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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 TERESA BRAYTON
 
 SONGS OF THE DAWN 
 
 AND 
 
 IRISH DITTIES 
 
 BY 
 TERESA BRAYTON 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 P. J. KENEDY & SON 
 1913
 
 Copyright, 1913, 
 
 BY 
 TERESA BRAYTON
 
 3 SO 3 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 INSCRIPTION i 
 
 ANCIENT RACE, THE 79 
 
 As THE BANDS Go BY 67 
 
 AT THE FOOT OF THE HlLL 42 
 
 BOY FROM COUNTY DOWN, THE 19 
 
 BONFIRE NIGHT IN IRELAND 88 
 
 CHRISTMAS GIFT, A 10 
 
 CARRICKDHU 59 
 
 CUCKOO S CALL, THE 83 
 
 CHRISTMAS SONG, A 53 
 
 CROPPIES GRAVE, THE 1 1 
 
 CONNAUGHTMAN S RAMBLES, THE 56 
 
 CAPPAGH HILL ; 65 
 
 FISHING 37 
 
 FIDDLER PHIL 69 
 
 HUNTING THE WREN 36 
 
 IRISH RANK AND FILE 30 
 
 INDEPENDENCE DAY 51 
 
 IN THE SPRING o THE YEAR 74 
 
 JERRY CONNOR S FORGE 28 
 
 JOGGIN INTO NAAS 34 
 
 KERRY 14 
 
 KILDARE 45 
 
 LIMERICK 64 
 
 MISSIN THE CHILDHER 20 
 
 MAYO 7 
 
 NOGGIN OF BUTTERMILK, A 66 
 
 iii 
 
 626123
 
 iv Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 OLD LAND, THE 40 
 
 OLD BOREEN, THE 47 
 
 OLD COUNTY CLARE 22 
 
 OH, ISLE OF MINE 23 
 
 OLD NORTH WALL OF DUBLIN, THE 55 
 
 OUR MARTYRED THREE 58 
 
 OLD FIRESIDE, THE 61 
 
 OLD BOG ROAD, THE 77 
 
 OLD ROAD HOME, THE 91 
 
 PATSY MAGUIRE 49 
 
 PARNELL 75 
 
 PLACE WHERE I M WANTING TO BE 27 
 
 ROADWAY OF MY HEART, THE 6 
 
 ROBERT EMMET 16 
 
 ROSARY TIME 33 
 
 ROCKY ROAD TO DUBLIN, THE 43 
 
 ROLL BACK THE STONE 84 
 
 SONGS OF THE DAWN 2 
 
 SOD FROM GAL WAY, A 25 
 
 SPRING MEMORY, A 38 
 
 TAKIN TAY AT RIELLYS 72 
 
 THRAMPIN DOWN TO SLIGO 86 
 
 WHEN I WAS LEAVING IRELAND 63 
 
 WHEN MIKE CAME BACK 71 
 
 A DHOC AN DHORRIS 92
 
 SONGS OF THE DAWN. 
 
 INSCRIPTION. 
 
 UNTO my own, the Irish, I send with smiles and 
 
 tears 
 This little book of melodies caught from the flying 
 
 years; 
 
 With all the love within me and all the best I know 
 I d call them back o er many a track to lands of 
 
 long ago. 
 
 The cuckoo s call in Springtime, the thrush s song 
 
 at morn, 
 The rainy winds that whispered across the ripening 
 
 corn, 
 The little daisies clustering where all their kindred 
 
 sleep, 
 I d bring them back o er memory s track, though 
 
 seeing were to weep. 
 
 For O, my kindred Irish, more tears than smiles we 
 
 know 
 Whose feet across the nations still wander to and 
 
 fro.
 
 2 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 But maybe when the wistful shades from those old 
 
 scenes are drawn 
 You ll hear through all the homeward call of 
 
 Ireland s Songs of Dawn. 
 
 SONGS OF THE DAWN. 
 
 " SING us a song of the Dawn," we cried, 
 
 " For night drags wearily by 
 With never a star and the winds blow wide 
 
 Through the leaden depths of the sky." 
 Then one with a dream in his eyes arose, 
 
 " I ll chant ye a rhyme," said he, 
 " Of the Irish dawnings of gold and rose 
 
 Remembered by you and me." 
 
 Silvery shimmer of crystal dews, murmur of dark 
 ling woods, 
 
 Stir of a wet wind moving abroad in the high hills 
 solitudes; 
 
 Flutter of wings in the hawthorn hedge, one golden 
 note long drawn, 
 
 Then, hush, hush, tis the thrush, aye tis the thrush 
 and the Dawn. 
 
 Dawn, dawn, dawn, from the doorway of night she 
 
 slips, 
 Dawn, dawn, dawn, God s mystic hush on her lips,
 
 Songs of the Dawn. 3 
 
 Slow moving on to her woodland herald with glim 
 mering veils undrawn, 
 
 Over the edge of the whirling world she cometh, 
 the Dawn, the Dawn. 
 
 Dripping with honey and fragrance, fraught with 
 
 the passion of life 
 With the ache of the soul s deep places, the call 
 
 of a new day s strife, 
 With tears and laughter and longing for things 
 
 from our ways withdrawn, 
 While the stars swing back from her misty track, 
 
 she cometh, the Dawn, the Dawn. 
 
 Oh, sure if the earth were piled this hour o er our 
 
 senseless forms of clay 
 Somehow we would thrill to the pulse of her, our 
 
 Irish Dawn o the day, 
 We would feel and stir in our sleeping where the 
 
 curtains of death are drawn 
 When the wee brown thrush on the hawthorn bush 
 
 sang out " tis the Dawn, the Dawn." 
 
 We would stir and wake for her beauty s sake for 
 
 the gold of the highest star 
 Hath never a wonder warm and close as the hues 
 
 of her coming are, 
 And the Angel of rest at His Lord s behest where 
 
 the astral shades are drawn 
 Would whisper, " Hush, tis the little brown thrush 
 
 and the Dawn, Dawn, Dawn."
 
 4 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 The voice of the singer in silence died 
 
 And no man spoke for a space 
 For each was afar on some green hillside 
 
 In the olden home of his race, 
 Then, dashing a tear from his furrowed cheek, 
 
 A veteran bronzed and grey 
 Cried " Yea, tis the sob of our souls ye speak. 
 But what of that other great Dawn we seek 
 
 The Dawn of our Freedom s Day? " 
 
 O, we leaped to our feet with a wild fierce cry, 
 
 Tis the Dawn, Dawn, Dawn, 
 God s finger is tracing it o er our sky where the long, 
 
 long night hath gone. 
 The stars are drenched with the glory of it and 
 
 suns in its wake are drawn 
 As out of the heart of the Infinite it cometh, our 
 
 Dawn, our Dawn. 
 
 Dawn, Dawn, Dawn! O, red is that break of day 
 For the blood of a million veins has fed its stream 
 
 of light on the way; 
 Its heralding song was the centuried crash of steel 
 
 upon vengeful steel 
 And the trusty pike and the musket s flash are the 
 
 spokes of its chariot wheel. 
 
 O er broken gibbets and bitter graves, o er ruins 
 
 of home and shrine, 
 
 From God s own Face to His faithful race it 
 beareth a sacred sign
 
 Songs of the Dawn. 5 
 
 Fraught with the Truth that alone survives when 
 
 the last earth fetter is gone, 
 Down the bloody rack of the centuries track it 
 
 cometh, our Dawn, our Dawn. 
 
 With the awful wisdom of sorrow, yea, and the 
 
 passion of deathless life, 
 With Faith that has seen its promised day and joy 
 
 of a gaining strife; 
 With sobbing of prideful laughter for days that 
 
 are dead and gone 
 O er the clearing path of an outlived wrath it 
 
 cometh, our Dawn, our Dawn. 
 
 O, lay we to-day in the shrouding clay we would 
 
 hark to its bugle call 
 And our bones would wake with their fiery ache to 
 
 follow its free foot-fall, 
 For the Angel of Victory poised on high o er the 
 
 currents of time and fate 
 Would thrill the spheres with his gladsome cry 
 
 when the gods had unbarred its gate. 
 We would feel the surge of that upward urge 
 
 though dark were the death shades drawn 
 And the deepest deep could not bar our leap to the 
 
 Dawn, Dawn, Dawn."
 
 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 THE ROADWAY OF MY HEART. 
 
 A BIG road circles round the world, sure fine it is 
 
 they say, 
 But the little boreen of my heart runs lone and far 
 
 away. 
 
 Tis winding over weary seas with many a sigh beset 
 But O, of all the roads I know it is the dearest yet. 
 
 By common ways and common homes and common 
 
 graves it goes 
 But no one knows its beauty like the soul within me 
 
 knows ; 
 Its dawns are drenched with dews from heaven, its 
 
 nights are tearful sweet, 
 And sometimes One long crucified walks there to 
 
 guide my feet. 
 
 It leads me down by purple hills where fairies sport 
 
 o nights 
 It shows me many a hawthorn lane, the scene of 
 
 dead delights, 
 
 It clothes again with living fire the faces laid away 
 Beneath the cold of grass and mould, my road of 
 
 yesterday. 
 
 O twilit boreen of my heart, the world is vague 
 
 and vast 
 But you are holy with the balm of all my hallowed 
 
 past;
 
 Mayo. 1 
 
 You thrill me with the touch of hands my hands 
 
 were wont to hold, 
 You lure me with the lilt of dreams I dreamed and 
 
 lost of old. 
 
