 | The Poems of Thomas Davis |  |
I. PART I. NATIONAL BALLADS AND SONGS.
“National Poetry is the very flowering of the soul,—the greatest
evidence of its health, the greatest excellence of its beauty. Its
melody is balsam to the senses. It is the playfellow of Childhood, ripens
into the companion of Manhood, consoles Age. It presents the
most dramatic events, the largest characters, the most impressive
scenes, and the deepest passions, in the language most familiar to us.
It magnifies and ennobles our hearts, our intellects, our country, and
our countrymen,—binds us to the land by its condensed and gem-like
history; to the future by example and by aspiration. It solaces us in
travel, fires us in action, prompts our invention, sheds a grace beyond
the power of luxury round our homes, is the recognised envoy of our
minds among all mankind, and to all time.”—Davis's Essays.
TIPPERARY.
I
Let Britain boast her British hosts,About them all right little care we;
Not British seas nor British coasts
Can match The Man of Tipperary!
II
Tall is his form, his heart is warm.His spirit light as any fairy—
His wrath is fearful as the storm
That sweeps The Hills of Tipperary!
III
Lead him to fight for native land,His is no courage cold and wary;
The troops live not on earth would stand
The headlong Charge of Tipperary!
4
IV
Or dancing with his dark-haired Mary,Yet meet him in his cabin rude,
You'd swear they knew no other mood
But Mirth and Love in Tipperary!
V
You're free to share his scanty meal,His plighted word he'll never vary—
In vain they tried with gold and steel
To shake The Faith of Tipperary!
VI
Soft is his cailín's sunny eye,Her mien is mild, her step is airy,
Her heart is fond, her soul is high—
Oh! she's The Pride of Tipperary!
VII
Let Britain brag her motley rag;We'll lift The Green more proud and airy;—
Be mine the lot to bear that flag,
And head The Men of Tipperary!
VIII
Though Britain boasts her British hosts,About them all right little care we—
Give us, to guard our native coasts,
The Matchles Men of Tipperary!
5
THE RIVERS.
I
There's a far-famed Blackwater that runs to Loch Neagh,There's a fairer Blackwater that runs to the sea—
The glory of Ulster.
The beauty of Munster.
These twin rivers be.
II
From the banks of that river Benburb's towers arise;This stream shines as bright as a tear from sweet eyes;
This fond as a young bride,
That with foeman's blood dyed—
Both dearly we prize.
III
Deep sunk in that bed is the sword of Monroe,Since, 'twixt it and Donagh, he met Owen Roe,
And Charlemont's cannon
Slew many a man on
These meadows below.
6
IV
The shrines of Armagh gleam far over yon lea,Nor afar is Dungannon that nursed liberty,
And yonder Red Hugh
Marshal Bagenal o'erthrew
On Béal-an-atha-Buidhe.
V
But far kinder the woodlands of rich Convamore,And more gorgeous the turrets of saintly Lismore;
There the stream, like a maiden
With love overladen,
Pants wild on each shore.
VI
Its rocks rise like statues, tall, stately, and fair,And the trees, and the flowers, and the mountains, and air,
With Wonder's soul near you
To share with, and cheer you,
Make Paradise there.
VII
I would rove by that stream, ere my flag I unrolled;I would fly to these banks my betrothed to enfold—
The pride of our sire-land,
the Eden of Ireland,
More precious than gold.
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VIII
May their borders be free from oppression and blight:May their daughters and sons ever fondly unite—
The glory of Ulster,
The beauty of Munster,
Our strength and delight:
GLENGARIFF.
I
I wandered at eve by Glengariff's sweet water,Half in the shade, and half in the moon,
And thought of the time when the Sacsanach slaughter
Reddened the night and darkened the noon;
Mo nuar! mo nuar! mo nuar! I said,—
When I think, in this valley and sky—
Where true lovers and poets should sigh—
Of the time when its chieftain O'Sullivan fled.
8
II
Then my mind went along with O'Sullivan marchingOver Musk'ry's moors and Ormond's plain,
His curachs the waves of the Shannon o'erarching,
And his pathway mile-marked with the slain:
Mo nuar! mo nuar! mo nuar! I said,—
Yet 'twas better far from you to go,
And to battle with torrent and foe,
Than linger as slaves where your sweet waters spread.
