Part 8
Now we all must grieve to know The deep offense our fathers gave, Meeting men with thrust and blow That came to rob them and enslave; We should blush for their ill-doing, Give their errors no renewing, And, unlike those old transgressors, Never hurt our isle's oppressors-- Ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha! Never hurt our isle's oppressors, Ha, ha, ha!
Only think of Hugh O'Neill, Thundering down in furious style, To assail with lead and steel The rovers from our sister isle; Chiefs and clans in all directions With their far and near connections, Warriors bold and swift uprisers, Rushing on their civilizers-- Ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha! On their gracious civilizers, Ha, ha, ha!
Surely, friends, the chance is great We'll cast a cloud on Emmet's fame, Scoff at Tone and '98, And scorn Lord Edward's honored name; Then, in quite a loyal manner, Clip and dye our old green banner, And, where hangs the harp of Brian, Place the mangy British lion-- Ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha! Place the mangy British lion, Ha, ha, ha!
Surely, friends, it seems to me, England's self ere now should know, These are things she'll never see, Let Ireland's star be high or low; That's the truth, whoe'er denies it, Scouts it, flouts it, or decries it, Aids to spread a vile invention, Drawn from--where I will not mention! Ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha! From the place 'tis wrong to mention, Ha, ha, ha!
Another song, written to discourage recruiting for the English army in Ireland, goes thus:
EIGHT MILLIONS OF ENGLISH MEN
I
Good old Britain, rule the waves And gobble up all the land, Bring out the blacks and Indian braves To jigger the German band; Call up Australia and Canada, too, To shatter the Kaiser's den, We'll stick to the looms while the howitzer booms, Eight millions of English men; Of mafficking, manly men; Of valiant, loyal men; We'll capture the trade from here to Belgrade, Eight millions of English men.
II
There are plenty of fools in Ireland still, Just promise them something soon, A Union Jack, or a Home Rule Bill, Or a slice of the next new moon; And they'll rush to the colors with wild hurroos, What price the War Lord then? They'll settle his hash, while we gobble his cash, Eight millions of English men; Of beef-eating, bull-dog men; Of undersized, able men; We're shy of the guns, but we'll beggar the Huns, Eight millions of English men.
This is a song that includes the Irish leaders in Parliament in its satire on Irish "loyalty" to England:
"Now," says Lady Aberdeen, "I've a message from the Queen To the loyal hearts in Ireland here at home; She wants you all to gather socks, Plain as I, or decked with clocks, Just to prove the Irish loyal to the throne."
CHORUS
To Hell with the King, and God save Ireland, Get a sack and start the work to-day, Gather all the socks you meet, for the English Tommies' feet, When they're running from the Germans far away!
"When you've gathered all the socks, Send them on to Dr. Cox, Or to Redmond, or to Dillon, or myself, For the party on the floor Have agreed to look them o'er While the Home Rule Bill is resting on the shelf."
CHORUS
(Same as first stanza. The first line is a parody on the loyalist toast: "Here's a health to the King, and God save Ireland!")
The Irish Citizen Army song was written by Jo Connolly, a young workingman, whose brother, Sean Connolly, was killed while leading the attack on Dublin Castle Easter Monday. Jo was the boy who cut loopholes in the roof of the College of Surgeons. He was deported to Wandsworth Prison, but after a few months was released. The song is sung to the tune which you know as "John Brown's Body":
THE IRISH CITIZEN ARMY
I
The Irish Citizen Army is the name of our wee band, With our marchin' and our drillin', I'm sure you'll call it grand; And when we start our fightin' it will be for Ireland, And we'll still keep marching on!
CHORUS
Glory, glory to old Ireland! Glory, glory to our sireland! Glory to the memory of those who fought and fell, And we'll still keep marching on!
II
We've got guns and ammunition, we know how to use them well, And when we meet the Saxon, we will drive them all to Hell; We've got to free our country and avenge all those who fell, So we still keep marching on!
CHORUS
III
King George he is a coward, that no one can deny, When the Germans come to England, from there he'll have to fly; And if he comes to Ireland then, by God, he'll have to die, And we'll still go marching on!
CHORUS
IV
When the Germans come to free us, we will lend a helping hand, For we believe they're just as good as any in the land, They're bound to win our rights for us, let England go be damned! And we'll still keep marching on!
Here is the song of the Irish Volunteers, sung at all concerts held before the rising to get funds for rifles and ammunition. The Volunteers sang it whenever they marched, and I have been told the men in the rising of '67 also sang it. It was sung everywhere during the last rising. When we first withdrew to the College of Surgeons, Frank Robins sang it, and we all joined in the chorus:
VOLUNTEER MARCHING SONG
I'll sing you a song, a soldier's song, With a cheering, rousing chorus, As round the blazing camp-fire we throng, The starry heavens o'er us; Impatient for the coming fight, And, as we watch the dawning light, Here in the silence of the night We'll chant the soldier's song:
CHORUS
Soldiers are we whose lives are pledged to Ireland! Some have come from a land beyond the wave, Sworn to be free! No more our ancient sireland Shall shelter the despot and the slave! To-night we'll man the bearna booighill,[1] In Erin's cause come woe or weal, 'Mid cannon's roar or rifle's peal, We'll chant a soldier's song!