 The big road of the world leads on by many a 
 
 stately town, 
 But the little boreen of my heart keeps ever drifting 
 
 down 
 By common ways and common graves and common 
 
 homes, but Oh! 
 Of all the roads in life it is the sweetest road I 
 
 know. 
 
 MAYO. 
 
 THE wild waves thunder for evermore at the feet 
 
 of her standing there 
 With the storm clouds lightning laden above the 
 
 scarps of her mountains bare; 
 But the sun on her heart is golden and the tenderest 
 
 rain mists go 
 Like whispers of God o er her sacred sod our Queen 
 
 of the west, Mayo. 
 
 The blood in her veins is vibrant with the pride of a 
 
 mighty race 
 And the deeds and souls of her deathless dead shine 
 
 out from her fearless face,
 
 8 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 And though the wiles of her witcheries are soft as 
 
 an April snow 
 With a burning flame hath she seared her name on 
 
 the hearts of her foes, Mayo. 
 
 Yea, though her sons are scattered afar to the utter 
 most winds of heaven 
 
 And the sword of a million agonies the core of her 
 soul hath riven, 
 
 Seek not for a broken spirit there, a weeper in hope 
 less woe, 
 
 But a Watcher who waits with wide flung gates for 
 her own to come back, Mayo. 
 
 Seek not for a suppliant kneeling low to the lords 
 
 of a Saxon land 
 Mayo to kneel while the world holds steel to grasp 
 
 in her fighting hand 
 O, no, by Heaven, that world shall fall and the sun 
 
 from its orbit go 
 Ere knee she ll bend to stranger or friend for the 
 
 Rights that she claims, Mayo. 
 
 Then roll the call from her battlements o er the 
 
 clamor of winds and waves, 
 Here is place for the free and fearless, yea, but 
 
 never a home for slaves, 
 Here s the open hand and the open heart for those 
 
 who her love would know 
 But the crashing might of her arm to smite the foes 
 
 of her hearth, Mayo.
 
 Mayo. 9 
 
 Here s the welcoming word and the kindly way, the 
 
 laugh and the voice of cheer, 
 Here is faith to the nation in life and death and a 
 
 courage that knows no fear; 
 Here s the mind to plan and the will to dare and the 
 
 veins that are all aglow 
 With the passionate leap of souls that sweep to the 
 
 front of the fray, Mayo. 
 
 O, holy her sod as a dream of God and sweet are 
 
 her home-lit ways, 
 And the wind blown heights of her mountains thrill 
 
 to the glory of greater days; 
 With the storm clouds lightning laden above and 
 
 the thunderous seas below 
 She stands in the strait where the lords of Fate have 
 
 willed her to reign, Mayo. 
 
 To reign till the utmost heavens are rolled like a 
 
 scroll in the Maker s hand 
 For the stars are bright with her destiny, its pulse is 
 
 quick in the land; 
 O, Watcher, who waits with wide flung gates for 
 
 the home turned tides to flow 
 Look up to the dawn for the night has gone and 
 
 Day s in the east, Mayo.
 
 10 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS GIFT. 
 
 WHAT Christmas gift shall I send you, Mother, 
 
 What Christmas gift shall I send to you? 
 Too poor am I to befriend you, my Mother, 
 
 And my notes of praising are faint and few. 
 But I ll send you my heart s love, Erin, my Mother, 
 
 My love and the sob of a homesick cry, 
 That God will yet lead me back to you, Mother, 
 
 If only to die. 
 
 O, sure I am haunted by visions forever, 
 
 Of you in all weathers from laughing spring, 
 When primrose blossoms are all aquiver, 
 
 And winds go swift as a swallow s wing, 
 To the beautiful summers with which God crowned 
 you, 
 
 When first He called you from starry space 
 And throned you queen of the waters round you, 
 
 His glory lighting your face. 
 
 But lovely and dear to our hearts forever, 
 
 Sure yours is the beauty that grows not old, 
 The steadfast hope and the high endeavor, 
 
 The faith and the dreams that will always hold. 
 And I ll pray you ll be true to your destined promise, 
 
 True to the soldiers that fought your fight, 
 True to that faith never foe took from us. 
 
 For truth shall reach to right.
 
 The Croppies Grave. 1 1 
 
 Aye, I ll pray that the teachings by Patrick given 
 
 Will help and keep you through ill and good, 
 Till some fair morn the Lord in Heaven 
 
 Will send you the crown of your nationhood. 
 Nor alone am I in my prayers, mavourneen, 
 
 Love of a race that is scattered afar, 
 There are tears and prayers for your weal this 
 morning, 
 
 Wherever your exiled children are. 
 
 Sure the dust of our dead is laid in your bosom, 
 
 With the hopes and the joys that our childhood 
 
 knew, 
 And all in our lives of beauty and blossom 
 
 Is shrined in the bygone there with you. 
 Then this is my gift to you Christmas morning, 
 
 My love and the sob of a homesick cry, 
 That God will yet lead me back to my " stoirin," 
 
 If only to die. 
 
 THE CROPPIES GRAVE. 
 
 Tis under the Lia Fail they lie, quiet and lone and 
 
 still, 
 Where the winds of the world are roaming o er the 
 
 summits of Tar a hill; 
 Quiet and still and lonely with the things that have 
 
 ceased to be, 
 Tis under the Lia Fail they lie, the Stone of our 
 
 destiny.
 
 1 2 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 Under the Lia Fail, O God, where the throne of 
 
 our kings was set, 
 And even the mould remembers the days of their 
 
 glory yet; 
 Under the Lia Fail that lifts its shoulder above the 
 
 sod 
 
 Like some high beacon of majesty that summons 
 the eye of God. 
 
 O, lonely it is in Tara where the beating of rain is 
 
 known, 
 And only the kine are sentinels by the place of our 
 
 Crowning Stone; 
 Where down in the dreary darkness of things that 
 
 have ceased to be 
 Our murdered Croppies are lying neath the Stone 
 
 of our destiny. 
 
 King and soldier and lordly knight, turret and door 
 
 and hall, 
 Bard and lover and lady bright, what lives of your 
 
 life at all? 
 A marking ridge in the sheathing grass, a mound by 
 
 the Lia Fail 
 And a wind going by like a Banshee s cry o er the 
 
 broken dreams of the Gael. 
 
 Aye, but that wind of Tara has swept over Aileach s 
 
 hall, 
 And the four high roads of the world that have 
 
 known the deeds of us all;
 
 The Croppres Grave. 13 
 
 It has kissed Ramillies and Fontenoy, it has swung 
 
 through a dawning s flame 
 O er a grave in the heart of Dublin that waits for 
 
 a hero s name. 
 
 Behold, tis a mightly signal, that Stone of our 
 destiny, 
 
 Sealing the Erin of ancient days to an Erin that .KS 
 to be, 
 
 And where could a faithful Croppy find holier rest 
 ing place 
 
 Than here where the winds of Tara are blowing 
 above his face? 
 
 Tis under the Lia Fail they lie, quiet and lone and 
 
 still, 
 Neath the crowning place of an Ard Righ on the 
 
 summit of Tara Hill; 
 And sure twas a fitting burial, for king of his race 
 
 is he 
 Who flings his life on the altar stone of his country s 
 
 liberty.
 
 1 4 bongs of the Dawn. 
 
 KERRY. 
 
 O, TIS over beyant in Kerry the roots of my heart 
 
 are set, 
 And tis over beyant in Kerry the dreams of my life 
 
 are yet, 
 Sure the spirit was broken in me that desolate 
 
 winther s morn 
 When I turned away from ye, Kerry, where I and 
 
 my race was born. 
 
 The sun was hid in the heavens, the wind with a 
 
 wild unrest 
 Was moanin among the shadows, a rain cloud 
 
 swung in the west ; 
 There was no glimmer of brightness, no shinin on 
 
 earth or sky 
 When I kissed the sod of ye, Kerry, in a long and a 
 
 last good-bye. 
 
 Ochone, ochone for ye Kerry, if wishes were sails 
 
 and ships, 
 Tis I would be speedin to you with songs of joy on 
 
 my lips. 
 Sore sick of the exile s rovin I d go where my youth 
 
 was passed 
 To ease the ache in my bosom and sleep with my 
 
 own at last.
 
 Kerry. 15 
 
 My hands are so weary of toilin always on the 
 
 sthranger s floor, 
 There are no smiles on the faces I see by the 
 
 sthranger s door. 
 Tis little for me they re carin and little of them I 
 
 know 
 And the core of my heart is lonesome for Kerry and 
 
 long ago. 
 
 For the old thatched home of my father, the turf 
 
 fires warm and bright, 
 The pleasant song and the story when neighbors 
 
 dhropped in at night, 
 The wild bogs purple with heather, the ring of the 
 
 crossroads set 
 For dancin on summer evenin s to tunes that I can t 
 
 forget. 
 
 Sure all day long I am lookin at pictures like 
 
 these instead 
 Of the busy wonderful city where I earn my scanty 
 
 bread, 
 Thinkin tis whitewashed cabins I m seein on 
 
 Broadway sthreet, 
 And the old road down to Killarney undher my 
 
 achin feet. 
 
 Oh, nowhere in all the world is the grip of a hand 
 
 so thrue, 
 Or the lilt of a laugh so cheerin as Kerry, asthore, 
 
 with you.
 
 16 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 Misty with rain and sunshine, and filled with songs 
 
 of the sea, 
 Like fairy music at midnight, you re callin the heart 
 
 from me. 
 
 Callin and hauntin and callin , like the ghost of my 
 
 mother gone, 
 While every vein of my Irish heart leans out to you 
 
 dark and dawn. 
 O, home of the silver wathers, kingly and kind and 
 
 thrue, 
 God bless you old County Kerry, for He never made 
 
 match for you. 
 