III
But my fancy burst on, like a clan o'er the border,To times that seemed almost at hand,
When grasping her banner, old Erin's Lamh Laidir
Alone shall rule over the rescued land:
O baotho! O baotho! O baotho! I said,—
Be our marching as steady and strong,
And freemen our vallies shall throng,
When the last of our foemen is vanquished and fled!
9
THE WEST'S ASLEEP.
I
When all beside a vigil keep,The West's asleep, the West's asleep—
Alas! and well may Erin weep,
When Connaught lies in slumber deep.
There lake and plain smile fair and free,
'Mid rocks—their guardian chivalry—
Sing oh! let man learn liberty
From crashing wind and lashing sea.
II
That chainless wave and lovely landFreedom and Nationhood demand—
Be sure, the great God never planned,
For slumbering slaves, a home so grand.
And, long, a brave and haughty race
Honoured and sentinelled the place—
Sing oh! not even their sons' disgrace
Can quite destroy their glory's trace.
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III
For often, in O'Connor's van,To triumph dashed each Connaught clan—
And fleet as deer the Normans ran
Through Corlieu's Pass and Ardrahan.
And later times saw deeds as brave;
And glory guards Clanricarde's grave—
Sing oh! they died their land to save,
At Aughrim's slopes and Shannon's wave.
IV
And if, when all a vigil keep,The West's asleep, the West's asleep—
Alas! and well may Erin weep,
That Connaught lies in slumber deep.
But—hark!—some voice like thunder spake:
“The West's awake, the West's awake”—
“Sing oh! hurra! let England quake,
We'll watch till death for Erin's sake!”
11
OH! FOR A STEED.
I
Oh! for a steed, a rushing steed, and a blazing scimitar,To hunt from beauteous Italy the Austrian's red hussar;
To mock their boasts,
And strew their hosts,
And scatter their flags afar.
II
Oh! for a steed, a rushing steed, and dear Poland gathered around,To smite her circle of savage foes, and smash them upon the ground;
Nor hold my hand
While, on the land,
A foreigner foe was found.
12
III
Oh! for a steed, a rushing steed, and a rifle that never failed,And a tribe of terrible prairie men, by desperate valour mailed,
Till “stripes and stars,”
And Russian czars,
Before the Red Indian quailed.
IV
Oh! for a steed, a rushing steed, on the plains of Hindustan,And a hundred thousand cavaliers, to charge like a single man,
Till our shirts were red,
And the English fled
Like a cowardly caravan.
V
Oh! for a steed, a rushing steed, with the Greeks at Marathon,Or a place in the Switzer phalanx, when the Morat men swept on,
Like a pine-clad hill
By an earthquake's will
Hurled the vallies upon.
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VI
Oh! for a steed, a rushing steed, when Brian smote down the Dane,Or a place beside great Aodh O'Neill, when Bagenal the bold was slain,
Or a waving crest
And a lance in rest,
With Bruce upon Baunoch plain.
VII
Oh! for a steed, a rushing steed, on the Curragh of Kildare,And Irish squadrons skilled to do, as they are ready to dare—
A hundred yards,
And Holland's guards
Drawn up to engage me there.
VIII
Oh! for a steed, a rushing steed, and any good cause at all,Or else, if you will, a field on foot, or guarding a leaguered wall
For freedom's right;
In flushing fight
To conquer if then to fall.
14
CYMRIC RULE AND CYMRIC RULERS.
I.
Once there was a Cymric nation;Few its men, but high its station—
Freedom is the soul's creation
Not the work of hands.
Coward hearts are self-subduing;
Fetters last by slaves' renewing—
Edward's castles are in ruin,
Still his empire stands.
Still the Saxon's malice
Blights our beauteous valleys;
Ours the toil, but his the spoil, and his the laws we writhe in;
Worked like beasts, that Saxon priests may riot in our tithing;
Saxon speech and Saxon teachers
Crush our Cymric tongue!
Tolls our traffic binding,
Rents our vitals grinding—
15
We could drive from out our hive these Saxon drones for ever.
“Cymric Rule and Cymric Rulers”—
Pass along the word!
II.
We should blush at Arthur's glory—Never sing the deeds of Rory—
Caratach's renowned story
Deepens our disgrace.
