "tis fitting to degrade.
Here men!" he cried, "unbind him, my charger needs a shoe;
The King shall have a workman in this Páid O’Donoghue."

Now to the forge young Páid has gone, the yeomen guard the door,
And soon the ponderous bellows is heard to snort and roar;
The captain stands with reins in hand while Pádraig fits the shoe,
And when ‘tis on full short the shrift he’ll give O’Donoghue.

The last strong nail is firmly clenched, the captain’s horse is shod!
Now rebel bold thine hour hath come, prepare to meet thy God!
But why holds he the horse’s hoof there’s no more work to do?
Why clenches he his hammer so, young Páid O’Donoghue?

A leap! a roar! a smothered groan! the captain drops the rein,
And sinks to earth with hammer-head sunk deeply in his brain;
And lightly in the saddle fast racing towards Kilbrue
Upon the captain’s charger sits Páid O’Donoghue.

A volley from the pistols, a rush of horses’ feet –
He’s gone! and none can capture the captain’s charger fleet;
And on the night wind backwards comes a mocking loud "Halloo!"
That tells the yeomen they have lost young Páid O’Donoghue.

Young Páid fought at Tara, you know the nation’s tale;
Though borne down in that struggle, not hopeless is the Gael,
For still in Meath’s fair county, there are brave lads – not a few
Who would follow in the footsteps of bold Páid O’Donoghue.

Patrick Archer



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