 ROBERT EMMET. 
 
 " MY lamp is almost extinguished and I go to my 
 
 grave," he said, 
 " There let me lie in oblivion, a nameless stone at 
 
 my head, 
 The charity of their silence I ask from my fellow 
 
 men 
 Till Erin, a Nation, leaps to life from the ashes of 
 
 death again." 
 
 And they gave him the boon he craved for, a grave 
 
 in a quiet place, 
 The grave that has been the Mecca of all the hearts 
 
 of his race
 
 Robert Emmet. 1 7 
 
 In the track of their ceaseless wanderings, those 
 
 Ishmaels faring forth 
 To set the seal of their hand and heel on all the 
 
 nations of earth. 
 
 Outside in the heart of Dublin is the street where 
 
 his gallows stood, 
 And those that have ears to hear may list to the drip 
 
 of his ghostly blood 
 At the meeting of night and morning when Dawn 
 
 like a priestess flings 
 The mystic star of her breast ajar to the soul of 
 
 unburied things. 
 
 Behold the vision before you, what see you, a 
 
 hangman s rope 
 Or a life to redeem our manhood set high on the 
 
 hills of hope? 
 What see you, a young head severed in the name 
 
 of a hated law 
 Or set in his country s coronet a jewel without a 
 
 flaw? 
 
 O, Emmet, our unforgotten, though lone be your 
 
 grave to-night 
 The hands of a million earnest men are ready your 
 
 name to write. 
 The hands of a million fighting men are waiting 
 
 with flags unfurled 
 To set your name like a sword of flame o er all the 
 
 names of the world.
 
 18 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 Above the fetters of ages, o er ruin and shame and 
 
 blood 
 Behold the star of our promise glows white on the 
 
 heights of God, 
 For never was life of martyr or dream of a hero 
 
 cast 
 In the alchemy of the centuries but blossomed to 
 
 life at last. 
 
 " With other men and with other times let my 
 
 reckoning be," he said, 
 And lo, upon Erin s battlements the feet of the 
 
 Dawn are red. 
 On the dial of Time and destiny the hour of our 
 
 Fate is shown, 
 Now who of the Gael shall faint or fail to stand 
 
 by that nameless stone? 
 
 Fling back the tears from your faces and swear by 
 
 his grave again 
 And swear by the broken body that died that you 
 
 might be Men, 
 By our hope of a freemen s future and the tears of 
 
 our tortured past 
 That Emmet s name like a sword of flame shall lead 
 
 us to light at last.
 
 The Boy from County Down. \ 9 
 
 THE BOY FROM COUNTY DOWN. 
 
 A BOY with the dreams of a man was he, a lad from 
 
 a lonesome place, 
 And he turned away from his family the width of 
 
 the world to face; 
 Light of pocket and heavy of heart he started from 
 
 Newry town 
 And his soul grew sick as he paused to part from the 
 
 meadows of County Down. 
 
 He set his bundle beside the road and looked with 
 
 a sob of pain 
 To the Mourne mountains and all abroad where he 
 
 never might come again; 
 Then plucking a primrose from the hedge, for 
 
 Spring was green on the sod, 
 He fared away on his wanderings with his fate in 
 
 the hands of God. 
 
 O, many a tear did his mother weep in Rosaries 
 
 said for him 
 And his father s sorrow looked wide and deep from 
 
 eyes that were growing dim, 
 But the boy who parted from County Down was 
 
 out in the world of men 
 Seeking the wealth in a far off town that should 
 
 carry him home again.
 
 20 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 Then when the hair on his head was white and the 
 
 step of him faint and slow 
 Said he " tis back by the morning s light to the land 
 
 of my youth I ll go, 
 " Though my parents both in the graveyard be and 
 
 the noon of my life is set 
 " Sure County Down is the same," said he, " and 
 
 the mountains are standing yet." 
 
 He journeyed back from the world of men and the 
 
 soul of him leaped with joy 
 To see the Mourne mountains again and the fields 
 
 where he roamed a boy. 
 But sure he had toiled to the doors of doom in 
 
 many a far off town 
 And he died when the primrose buds were in bloom 
 
 by the hedges of County Down. 
 
 MISSIN THE CHILDHER. 
 
 WHIN daylight fades from the cabin floor 
 
 And night winds stir in the big ash three, 
 Tis meself sits lonesome beside the door, 
 
 Missin the childher that s gone from me. 
 Matt and Mary and Patsy and Mike, 
 
 My three sthrong boys and my girleen dear; 
 Sure, tis only a few short days belike 
 
 Since I saw thim playin around me here.
 
 Missiri the Childher. 21 
 
 Kind and dacint and aisy to rear, 
 
 The bate of my childher was not on earth; 
 And the only sorrow they made me bear 
 
 Was an impty house and a silent hearth. 
 But sure with so many to clothe and keep, 
 
 And nothin behind whin rint was due, 
 I made no moan whin they crossed the deep, 
 
 But God and His Mother They knew, They 
 knew. 
 
 My Mary s a sarvint in Boston town, 
 
 And Mike and Matt are away out West; 
 While Patsy, the rover, sthrays up and down, 
 
 Wherever the foot of him likes it best. 
 But never a wan of thim fails to write 
 
 With the monthly money and news go leor; 
 But, och, tisn t money I want to-night, 
 
 But my four fine childher about the door. 
 
 Mary keeps sayin , " In spring, plase God, 
 
 I ll be landin back to you safe and sound; 
 For nowhere is good as the good old sod, 
 
 And no one like you in the four seas round. 
 Sure, I m cravin a whiff of turf fire smoke, 
 
 And a sight of my mother so snug and sweet, 
 In her white-frilled cap and her big blue cloak, 
 
 That bate all the fashions in Boston Sthreet." 
 
 O, Mary, my girleen, never at all 
 
 Do I be spakin of pain or ache; 
 But at night whin the corncrakes call and call 
 
 My heart goes wild for my darlins sake.
 
 22 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 When shadows lie on the lonesome floor, 
 And night winds stir in the big ash three, 
 
 Thin I sit by meself at the open door, 
 
 And cry for the childher that s gone from me. 
 
 OLD COUNTY CLARE. 
 
 O, BANNACHT Dhia leath go bragh old County 
 
 Clare to you. 
 From the roads that go by Ennis to the streets of 
 
 Killalo. 
 Tis many a day I wandered there and drove my 
 
 donkey s cart 
 By rows of hawthorn hedges that are scenting 
 
 all my heart. 
 
 God made your face so beautiful and fashioned 
 
 you so sweet, 
 No wonder I am longing for your sod beneath my 
 
 feet. 
 No wonder I am wearying where dust and dryness 
 
 be 
 For a windy April morning on the headlands of 
 
 Kilkee. 
 
 O, Bannacht Dhia leath go bragh to all the ways I 
 
 knew 
 From the roads around by Ennis to the streets of 
 
 Killalo;
 
 Oh, Isle of Mine. 23 
 
 Tis I ll be going back some day to see the hawthorns 
 
 there 
 And rest my weary bones with you, Oh good old 
 
 County Clare. 
 
 OH, ISLE OF MINE. 
 
 OH, Isle of mine where the seas are sighing, 
 
 Tis you are searing my soul with pain; 
 Tis you are holding me, live or dying, 
 
 With the grip of a loving that loves in vain. 
 For though the clouds in your skies are massing 
 
 Soft rains to fall on your breast like dew, 
 The stars above in their age long passing 
 
 Are marking the roads that I go from you. 
 
 Oh, Isle of mine where the sunset lingers 
 
 With soft sweet kisses on leaf and sod, 
 As though twas fearing to loose its fingers 
 
 From things so dear to the heart of God. 
 Oh, tender Isle, where the Dawn comes breaking 
 
 The mists before her with slow footfall, 
 Sure the inmost core of my soul is aching 
 
 To sit beside you and know it all. 
 
 Oh, brave old Isle, with your face undaunted 
 Set skywards still where the winds are free, 
 
 Sure many a man by your loving haunted 
 
 Is walking alone through the lands like me.
 
 24 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 Aye, dreaming we are of trusty rifles 
 
 To voice our hate for your foes outhurled, 
 
 But the stranger s toil at our elbow stifles 
 The cries that we fling you across the world. 
 
 Oh, Isle of mine where the ancient glories 
 
 Of ages linger by hill and dell, 
 The harper s song and the Druid stories, 
 
 The old traditions that poets tell. 
 Sure never a stranger s hand could fashion 
 
 A love to better the love we knew, 
 Whose faith and fancy and hope and passion 
 
 Oh, Grah Machree, we have left with you. 
 
 Oh, Isle of mine, where the winds are beating 
 
 A mystic tally of things to be, 
 The stars above in their nightly greeting 
 
 Are telling a wondrous tale to me. 
 " Behold," they cry, and their acclamation 
 
 Is echoed again from the Throne Divine, 
 " You shall kiss the feet of her yet, a Nation, "- 
 
 Oh, Soul of the soul of me, Isle of mine.
 
 A Sod from Galway. 25 
 
 A SOD FROM GALWAY. 
 
 Tis a bit of earth, mavourneen, just a bit of Gal- 
 way clay, 
 
 That I ve borne in my bosom many a weary night 
 and day, 
 
 For I thought whin lavin Ireland I could aisier 
 toil and rest 
 
 With this bit of poor owld Galway treasured here 
 upon my breast. 
 