By the bloody day of Banchor!
By a thousand years of rancour!
By the wrongs that in us canker!
Up! ye Cymric race—
Think of Old Llewellyn,—
Owen's trumpets swelling;
Then send out a thunder shout, and every true man summon,
Till the ground shall echo round from Severn to Plinlimmon,
“Saxon foes, and Cymric brothers,
“Arthur's come again!”
Not his bone and sinew,
But his soul within you,
Prompt and true to plan and do, and firm as Monmouth iron
For our cause, though crafty laws and charging troops environ—
“Cymric Rule and Cymric Rulers”—
Pass along the word!
16
A BALLAD OF FREEDOM.
I
The Frenchman sailed in Freedom's name to smite the Algerine,The strife was short, the crescent sunk, and then his guile was seen;
For, nestling in the pirate's hold—a fiercer pirate far—
He bade the tribes yield up their flocks, the towns their gates unbar.
Right on he pressed with freemen's hands to subjugate the free,
The Berber in old Atlas glens, the Moor in Titteri;
And wider had his razzias spread, his cruel conquests broader,
But God sent down, to face his frown, the gallant Abdel-Kader—
The faithful Abdel-Kader! unconquered Abdel-Kader!
Like falling rock,
Or fierce siroc—
No savage or marauder—
Son of a slave!
First of the brave!
Hurrah for Abdel-Kader!
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II
The Englishman, for long, long years, had ravaged Ganges' side—A dealer first, intriguer next, he conquered far and wide,
Till, hurried on by avarice, and thirst of endless rule,
His sepoys pierced to Candahar, his flag waved in Cabul;
But still within the conquered land was one unconquered man,
The fierce Pushtani lion, the fiery Akhbar Khan—
He slew the sepoys on the snow, till Scindh's full flood they swam it
Right rapidly, content to flee the son of Dost Mohammed,
The son of Dost Mohammed, and brave old Dost Mohammed—
Oh! long may they
Their mountains sway,
Akhbar and Dost Mohammed!
Long live the Dost!
Who Britain crost,
Hurrah for Dost Mohammed!
18
III
The Russian, lord of million serfs, and nobles serflier still,Indignant saw Circassia's sons bear up against his will;
With fiery ships he lines their coast, his armies cross their streams—
He builds a hundred fortresses—his conquests done, he deems.
But steady rifles—rushing steeds—a crowd of nameless chiefs—
The plough is o'er his arsenals!—his fleet is on the reefs!
The maidens of Kabyntica are clad in Moscow dresses—
His slavish herd, how dared they beard the mountain bred Cherkesses!
The lightening Cherkesses!—the thundering Cherkesses!
May Elburz top
In Azof drop,
Ere Cossacks beat Cherkesses!
The fountain head
Whence Europe spread—
Hurrah! for the tall Cherkesses!
19
IV
But Russia preys on Poland's fields, where Sobieski reigned,And Austria on Italy—the Roman eagle chained—
Bohemia, Servia, Hungary, within her clutches, gasp;
And Ire and struggles gallantly in England's loosening grasp.
Oh! would all these their strength unite, or battle on alone,
Like Moor, Pushtani, and Cherkess, they soon would have their own.
Hurrah! hurrah! it can't be far, when from the Scindh to Shannon
Shall gleam a line of freemen's flags begirt by freemen's cannon!
The coming day of Freedom—the flashing flags of Freedom!
The victor glaive—
The mottoes brave,
May we be there to read them!
That glorious noon,
God send it soon—
Hurrah for human Freedom!
This name is pronounced Cawder. The French say that their great foe was a slave's son. Be it so—he has a hero's and freeman's heart. “Hurrah for Abdel-Kader!”—Author's Note.
This is the name by which the Affghans call themselves. Affghan is a Persian name (see Elphinstone's delightful book on Cabul).— Author's Note.
Cherkesses or Abdyes is the right name of the, so-called, Circassians. Kabyntica is a town in the heart of the Caucasus, of which Mount Elburz is the summit. Blumenbach, and other physiologists, assert that the finer European races descend from a Circassian stock.— Author's Note.
20
THE IRISH HURRAH.
I
Have you hearkened the eagle scream over the sea?Have you hearkened the breaker beat under your lee?