'Mid valleys green and towering crag, Our fathers fought before us, And conquered 'neath the same old flag That's proudly floating o'er us; We're children of a fighting race That never yet has known disgrace, And as we go our foe to face, We'll chant a soldier's song:
CHORUS
Sons of the Gael, men of the Pale, The long-watched day is breaking! The serried ranks of Innisfail Have set the tyrant quaking! But now our camp-fire's burning low, See in the east a silver glow! Out yonder waits the Saxon foe! Then chant a soldier's song:
CHORUS
The Fianna also had their songs. One of them, written by one of the Fianna boys, goes:
Draw the sword ye Irish men! The sword is mightier than the pen! Fight the good old fight again To crush the old transgressor!
Break the bonds of slavery! O great God, it cannot be That Gaels could ever bend the knee To England, their oppressor!
Almost before it was over, the rising became part of the great patriotic tradition of Ireland, and on all sides new songs were heard celebrating it and those who took leading parts in it. Some of these songs were heavy with a sense of the nation's tragedy. Others--those written by men who had taken part in the rising--were often full of wit, that dauntless Irish spirit that does not forsake men even in defeat and imprisonment. But the most moving, now the most popular of them all, was written by a nun. It is sung to the tune of "Who Fears to Speak of '98?" and begins:
Who fears to speak of Easter Week? Who dares its fate deplore? The red-gold flame of Erin's name Confronts the world once more! So, Irishmen, remember, then, And raise your heads with pride, For great men, and straight men Have fought for you and died!
The spirit wave that came to save The peerless Celtic soul, From earthly stain of greed and gain Had caught them in its roll; Had raised them high to do or die, To sound the trumpet call, To true men, though few men, To follow one and all!
Upon their shield, a stainless field With virtue blazoned bright, With temperance and purity, With truth and honor, right; And now they stand at God's right hand, Who framed their dauntless clay, Who taught them, and brought them The honor of to-day!
The ancient foe hath boasted,--lo: That Irishmen were tame! They bought our souls with paltry doles, And told the world of slaves; That lie, men, will die, men, In Pearse and Plunkett's graves!
Here is a song written by a member of the Irish Republican army while he was confined in Richmond Barracks, Dublin, a month after the rising. It is sung to the tune of "The Mountains of Mourne":
I
In Dublin's fair city there's sorrow to-day For the flower of her manhood who fell in the fray; Her youths and her maidens, her joy and her pride Have gone down in battle, in war's raging tide.
II
They came forth to fight for a cause that was grand, When freedom and liberty called to their land; In the ardor of youth, in the spring of the year, They came without falter, they fought without fear.
III
Near the noon of that day on that April morn, Their tramp shook the street where young Emmet was born; They waved high their banner, white, orange and green, And it waved over freemen, the men of '16!
IV
And high o'er the Liffey it waved in the wind, Over hearts that were brave and the noblest of minds; And they fought as of old, and they held the old town Till their banner, unsullied, in darkness went down.
V
In that Easter Week, dear old Dublin was freed, By the blood of her sons from Swords to the Sea, Oh, proudly again does she raise her old head When the nations lament and salute her bold dead!
VI
O Irish Republic! O dream of our dreams! Resplendent in vision thy bright beauty gleams! Though fallen and crushed 'neath thy enemy's heel, Thy glory and beauty shine burnished like steel!
VII
Not in vain was their death who for Ireland died, And their deeds in our hearts in gold are inscribed; The freeing of Ireland to us is their trust, And we can if we will it, we can if we must!
VIII
In Dublin's fair city there's sorrow to-day, For the flower of her manhood who fell in the fray; But in hearts that are true there is nothing of gloom, And Erin regenerate shall rise from the tomb!
The rising inspired not only verse, but music. One of the most popular songs in Ireland to-day is "Easter Week"; the words by Francis Grenade, the music by Joseph Mary Crofts:
Long, long the years thy chains have bound thee, Eire, Bitter the tears that sparkled in thy eyes, Sudden the cry of freedom thrills the city, Brave hearts beat high, thy children round thee rise; 'Mid shot and shell, where flaming cannon thunder, From out that hell we hear their battle-cry: "Sinn Fein Amain!" Thy sons salute thee, Eire! See! Freedom's dawn is flushing in the skies!
Dark Rosaleen, thy trampled flag, we swear it, Shall lift its sheen triumphant in the sun! Thy galling chain, our gallant sword shall save her, Ended thy pain and weeping, dearest one! In plaintive strains our hearts shall mourn our heroes, Till once again thy banner waveth free, Close to thy breast, then guard them, gentle Eire, There shall they rest till time shall cease to be!
If any proof were needed of the unbroken spirit of our men after the rising, there could be none better than in the gay and challenging tone of many of the songs written and sung at the internment camp at Frongoch, Wales. The British guards were particularly irritated by one in which every verse ended with the line:
"Sinn Feiners, Pro-Germans, alive, alive O!"
But there was another that the guards not only tolerated but took to singing themselves, much to the amusement of our men. The reason they sang it was because the air was catchy and they had no means of knowing that the "N. D. U." is the North Dublin Union or workhouse. It was written by Jack McDonagh, brother of Thomas McDonagh, the poet, who signed the proclamation of the republic and was shot for it. Here is the chorus:
Come along and join the British Army, Show that you're not afraid, Put your name upon the roll of honor, In the Dublin "Pal's Brigade"! They'll send you out to France or Flanders, To show that you're true blue, But when the war is o'er, They won't need you any more, So they'll shut you in the N.D.U.!
FOOTNOTE:
[1] Pronounced "barnabweel," which means, "gap of danger."
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's Doing My Bit For Ireland, by Margaret Skinnider