 Deed you needn t laugh, alanna, when you re 
 
 eighty years I vow 
 You ll have many a whim and fancy that you d 
 
 never dhrame of now, 
 But not bein born in Galway tis a mysthery out 
 
 to ye 
 How such lovin thoughts are cinthered in a bit of 
 
 earth for me. 
 
 Often whin the heartache s on me and I m grievin 
 
 for the past, 
 Out I dhraw it from its hidin closin down my 
 
 eyelids fast, 
 And it sweeps me off in fancy like a sudden flash 
 
 of light, 
 To the breezy plains of Connaught with the brown 
 
 hills left and right.
 
 26 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 There I see the town and river with the white road 
 
 windin by, 
 And the hills of Connemara lift their foreheads to 
 
 the sky; 
 Every neighbor s house I visit, every field and farm 
 
 I see, 
 And the wans long dead and buried live and laugh 
 
 again with me. 
 
 When I close my eyes in airnest never more to 
 open thim, 
 
 And you ll know the Lord has called me home to 
 Heaven and rest and Him, 
 
 Will you place within my coffin where my heart- 
 bates used to be, 
 
 By my beads and Cross, alanna, this, and I will 
 pray for ye. 
 
 Thin I ll sleep as calm and aisy as if restin with 
 
 my own 
 In that owld graveyard in Galway by my father s 
 
 burial stone, 
 Just as if the earth above me was as green with 
 
 wavin grass, 
 And the Connacht neighbors steppin to and from 
 
 the Sunday s Mass. 
 
 And I ll have no fear of risin whin the Angel 
 
 sounds his call, 
 With my native earth about me I can foot it with 
 
 thim all,
 
 The Place Where I m Wanting to Be. 27 
 
 Takin rank amongst my people in the Judgment 
 
 Hall of God, 
 I ll be neither odd nor lonesome with my bit of 
 
 Galway sod. 
 
 Wirra, but tis hard I m dying, poor and owld this 
 
 blessed day, 
 Me that once had full and plenty long ago and far 
 
 away; 
 But sure betther died afore me, and I ll be no worse 
 
 with God 
 That my very heart sthrings tighten round a bit of 
 
 Galway sod. 
 
 THE PLACE WHERE I M WANTING 
 TO BE. 
 
 WHERE swallows are skimming and wheeling above 
 
 an old roof that I know, 
 And little winds weary of stealing the scent of the 
 
 clover swing low, 
 Where cowslips droop down in the meadow too 
 
 drowsy with sweetness to see 
 My soul flitting by with the shadows, tis there 
 
 where I m wanting to be. 
 
 Where dawning comes down in the valleys like 
 saint from the footstool of God, 
 
 A thousand wild airs in her chalice to whisper 
 across the green sod,
 
 28 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 Where thrushes are dreamily chanting love songs 
 
 in the sycamore tree 
 That shelters the place of my wanting the home 
 
 where I m wishing to be. 
 
 There s beauty enough for the finding through 
 earth from the east to the west, 
 
 But little of that am I minding who love my own 
 country the best; 
 
 For her rain haunted skies and no other have heal 
 ing and magic for me, 
 
 And I cry for the breast of my Mother, the place 
 where I m wanting to be. 
 
 JERRY CONNOR S FORGE. 
 
 BY the crossroads of Knockallen where the bog and 
 
 upland meet, 
 There s a tidy row of houses that the neighbors 
 
 call " the street" ; 
 It is free and independent, though it pays its tax 
 
 to George, 
 For it runs its own Home Parliament in Jerry 
 
 Connor s forge. 
 
 In the quiet dusk of evening, when the iron hammer 
 
 rings, 
 That mighty song of labor that has raised and 
 
 routed kings,
 
 Jerry Connor s Forge. 29 
 
 The members take their places, with their backs 
 
 against the wall, 
 And who but Jerry Connor should be leader of 
 
 them all. 
 
 For the tangles of Westminster there s little 
 
 patience there, 
 Where State affairs are settled in the shoeing of a 
 
 mare; 
 And bills that Whig and Tory view with sinking of 
 
 the heart 
 Are fixed while Jerry rims the wheel of Kelly s 
 
 donkey cart. 
 
 Tis there the Kaiser s law is scorned, the Czar is 
 
 roundly cursed, 
 And every ruling head declared no better than the 
 
 worst, 
 When the world around, from China to the 
 
 Rockies farthest gorge, 
 Is tried before the Parliament in Jerry Connor s 
 
 forge. 
 
 Pat Murphy is Conservative, and likes to hold his 
 
 views, 
 Apart from other people s, like the bluest of the 
 
 "blues"; 
 So when " you re right there, Jerry, lad," arises 
 
 from the throng, 
 He ll croak: " Bedad ye may be right but then 
 
 ye may be wrong."
 
 30 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 Mat Reilly is a Socialist, Jim Byrne stands for 
 
 peace, 
 
 But little Billy Hennessy has little time for these, 
 With five feet two drawn up to look like six he ll 
 
 fiercely cry 
 Thank God, I m still a Fenian, boys, and not 
 
 afraid to die." 
 
 So though Westminster debates Home Rule for 
 Erin still, 
 
 It long has passed the Parliament beside Knock- 
 alien hill; 
 
 Where destinies of nations, from the Caesars down 
 to George, 
 
 Are settled while a mare is shod in Jerry Connor s 
 forge. 
 
 THE IRISH RANK AND FILE. 
 
 AYE, give them a foremost place to-day, when you 
 
 honor your patriot dead. 
 With your bravest and best, Columbia, let the tale 
 
 of their deeds be read; 
 Chant forth in exultant chorus their annals so 
 
 grandly true 
 The rank and file of our mother isle who died in 
 
 the dark for you.
 
 The Irish Rank. a ^d File. 31 
 
 They came from the hills of Erin away from a 
 
 tyrant s ban, 
 Seeking a home on your kindlier shore, where a man 
 
 may be a man; 
 Holding your friends as chosen friends, your foes 
 
 as their hated foes, 
 Faithful to death in blood and breath were those 
 
 loyal Mac s and O s. 
 
 What matter if now your history s page record 
 
 not the names they bore? 
 To the corps of your Irish regiments be glory for 
 
 evermore ; 
 For shamed defeat nor craven retreat feared ye 
 
 when their lines swung forth 
 From the torrid scenes of the Philippines to your 
 
 farthest outpost north. 
 
 Sure they drew it out of their mother s breasts 
 
 that love of a righteous strife, 
 That ceaseless striving for Liberty, the crown of 
 
 a white man s life. 
 And where could their high ideal be found in a 
 
 shackled earth, 
 But here by your side, Columbia, whom the war gods 
 
 blest in birth? 
 
 In the mould of forgotten burial grounds the dust 
 
 of their dead hands lies, 
 And silence hangs on the battle fields once stirred 
 
 by their charging cries.
 
 32 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 They sought no guerdon but victory, as they fell 
 
 in a common pile, 
 Unknelled, unknown, but their duty done the 
 
 Irish rank and file. 
 
 Then give them a foremost place to-day; for your 
 summit of greatness stands 
 
 By the blood of their veins cemented, the work of 
 their resting hands; 
 
 And the rags of those tattered war flags they car 
 ried through flame and scars 
 
 Shine forth this hour in the strength and power of 
 your glorious Stripes and Stars. 
 
 Columbia, Queen of the Western Gate, whose boun 
 tiful hands outspread 
 
 To the exiled poor of the older lands give succor 
 of peace and bread. 
 
 We ask no boon but the best you have, the highest 
 you ever knew, 
 
 For the rank and file of our ancient isle who has 
 given its best to you.
 
 Rosary Time. 33 
 
 ROSARY TIME. 
 
 AT the fall of the night in Ireland when Spring in 
 
 the land is fair, 
 At the fall of the night in Ireland when passionate 
 
 June is there, 
 When woods are ruddy in Autumn or hoary with 
 
 winter s rime, 
 At the fall of the night in Ireland tis Rosary time. 
 
 With book and beads in her fingers the mother 
 
 goes to her place 
 The holy candle beside her, the peace of God in 
 
 her face, 
 And out of their chosen corners the voices of 
 
 children chime 
 At the fall of the night in Ireland, at Rosary time. 
 
 Outside the song of the robin is hushed in his shel 
 tered nest, 
 
 The wind with a rainy sweetness is sighing itself 
 to rest, 
 
 The world with her old time longing swings low to 
 a minor rhyme 
 
 At the fall of the night in Ireland, at Rosary time. 
 
 Oh, many a dream of beauty shines up from the 
 
 lowest sod 
 And many a golden duty binds men to the feet of 
 
 God,
 
 34 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 But the sorest passion of living is stilled to a chord 
 
 sublime 
 At the fall of the night in Ireland, at Rosary time. 
 
 JOGGIN INTO NAAS. 
 
 JOGGIN into Naas, my lad, 
 
 Joggin to the fair, 
 Sure many a pleasant day I had 
 
 When I was younger there; 
 Along the road from Timahoe 
 
 With darkness on my face 
 I d start before the first cock crow, 
 
 Joggin into Naas. 
 
 A load of good black turf I d have 
 
 Or else a pig or two, 
 A crate of fowl, a little calf, 
 
 And butther fresh as dew, 
 And then twould be " God save ye, Tim," 
 
 From neighbors every place 
 As day came breakin soft and dim 
 
 Along the road to Naas. 
 
 And sure tis often we d be pressed 
 By friendly farmers there 
 
 To stop awhile and take a rest, 
 Meself and Moll the mare.
 
 HERSELF AT HOME "
 
 Joggin Into Naas. 35 
 
 And many s the steamin cup of tea 
 
 I ve lifted to my face 
 From some goodnatured "vanithee" 
 
 Along the road to Naas. 
 