A something between the wild waves, in their play,
And the kingly bird's scream, is The Irish Hurrah.
II
How it rings on the rampart when Saxons assail—How it leaps on the level, and crosses the vale,
Till the talk of the cataract faints on its way,
And the echo's voice cracks with the Irish Hurrah.
III
How it sweeps o'er the mountain when hounds are on scent,How it presses the billows when rigging is rent,
Till the enemy's broadside sinks low in dismay,
As our boarders go in with The Irish Hurrah.
IV
Oh! there's hope in the trumpet and glee in the fife.But never such music broke into a strife,
As when at its bursting the war-clouds give way,
And there's cold steel along with The Irish Hurrah.
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V
What joy for a death-bed, your banner above,And round you the pressure of patriot love,
As you're lifted to gaze on the breaking array
Of the Saxon reserve at The Irish Hurrah.
A SONG FOR THE IRISH MILITIA.
I
The tribune's tongue and poet's penMay sow the seed in prostrate men;
But 'tis the soldier's sword alone
Can reap the crop so bravely sown!
No more I'll sing nor idly pine,
But train my soul to lead a line—
A soldier's life's the life for me—
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
22
II
No foe would fear your thunder wordsIf 'twere not for our light'ning swords—
If tyrants yield when millions pray,
'Tis lest they link in war array;
Nor peace itself is safe, but when
The sword is sheathed by fighting men—
A soldier's life's the life for me—
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
III
The rifle brown and sabre brightCan freely speak and nobly write—
What prophets preached the truth so well
As Hofer, Brian, Bruce, and Tell?
God guard the creed these heroes taught,—
That blood-bought Freedom's cheaply bought.
A soldier's life's the life for me—
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
IV
Then, welcome be the bivouac,The hardy stand, and fierce attack,
Where pikes will tame their carbineers,
And rifles thin their bay'neteers,
And every field the island through
Will show “what Irishmen can do!”
A soldier's life's the life for me—
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
23
V
Yet, 'tis not strength, and 'tis not steelAlone can make the English reel;
But wisdom, working day by day,
Till comes the time for passion's sway—
The patient dint, and powder shock,
Can blast an empire like a rock.
A soldier's life's the life for me—
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
VI
The tribune's tongue and poet's penMay sow the seed in slavish men;
But 'tis the soldier's sword alone
Can reap the harvest when 'tis grown.
No more I'll sing, no more I'll pine,
But train my soul to lead a line—
A soldier's life's the life for me—
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
24
OUR OWN AGAIN.
I
Let the coward shrink aside,We'll have our own again;
Let the brawling slave deride,
Here's for our own again—
Let the tyrant bribe and lie,
March, threaten, fortify,
Loose his lawyer and his spy,
Yet we'll have our own again.
Let him soothe in silken tone,
Scold from a foreign throne;
Let him come with bugles blown,
We shall have our own again.
Let us to our purpose bide,
We'll have our own again—
Let the game be fairly tried,
We'll have our own again.
25
II
Send the cry throughout the land,“Who's for our own again?”
Summon all men to our band,—
Why not our own again?
Rich, and poor, and old, and young,
Sharp sword, and fiery tongue—
Soul and sinew firmly strung,
All to get our own again.
Brothers thrive by brotherhood—
Trees in a stormy wood—
Riches come from Nationhood—
Sha'n't we have our own again?
Munster's woe is Ulster's bane!
Join for our own again—
Tyrants rob as well as reign,—
We'll have our own again.
III
Oft our fathers' hearts it stirred,“Rise for our own again!”
Often passed the signal word,
“Strike for our own again!”
Rudely, rashly, and untaught,
Uprose they, ere they ought,
Failing, though they nobly fought,
Dying for their own again.
26
In senate, ship, and field—
When we've skill our strength to wield,
Let us take our own again.
By the slave his chain is wrought,—
Strive for our own again.
Thunder is less strong than thought,—
We'll have our own again.
IV
Calm as granite to our foes,Stand for our own again;
Till his wrath to madness grows,
Firm for our own again.
Bravely hope, and wisely wait,
Toil, join, and educate;
Man is master of his fate;
We'll enjoy our own again.
With a keen constrained thirst—
Powder's calm ere it burst—
Making ready for the worst,
So we'll get our own again.