 Twas pleasant meetin neighborin men 
 
 And swappin counthry chat, 
 For papers then were far between 
 
 And hard to get at that. 
 And pleasant sure it was to go 
 
 Sthravagin round the place 
 For fairin s for herself at home 
 
 When I d get back from Naas. 
 
 Aye, aye, an owld man loves to talk 
 
 Of things long passed away, 
 But though tis feeble grows my walk 
 
 I had my time and day 
 Along the road from Timahoe, 
 
 When dawnin lit my face, 
 And joggin to the fair I d go, 
 
 Joggin into Naas.
 
 36 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 HUNTING THE WREN. 
 
 O, DON T you remember over in Ireland when you 
 
 went hunting the wren, 
 And don t you wish you were over in Ireland this 
 
 day of St. Stephen again? 
 But sure the white-lipp d ocean is flowing in billows 
 
 of drenching foam 
 Between the way that your feet are going and the 
 
 warm hearth lights of home. 
 
 Twas Christmas time and the holly and ivy hung 
 
 from rafter and wall 
 And you slipped out to the garden slyly to answer 
 
 your comrades call, 
 Your mother looked up with a smile (God bless 
 
 her), your father stood by the door, 
 The firelight flickered on shelf and dresser and 
 
 played on the earthen floor. 
 
 Outside the ways were rigid in winter, the skies 
 
 were heavy with snow, 
 But you and the weather were friends together 
 
 back there in the long ago. 
 Through hill and hollow and brake and brier you 
 
 scrambled the whole day through 
 Till the wee brown bird of your heart s desire was 
 
 lost in the dark on you.
 
 Fishing. 37 
 
 There were Matt and Pat and Maurice and Andy, 
 
 there was Tim the leader of all, 
 There was Mike Malone, who could flip a stone 
 
 straight over a ten foot wall; 
 Brave lads, o er many a wearier way their feet have 
 
 travelled since then, 
 But their hearts are as true to the past as you 
 
 when the wren days come again. 
 
 Tis Christmas time in the old Land now, there is 
 
 brooding snow in the wind, 
 The turf light flickers on shelf and dresser with 
 
 holly and ivy twined. 
 But you and I by the stranger s hearth think back 
 
 to old times again, 
 To the dear home ways and the Stephen s days 
 
 when we went hunting the wren. 
 
 FISHING. 
 
 ONE day in summer I went a fishing 
 
 Where Dublin reaches to meet Kildare, 
 And nobly laden beyond all wishing 
 
 The cool of the evening found me there. 
 The bells from Leixlip were softly falling 
 
 Across the meadows in vesper chime, 
 And the song of a sleepy thrush was calling 
 
 The world to rest with his silver rhyme.
 
 38 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 You came down walking beside the river, 
 
 While corncrakes shrilled to the darkening skies, 
 And I the fisher, was caught forever 
 
 By the lure of Love in your dreamy eyes. 
 The primrose blossoms were blooming round you, 
 
 The winds were kissing your braided hair, 
 Now the fish are safe since the day I found you 
 
 Where Dublin reaches to meet Kildare. 
 
 A SPRING MEMORY. 
 
 , it was in the pleasant spring weather, 
 
 When daffodils shone on the lea; 
 A new bloom was bright on the heather 
 
 And spring winds blew in from the sea ; 
 A blackbird sweet music was making 
 
 Below in the blossoming dell, 
 And nature to gladness was waking 
 
 That day when we met at the well. 
 
 Your eyes were like Avon s brown water 
 
 When shaded by summer-clad trees, 
 Your voice like the blackbirds in Oughter, 
 
 Your step was as free as the breeze; 
 And I with my brimming pail lingered 
 
 To while the sweet moments away, 
 Till evening came in dewy fingered 
 
 And closed the dead eyelids of day.
 
 A Spring Memory. 39 
 
 We talked of the news and the weather, 
 
 And chatted of things round about : 
 How bright was the bloom of the heather, 
 
 How bravely the young leaves hung out; 
 And then in a whisper you told me 
 
 The story that ever is new, 
 And I with the stars to behold me 
 
 Repeated that love tale to you. 
 
 Alas for the days that are over! 
 
 Alas for the springs that are dead! 
 Alas for the dusky-eyed lover 
 
 Who lies with the mould at his head! 
 And though a March wind there is blowing 
 
 And daffodils shine on the lea, 
 An ocean is foaming and flowing 
 
 Between my far country and me! 
 
 But in the dim palace of dreaming 
 
 My fancy sees visions by night 
 Of dewy eyes, dusky and gleaming 
 
 Like Avon s waves checkered by light; 
 And sun-like in rain-darkened weather 
 
 This picture arises to me; 
 A youth and a maiden together 
 
 When spring winds blew in from the sea.
 
 40 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 THE OLD LAND. 
 
 I KNOW a land far, far away, 
 Set in a northern sea, 
 
 Her hills are green and her skies are grey 
 And my heart is there by night and day; 
 For she s dearer than life to me. 
 Her sons are brave and her daughters fair 
 And her ways are sweet and kind, 
 And all that was best in my life is there, 
 Left far behind. 
 
 The days of my youth with their glooms and 
 
 gleams, 
 
 Of passing joy and pain; 
 The golden hopes and the glorious dreams 
 I never will know again. 
 The meadow path and the sycamore shade, 
 The valleys where cowslips blow, 
 Where I and my comrades laughed and played, 
 Long, long ago. 
 
 How well I remember the old home place 
 
 With the fireside circle there, 
 
 The smile on my mother s gentle face; 
 
 My father s silvery hair. 
 
 O, the songs we sang and the tales we told 
 
 While wintry storms drove past 
 
 And the sands of life were as sands of gold 
 
 From Time s best hour glass cast.
 
 The Old Land. 41 
 
 Now my mother s lips are quiet and cold 
 
 And my father s heart is still, 
 
 The days are long and the world seems old, 
 
 And I sigh for a far-off hill, 
 
 Facing the track of the morning star 
 
 Where my kindred s ashes are. 
 
 Thus out of the clamor of toiling men 
 
 My heart, like a homing dove, 
 
 Flies back to the days of its youth again, 
 
 And the land of its earliest love. 
 
 For to be a child on those green field ways, 
 
 My mother s kiss on my brow, 
 
 Were better than all the glory and praise 
 
 This world can give me now. 
 
 O, beautiful Ireland! far away, 
 
 There is nothing so sweet and true 
 
 As your hills of green and your skies of grey 
 
 And the whole-souled ways of you; 
 
 Remembered as saints remember God 
 
 Your children cannot forget 
 
 The olden ways and the olden sod, 
 
 (The cowslipped ways where their feet first trod) , 
 
 And the churchyard grasses set 
 
 With drifts of daisies all dewy wet, 
 
 Where the graves of kindred are soft and deep. 
 
 And its O, to-night for so sweet a sleep, 
 
 In that Land I know, that old, old Land.
 
 42 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 AT THE FOOT OF THE HILL. 
 
 WHAT did you say at the foot of the hill? 
 
 The winds had died and the snow was fallin , 
 The frosty hedges were white and still, 
 
 A robin out of the dusk was callin . 
 But Love cares nothin for winter s chill. 
 O, what did you say at the foot of the hill? 
 
 You said you would love me ever and ever, 
 You kissed me thrice in the gloamin then, 
 
 And then you crossed o er the big black River 
 Whence never comes word from the sons of men. 
 
 Where the frosty hedges are white and still 
 
 I wait to-night at the foot of the hill. 
 
 A lonesome wind from the dusk is callin , 
 The robin sleeps in his sheltered nest, 
 
 The velvety snow is fallin and fallin 
 
 Above the grasses that clothe your rest; 
 
 In the infinite Love of the Father s will 
 
 My soul claims you from the foot of the hill. 
 
 Over the woods that look to the west 
 
 A white star shines through the wintry air 
 
 And a thrill of peace from the world s unrest 
 Tells me tis well with you over there. 
 
 And so I ll be waitin my time until 
 
 You seek me here at the foot of the hill.
 
 " ALONG THE ROAD TO DUBLIN
 
 The Rocky Road to Dublin. 43 
 
 THE ROCKY ROAD TO DUBLIN. 
 
 IF I was on the rocky road, the rocky road to 
 
 Dublin, 
 With nothing but a tinker s load, tis Tittle I d be 
 
 throublin ; 
 Within my fist a blackthorn stick and Irish brogues 
 
 to walk in, 
 I d fling my sorrows to old Nick and sing instead 
 
 of talkin . 
 
 Sthravagin on from town to town and down old 
 
 boreens jauntin , 
 The bite and sup and lyin down, sure, I d be never 
 
 wantin , 
 For there the doors stand open wide on friend and 
 
 stranger waitin , 
 And for an Irish turf fireside I ve yet to see the 
 
 batin . 
 
 I d pull primroses by the way and hear the larks 
 
 and thrushes, 
 I d watch the twilight shadows play among the 
 
 greenin bushes; 
 I d find the place where long ago, ere years began 
 
 their throublin , 
 I wandhered with a girl I know along the road to 
 
 Dublin.
 
 44 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 Och, och, my eyes are growin dim, or is it tears that 
 
 blind me ? 
 Sure many a day she s gone to Him who put that 
 
 cross behind me, 
 But still her spirit walks abroad, where many a 
 
 sthrame is bubblin 
 And winds are blowin down the road, the rocky road 
 
 to Dublin. 
 
 Aye, there tis not the chilly look, the distant nod of 
 
 greetin , 
 But "bannacht leath," "God save ye," and "good 
 
 morrow," I d be meetin , 
 Twould be, "Sit down and rest awhile," and 
 
 "Arrah, what s your throublin "? 
 For life has time for many a smile along the road 
 
 to Dublin. 
 
 Faith, sore, I m parched for mist and rain, I m sick 
 
 of sunny weather; 
 I want my blackthorn stick again, my brogues of 
 
 Irish leather. 
 Then give me but a tinker s load, tis little I ll be 
 
 throublin , 
 If undherneath me is the road, the rocky road to 
 
 Dublin.
 
 Kildare. 45 
 
 KILDARE. 
 
 SAY, what of Kildare is she waking or sleeping 
 
 Now the day of our testing is growing apace? 
 And mighty as winter-tossed billows onleaping 
 
 Wild "farrahs" ring out from the lips of our race ! 
 What of Kildare, ever foremost and ready, 
 
 Whenever our war-flag was raised for the right, 
 Has she lifted her standard, true-hearted and steady, 
 
 Where Kildare ought to be in the thick of the 
 fight? 
 
 The shrine of St. Brigid whose Lamp ever burning 
 
 Shone out like a star on the ramparts of God, 
 The home of Lord Edward, our eagle of morning 
 
 Could traitors abide on so sacred a sod! 
 Could fear of defeat or despair of a morrow 
 
 Find place where the ashes of Tone are at rest 
 Is there room for a coward or time for a sorrow 
 
 With "Croom a boo" watchword and oak tree for 
 crest ! 
 
 No, from Naas to Maynooth rings the slogan of 
 "Freedom." 
 
 From Newbridge to Leixlip, Kilcock to Athy, 
 The men of Kildarra are there when we need them 
 
 They know how to fight and they know how to die.
 
 46 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 There the spirit of liberty hovers unsleeping 
 
 Where rebels and martyrs found birth and a 
 
 grave, 
 And the murdered of Mullaghmast watch still are 
 
 keeping 
 O er fields never trod by the foot of a slave. 
 
 Sure the challenge she threw in the face of the 
 
 foeman 
 Of old when her clans flashed their falchions in 
 
 air 
 Is still to the fore for a finish, and no man 
 
 Shall humble the shield of Fitzgerald s Kildare. 
 Unconquered, invincible, steadfast forever, 
 
 With a hand for the south and the north and the 
 
 west 
 The foremost in onset, the latest to waver, 
 
 She stands with the Counties, the first of the best. 
 
 Kildare is awake for she never has slumbered 
 
 Whenever the summons to battle went forth, 
 The deeds of her dead with the bravest are numbered 
 
 The sons of her soil are the salt of the earth. 
 As true as the Liffey that sweeps ever onward 
 
 Through sunshine and storming, through shadow 
 
 and light. 
 Kildare holds her standard aloft in the vanguard 
 
 Where Kildare ought to be in the thick of the 
 fight.
 
 The Old Borecn. 47 
 
 THE OLD BOREEN. 
 
 OH, do you remember the old boreen that is many a 
 mile away, 
 
 And the rushy pool where the shades lay cool at the 
 close of a summer day? 
 
 And do you remember the robin s song in the haw 
 thorn hedge that grew 
 
 By the garden gate that so long must wait for a 
 home-coming sight of you ? 
 
 Oh, do you remember the low white house with its 
 
 coating of yellow thatch, 
 The earthen floor and the open door that swung to 
 
 a ready latch, 
 The fire of turf and the cheery hearth where you 
 
 gathered at evening s fall, 
 The dresser shelf with its shining delph and the old 
 
 clock on the wall? 
 
 Come, let us away from the noisy town, the clamor 
 
 of crowded marts; 
 We will go where the pulse of life beats low to the 
 
 music of quiet hearts, 
 Where corncrakes shrill through the scented dusk 
 
 and dew-drenched meadows are sweet, 
 And the green, green sod like a balm from God hath 
 
 healing for tired feet.
 
 48 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 Down the winding ways of the old boreen we will 
 
 wander on spirit wings, 
 While the haunted air like a mystic s prayer is 
 
 a-quiver with namelesss things; 
 The crickets will chirp a welcome home and the 
 
 daisies look up to see, 
 While the long, long years that have drained our 
 
 tears shall fall from us, you and me. 
 
 We will take our way to the fairies well, for deep in 
 
 its crystal flow 
 May linger gleams of those broken dreams we left 
 
 in the long ago; 
 Gazing again in its murmuring deeps we may see in a 
 
 blinding light 
 The care-free ways of our childhood days shine out 
 
 to our souls to-night. 
 
 Then when the low moon sinks in the west, and the 
 
 thrill of dawn is at hand, 
 We will wing our flight with the dying night to the 
 
 shores of this other land; 
 But the strength and peace of our reveries and the 
 
 balm of that sod so green 
 Will ease the strife of our exiled life so far from the 
 
 old boreen.
 
 Patsy Maguire. 49 
 
 PATSY MAGUIRE. 
 
 OLD Patsy Maguire lived down in Athlone, 
 
 He d a neat little cot and a field of his own, 
 
 His singing began with the first risen lark 
 
 And that same old "come all ye" would welcome the 
 
 dark; 
 
 For only one song in the world did he know 
 And that was "a colleen dhas cruithin am bo." 
 
 His hair was as white and as thick as the frost 
 That lies on the meadows the phooka has crossed, 
 But the glint of his eye was as roguish and bright 
 As a daisy in May looking up to the light, 
 And the voice of him never a tremor did know 
 As he chanted "a colleen dhas cruithin am bo." 
 
 In the long winter nights there was never a fire 
 Could draw all the boys like the hearth of Maguire, 
 For he d tell you of fairies and ghosts till your skin 
 Like a dead goose was puckered without and within, 
 And the road to your home was a horror beset 
 By all the dark "sperrits" that Patsy had met. 
 
 With the end of his stick in the ashes he d show 
 
 How many a battle was fought long ago 
 
 When his grandfather shouldered the pike that was 
 
 laid 
 By the side of his bed with the notch on its blade.
 
 50 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 "Sure some of thim yeomen were tougher than wire 
 And steel couldn t stand thim," said Patsy Maguire. 
 
 He had starved in the famine, the fever had known, 
 He had stood with the boys who struck out for their 
 
 own; 
 He had dreamed with the dreamers, had met what 
 
 they met, 
 
 "But failure s a word that we haven t spelt yet, 
 And fightin s a game that all true men require 
 To keep thim continted," said Patsy Maguire. 
 
 Tis many a year since his footsteps were known 
 By the bridge and the river of storied Athlone, 
 And many a summer its riches has cast 
 O er that sturdy old Fenian so true to the last; 
 But never a death chill could conquer the fire 
 That beat in the heart s blood of Patsy Maguire. 
 
 For far in those realms where brave men are blessed 
 And nothing s too good for earth s truest and best, 
 He is seated to-night in a place of his own 
 With a welcome for all from the town of Athlone; 
 And, whatever the songs of the seraphs, I know 
 He still sings "a colleen dhas cruithin am bo."
 
 Independence Day. 51 
 
 INDEPENDENCE DAY. 
 
 WHEN God unbarred the eastern gates for that 
 
 great Day to rise 
 A burning flood of glory sped across His trackless 
 
 skies, 
 It circled round the slumbering world in tongues of 
 
 ghostly flame, 
 And fired the farthest tribes of men with Freedom s 
 
 sacred name. 
 
 It rocked the thrones of despot kings as though an 
 
 earthquake spoke; 
 It bade the cowering serf arise and spurn his galling 
 
 yoke; 
 
 It whispered to the beaten slave of other days to be, 
 When he amongst his fellowmen should stand a 
 
 Man, and Free. 
 
 By burning sands and icy wold that high Evangel 
 
 went, 
 Till east and west and north and south in one red 
 
 flame were blent; 
 And mankind, with a surging joy, felt in his soul the 
 
 seed 
 Of God s eternal Liberty acclaim Columbia s deed, 
 
 O Land, whose flag the stars in heaven salute with 
 
 answering call! 
 Whose stripes proclaim the bonds you broke for 
 
 freemen one and all !
 
 52 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 Whose hovering eagle screams abroad across the 
 
 struggling earth 
 "No power can hold a Nation down that claims its 
 
 rights of birth!" 
 
 You hold the greatness of the days unborn to 
 
 History yet ; 
 You hold the sequel of the ways whose guiding stars 
 
 are set; 
 The keys of time are yours, O Herald, who guards 
 
 the future s fate, 
 For all the life streams of the world commingle in 
 
 your gate. 
 
 In you the old world s dreams come true, the cry for 
 breadth and space; 
 
 The yearning for a fuller life with sunshine on the 
 face; 
 
 You are the goal of shackled feet, the covenantal ark 
 
 Of many a storm-tossed soul who sees your light 
 nings through the dark. 
 
 You taught in words of flaming fire a gospel fierce 
 
 and free; 
 And sealed it with your blood before the shrine of 
 
 Liberty; 
 You flung your challenge in the face of tyranny, and 
 
 then 
 Invincible, triumphant, rose a Mecca unto men.
 
 A Christmas Song. 53 
 
 All hail, all hail, Columbia ! God s high anointed 
 one, 
 
 With feet upon His southern verge and forehead 
 to His sun ! 
 
 You caught the scattered lights of earth in one en 
 during ray 
 
 When Freedom s fires were loosed from Heaven 
 that Independence Day. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS SONG. 
 
 O LORD, as You lay so soft and white, 
 
 A Babe in a manger stall, 
 With the big star flashing across the night, 
 
 Did you know and pity us all? 
 Did the wee hands, close as a rosebud curled, 
 
 With the call of their mission ache, 
 To be out and saving a weary world 
 
 For Your merciful Father s sake? 
 