Let us to our purpose bide,
We'll have our own again.
God is on the righteous side,
We'll have our own again.
27
CELTS AND SAXONS.
I
We hate the Saxon and the Dane,We hate the Norman men—
We cursed their greed for blood and gain,
We curse them now again.
Yet start not, Irish born man,
If you're to Ireland true,
We heed not blood, nor creed, nor clan—
We have no curse for you.
II
We have no curse for you or your's,But Friendship's ready grasp,
And Faith to stand by you and your's,
Unto our latest gasp—
To stand by you against all foes,
Howe'er, or whence they come,
With traitor arts, or bribes, or blows,
From England, France, or Rome.
28
III
What matter that at different shrinesWe pray unto one God—
What matter that at different times
Our fathers won this sod—
In fortune and in name we're bound
By stronger links than steel;
And neither can be safe nor sound
But in the other's weal.
IV
As Nubian rocks, and Ethiop sandLong drifting down the Nile,
Built up old Egypt's fertile land
For many a hundred mile;
So Pagan clans to Ireland came,
And clans of Christendom,
Yet joined their wisdom and their fame
To build a nation from.
V
Here came the brown Phœnician,The man of trade and toil—
Here came the proud Milesian,
Ahungering for spoil;
And the Firbolg and the Cymry,
And the hard, enduring Dane,
And the iron Lords of Normandy,
With the Saxons in their train.
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VI
And oh! it were a gallant deedTo show before mankind,
How every race and every creed
Might be by love combined—
Might be combined, yet not forget
The fountains whence they rose,
As, filled by many a rivulet
The stately Shannon flows.
VII
Nor would we wreak our ancient feudOn Belgian or on Dane,
Nor visit in a hostile mood
The hearths of Gaul or Spain;
But long as on our country lies
The Anglo-Norman yoke,
Their tyranny we'll signalize,
And God's revenge invoke.
VIII
We do not hate, we never cursed,Nor spoke a foeman's word
Against a man in Ireland nursed,
Howe'er we thought he erred;
So start not, Irish born man,
If you're to Ireland true,
We heed not race, nor creed, nor clan,
We've hearts and hands for you.
Written in reply to some very beautiful verses printed in the Evening Mail, deprecating and defying the assumed hostility of the Irish Celts to the Irish Saxons.—Author's Note.
30
ORANGE AND GREEN WILL CARRY THE DAY.
I
Ireland! rejoice, and England! deplore—Faction and feud are passing away.
'Twas a low voice, but 'tis a loud roar,
“Orange and Green will carry the day.”
Orange! Orange!
Green and Orange!
Pitted together in many a fray—
Lions in fight!
And linked in their might,
Orange and Green will carry the day.
Orange! Orange!
Green and Orange!
Wave them together o'er mountain and bay.
Orange and Green!
Our King and our Queen!
“Orange and Green will carry the day!”
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II
Rusty the swords our fathers unsheathed—William and James are turned to clay—
Long did we till the wrath they bequeathed;
Red was the crop, and bitter the pay!
Freedom fled us!
Knaves misled us!
Under the feet of the foemen we lay—
Riches and strength
We'll win them at length,
For Orange and Green will carry the day!
Landlords fooled us;
England ruled us,
Hounding our passions to make us their prey;
But, in their spite,
The Irish Unite,
And Orange and Green will carry the day!
III
Fruitful our soil where honest men starve;Empty the mart, and shipless the bay;
Out of our want the Oligarchs carve;
Foreigners fatten on our decay!
Disunited,
Therefore blighted,
Ruined and rent by the Englishman's sway;
Party and creed
For once have agreed—
Orange and Green will carry the day!
32
Red with slaughter!
Now is as pure as an infant at play;
So, in our souls,
Its history rolls,
And Orange and Green will carry the day!
IV
English deceit can rule us no more,Bigots and knaves are scattered like spray—
Deep was the oath the Orangeman swore,
“Orange and Green must carry the day!”
Orange! Orange!
Bless the Orange!
Tories and Whigs grew pale with dismay,
When, from the North,
Burst the cry forth,
“Orange and Green will carry the day;”
No surrender!
No Pretender!
Never to falter and never betray—
With an Amen,
We swear it again,
Orange and Green shall carry the day.
| The Poems of Thomas Davis | |