 Did You hear the cries of the groping blind, 
 
 The woe of the leper s prayer, 
 The surging sorrow of all mankind, 
 
 As You lay by Your Mother there? 
 Beyond the shepherds, low bending down, 
 
 The long, long road did You see 
 That led from peaceful Bethlehem town 
 
 To the summit of Calvary?
 
 54 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 The world grown weary of wasting strife, 
 
 Had called for the Christ to rise; 
 For sin had poisoned the springs of life 
 
 And only the dead were wise. 
 But, wrapped in a dream of scornful pride, 
 
 Too high were its eyes to see 
 A Child, foredoomed to be crucified, 
 
 On a peasant Mother s knee. 
 
 But, while the heavens with glad acclaim 
 
 Sang out the tale of Your birth, 
 A mystic echo of comfort came 
 
 To the desolate souls of earth. 
 For the thrill of a slowly turning tide 
 
 Was felt in that grey daybreak, 
 As if God, the Father, had sanctified 
 
 All sorrow for One Man s sake. 
 
 O Child of the Promise! Lord of Love! 
 
 O Master of all the earth! 
 While the angels are singing their songs above, 
 
 We bring our gifts to Your birth. 
 Just the blind man s cry, and the lame man s pace, 
 
 And the leper s pitiful call; 
 On these, over infinite fields of space, 
 
 Look down, for You know them all.
 
 The Old North Wall of Dublin. 55 
 
 THE OLD NORTH WALL OF DUBLIN. 
 
 THE old North Wall of Dublin, O, well tis it I know 
 Where lazy tides keep drifting in ceaseless ebb and 
 
 flow, 
 
 The old North Wall of Dublin with the seagulls cir 
 cling low. 
 
 The old North Wall of Dublin, tis there I d be 
 
 to-day 
 With salt winds sweeping in my face the breath of 
 
 dancing spray 
 As tender as the mother s hands I left in Irish clay. 
 
 O, sure the paths are wearisome that exiled feet must 
 
 tread 
 And many a wistful dream of home hangs round the 
 
 exile s bed, 
 And many a bitter tear they know who eat the 
 
 stranger s bread. 
 
 But over all the weariness and all the pains that be 
 Asthore, tis looking back we are o er lonely leagues 
 
 of sea 
 To the old North Wall of Dublin with the long tides 
 
 running free.
 
 56 . Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 Thank God in all our wandering for olden dreams 
 
 that stay, 
 For gleams beneath a scorching sun of dancing Irish 
 
 spray 
 And a wet wind blowing gladness o er the old North 
 
 Wall to-day. 
 
 Thank God that somewhere in the years that circle 
 
 round the sun 
 One day is speeding swiftly when our exile will be 
 
 done 
 And down beside the old North Wall we ll see the 
 
 grey tides run. 
 
 We ll watch the seagulls wheeling out across the 
 
 misty strand 
 Where many a flower is blooming in that far and 
 
 pleasant land, 
 And the old North Wall of Dublin, we will kiss it 
 
 where we stand. 
 
 THE CONNAUGHTMAN S RAMBLES. 
 
 PLAY it again till the rill and the thrill of it 
 Gladdens my soul like a voice over seas, 
 
 Sing it and swing it till I get my fill of it 
 And all the sore places of life are at ease.
 
 The Connaughtman s Rambles. 57 
 
 Fling it right up to the skies high admiring, 
 For many a Connaughtman s rambles afar 
 
 Have touched such a passion of earthly aspiring 
 Twas only the heavens that set him a bar. 
 
 There, sure I m seeing a primrose in blossom, 
 
 There, sure I knew twas a shamrock I met; 
 Beauty of blooming and dreams of my bosom 
 
 God couldn t live if you weren t there yet. 
 Daisies and buttercups, fields full of clover, 
 
 Dawning and twilight and wonder of sod, 
 God couldn t live if I was not your lover 
 
 For worship of beauty is worship of God. 
 
 Over the world and down to the soul of it 
 
 The "Connaughtman s Rambles" have sounded 
 
 their call, 
 Deep in our hearts is the mystical roll of it, 
 
 The passion for home that is tearing us all. 
 O, ye of her breast with the blood of her best in ye 
 
 Faring afar o er so many a track, 
 Listen and hear tis to ye and the rest of ye 
 
 Old Connaught is calling "O, Childher, come 
 back."
 
 58 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 OUR MARTYRED THREE. 
 
 AYE, set them high on your gallows tree 
 
 Where the noose of a hangman waits, 
 And the ribald cries of your rabble rise 
 
 Outside of their prison gates; 
 Let them stand in the dawn of your murky skies 
 
 So the nations of men may see 
 How Erin offers a sacrifice 
 
 On the altars of Liberty. 
 
 The world hath plenty of mouthed wars 
 
 And aims that the gods despise, 
 Was ever a victory blessed by Mars 
 
 Achieved by a braggart s cries? 
 No, the hero s blood and the bullet s hum 
 
 Are Liberty s pangs of birth, 
 And by these must be settled the awful sum 
 
 Of tyranny s debt to earth. 
 
 Then stand them high with their eyes to the light 
 
 Those sons of a soldier race, 
 Each strand of their halter marks their right 
 
 To glory s innermost place ; 
 And their "God Save Ireland" boldly hurled 
 
 From the portals of death will fling 
 Its echoes forever around the world 
 
 While the soul of the Celt is King.
 
 Caniel^dhu. 59 
 
 This day will die at the setting of sun, 
 
 But the fame of our noble Three 
 Will live till the uttermost sands are run 
 
 Of the Land that they died to free. 
 For the justice of God is lightning shod 
 
 And tyrants pass in a day 
 But the hero s word and the martyr s blood 
 
 Shall be saviors of men for aye. 
 
 And not for the land of their birth alone 
 
 Do they swing from your beams of shame, 
 But for every struggle the world has known 
 
 In Liberty s holy name. 
 For the striving Right against ruthless might 
 
 Wherever the bonds may bind 
 Young Allen, O Brien and Larkin die 
 
 A ransom for all mankind. 
 
 CARRICKDHU. 
 
 LAST night tis I was dreamin and dreams are 
 
 queer you know; 
 
 I dreamt I was in Ireland the same as long ago. 
 And Micky Moore the fiddler played all the tunes I 
 
 knew, 
 Who danced the Rinnca Fadha beyond in Car- 
 
 rickdhu.
 
 60 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 And there was Patsy Callaghan, and there was Mat 
 
 Malone, 
 And little Timmy Sullivan, though long he s dead 
 
 and gone ; 
 And there was Kitty Shaughnessy, and all the girls 
 
 I knew 
 Who danced the Rinnca Fadha with me in Car- 
 
 rickdhu. 
 
 A silver moon was shining above the mountain s 
 
 crest, 
 And in the graveyard down below my mother lay at 
 
 rest, 
 And Mickey Moore the fiddler played low, for old 
 
 time s sake, 
 " The Coulin " and " The Blackbird " till I thought 
 
 my heart would break. 
 
 Then Jamesy Murphy sang a song about the 
 
 "Fenian Men," 
 And Billy Daly followed with "A Nation Once 
 
 Again," 
 And Micky Moore the fiddler, who loved me fond 
 
 and true, 
 Played all his music out to me that night in Car- 
 
 rickdhu. 
 
 O, when the ship that bore me sped to a stormy 
 
 wind, 
 
 And all I ever loved were left so many a mile behind, 
 Tis I was feeling sorely, the best in life I knew 
 Was there behind in Ireland, behind in Carrickdhu.
 
 ; THE OLD FIRESIDE
 
 The Old Fireside. 61 
 
 And so in nightly visions and dreamin day by day 
 Ts many a thing I m seein still is lyin far away, 
 And many a tune I m listenin to from one who loved 
 
 me true 
 Beyond in dear old Ireland, beyond in Carrickdhu. 
 
 THE OLD FIRESIDE. 
 
 Tis sittin by the stove I am where all the fire in 
 
 sight 
 Would never raise a blisther on a baby s arm 
 
 to-night. 
 The wind goes tearin down the sthreet as though the 
 
 imps below 
 Were out upon a picnic playin ball with sleet and 
 
 snow; 
 But I am seein in my mind a hearthstone broad and 
 
 wide 
 And a pile of Irish turf ablaze on the old fireside. 
 
 Wan side my mother sits and knits a stockin meant 
 
 for me 
 
 My father s in the corner seat, his paper on his knee 
 A candle on the shelf beside gives all the light he 
 
 needs 
 And granny s prayin for I hear the rattle of her 
 
 beads. 
 And there s meself with naked shins a happy boy 
 
 beside 
 The blessed heat and comfort of the old fireside.
 
 62 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 Sometimes the wind and rain comes down the chim 
 ney with a shout 
 
 And mother signs the Cross to see the ashes dance 
 about, 
 
 And father laughs and says "bedad, the phooka s 
 out to-night," 
 
 And granny whispers "hush, avic, some poor sowl s 
 on its flight." 
 
 And then we get to thinkin of the lonesome wans 
 denied 
 
 For evermore the comfort of the old fireside. 
 
 The latch keeps liftin now and thin as neighbors 
 
 saunther in 
 With many a kind "God save all here" and "God 
 
 save you agin," 
 
 And soon from talkin politics at fairy tales they ll be 
 With stools dhrawn up around the hearth as close 
 
 as close can be; 
 Then no one wants to look behind afraid a ghost 
 
 might hide 
 Among the flickering shadows of the old fireside. 
 
 I wondher w r here they are to-night, for sure when all 
 
 is told 
 Tis feelin out of place they d be on shinin sthreets 
 
 of gold; 
 But in the many mansions of the Father s House 
 
 above 
 There may be humble corners where the poor can 
 
 feel His love,
 
 When I was Leaving Ireland. 63 
 
 So in some friendly place apart where all their tears 
 are dried 
 
 I know I ll meet my neighbors by God s own Fire 
 side. 
 
 WHEN I WAS LEAVING IRELAND. 
 
 WHEN I was leaving Ireland the leaves were falling 
 
 down, 
 
 A dreary mist was drifting above old Derry town; 
 The sun itself was clouded and frosty was the wind 
 When I was leaving Ireland who left my soul behind. 
 
 When I was leaving Ireland my parents wept full 
 
 sore, 
 The kindly neighbors gathered in to bless me o er 
 
 and o er, 
 
 I clung around the doorway, I gazed on sky and sod 
 When I was leaving Ireland that bitter day of God. 
 
 When I was leaving Ireland I watched the shore 
 
 line dip 
 Beyond the darkling waters that surged about the 
 
 ship, 
 Then, with a cry of longing none heard save Heaven 
 
 on high, 
 My soul sped back to Ireland to linger till I die. 
 
 And there at home in Ireland it is this blessed day 
 Though both my parents dead and gone have found 
 their house of clay;
 
 64 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 It sees the dawns and twilights, it feels the winds 
 
 and rain, 
 And when I go to Ireland I ll find that soul again. 
 
 It may be that in living some ship may bear me o er, 
 It may be that in dying the Saviour I adore 
 Will bid a kindly angel convey me to the sky 
 O er some old road in Ireland I trod in years gone 
 by. 
 
 But I ll go back to Ireland, in life or death I ll go, 
 For there my soul is waiting with all the loves I 
 
 know ; 
 By windy dawns tis waiting and twilights grey with 
 
 rain 
 And I must go to Ireland to find that soul again. 
 
 LIMERICK. 
 
 O, LIMERICK, Limerick, Limerick, your name on the 
 
 tip of my tongue 
 Is sweether than singin of linnets when May on the 
 
 meadows is young, 
 Tis kindher than dhrippin of honey or foamin of 
 
 milk to the lips, 
 O, Limerick, Limerick, Limerick, my blessed old 
 
 Town of the ships.
 
 Cappagh Hill. 65 
 
 As you sit on the banks of the Shannon, a Queen on a 
 
 beautiful throne 
 You are sealin the right hand of Erin with the gem 
 
 of the Threaty Stone, 
 And the kindness and lovin good nathure that fall 
 
 from the shine of your face 
 Though spread o er the rest of creation would leave 
 
 us enough for the race. 
 
 Though over the ways of the world my feet may 
 
 go lonesome and wild 
 Tis ever the breast of the mother is sweetest repose 
 
 for the child ; 
 So some day, please God I ll come joggin back to 
 
 you with songs on my lips 
 O, Limerick, Limerick, Limerick, my blessed old 
 
 Town of the ships. 
 
 CAPPAGH HILL. 
 
 TWAS just last night a dream I had 
 
 ( Tis strange how dreams can thrill) 
 I dreamt I was a little lad 
 
 Beyond on Cappagh Hill. 
 Twas neither cap nor coat I had 
 
 For summer days were fair, 
 And I was just a happy lad 
 
 Among the meadows there.
 
 66 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 I saw the village roofs below, 
 
 The beeches green and cool, 
 The paths through " Cullen s fields " that go 
 
 Along the way to school. 
 I heard my mother s voice ring clear, 
 
 And then I woke to know 
 The crash of Broadway on my ear 
 
 For that was long ago. 
 
 A NOGGIN OF BUTTERMILK. 
 
 You may boast of your drinking for time and a day, 
 You may talk of the " nectar of gods " as you may, 
 Sure they d be like the drip of a faucet to me 
 By a noggin of buttermilk home in Kilfree. 
 
 In summer and winter, in autumn and spring, 
 The churn was there and the noggin in swing 
 And tinker and beggar and peddler were free 
 To drink Ian a baile beyond in Kilfree. 
 
 I can see that big dairy with crocks full of cream 
 As yellow as gold in an old miser s dream, 
 I can taste how the butter like nuggets would be 
 On top of the noggins at home in Kilfree. 
 
 A sycamore fluttered its leaves by the latch 
 And swallows built year after year in the thatch, 
 And many a neighbor s tin bucket would be 
 Filled up in that dairy at home in Kilfree.
 
 As Ike Bands Go By. 67 
 
 There was turf by the clampful and cows in the 
 
 byre, 
 
 There was bacon in flitches and room by the fire, 
 There was lashings and leavings flahoolah and free 
 With a "cead mille failthe" beyond in Kilfree. 
 
 I m sick of your wine and I m sick of your ale, 
 Your champagne is tasteless, your liquor is stale, 
 For the draught of my childhood is calling to me, 
 Tis a noggin of buttermilk home in Kilfree. 
 
 AS THE BANDS GO BY. 
 
 AYE, aye, aye, sure all day long I m hearin thim, 
 The blessed tunes I m knowin since I wasn t two 
 
 foot tall ; 
 
 Aye, aye, aye, sure all day long I m cheerin thim, 
 The Irish lads, avourneen, that you cannot bate 
 at all. 
 
 Listen to the music, sure New York is goin wild 
 
 with it. 
 O, Harp that once old Tara knew tis you is great 
 
 this day, 
 And the green, green, green, sure the city like a 
 
 child with it 
 
 Has dhressed itself in verdure like the bushes 
 home in May.
 
 68 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 "Pathrick s Day" and "Garryowen," The Meetin 
 
 of the Wathers," 
 With "Come Back to Erin" ( tis the dearest of 
 
 thim all) 
 Although I m now an old man with sthrappin sons 
 
 and daughters 
 To-day I m just a gorsoon still beyant in Donegal. 
 
 Aye, you re right, I m cryin but my tears like rain 
 
 in Erin 
 Are just a kind of tindherness because I love them 
 
 all, 
 The music and the marchin and the Irish voices 
 
 cheerin 
 
 For all the things I used to love at home in 
 Donegal. 
 
 And when beyant in Calvary my long, long rest I m 
 
 keepin 
 One day in all the year, bedad, I ll wake and claim 
 
 my own, 
 For when Saint Pathrick s Day is here how could a 
 
 man be sleepin 
 
 While all the world is thrillin to the lilt of Garry 
 owen.
 
 Fiddler Phil. 69 
 
 FIDDLER PHIL. 
 
 "COME give us a scrape of the fiddle" we sai-d 
 
 And drew from the kitchen shelf 
 A fiddle as battered and old, bedad, 
 
 As Fiddler Phil himself; 
 For many a summer and winter had thrown 
 
 Their heat and cold in his face, 
 But his eyes held the beauty of old Tyrone 
 
 And the pride of a princely race. 
 
 With brick and mortar and sand and stone 
 
 His hands were roughened and brown, 
 But that fiddle had come from his own Tyrone 
 
 And spoke of his native town; 
 So he touched the strings unto passionate cries 
 
 That swept the breath from our lips, 
 While years of toiling and alien skies 
 
 Were bridged in a time eclipse. 
 
 We were back again in the wind-swept north, 
 
 Above us the low clouds sped, 
 Beneath our feet was our native earth 
 
 And the graves of our resting dead; 
 We saw the glories of old unroll 
 
 O Neill went forth to the fray, 
 And our hands were clenched in a storm of soul 
 
 For joy of a battle day.
 
 70 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 Then came a rushing of Maytime rain 
 
 From the purple peaks of the hills, 
 We saw the young leaves sway in the rain, 
 
 The shimmer of daffodils. 
 We heard the calling of mating birds, 
 
 The laugh of a mountain stream, 
 While loch and fen and valley and glen 
 
 Were a glory of glint and gleam. 
 
 Then Fiddler Phil with his grey eyes set 
 
 O er the verge of an unseen world 
 Muted the strings unto awful things 
 
 From the edge of a black night hurled; 
 The Banshee cried and our souls replied 
 
 As we shivered like reeds astir, 
 For the spirit of Erin was scourged again 
 
 And we wailed to the gods with her. 
 
 Then rising up to the heights of life 
 
 In a frenzy of joy and pride 
 He drew us out of the stress and strife 
 
 To the place where our dreams abide; 
 We saw the Land of our yearning stand 
 
 In Liberty s flame of day, 
 And the Lords of the law arise to draw 
 
 The veils from her face away. 
 
 That wonder of melody died away, 
 
 Phil laid his fiddle aside, 
 "Sure its old and cold like meself " said he 
 
 "For it died when my young days died."
 
 When Mike Came Back- 71 
 
 "O, there is no death for your fiddle or you," 
 
 We whispered in broken tone 
 "While hearts are loyal and souls ring true 
 
 To the spirit of old Tyrone." 
 
 WHEN MIKE CAME BACK. 
 
 WE stood beside the door, meself and Kate, 
 
 Watchin and listenin down the boreen s thrack, 
 
 A wild rose swung above the garden gate 
 When Mike came back. 
 
 The ripened meadows waited for his hand, 
 The praties lingered for his spade to sthrike, 
 
 And sure meself and Kate could hardly stand 
 That watch for Mike. 
 
 And then he came, we heard the pony s throt, 
 A blackbird whistled from the garden dyke, 
 
 But Kate and I saw nothin but a blot 
 Of tears and Mike. 
 
 "Avic machree," said I, but Kate flung wide 
 
 Her arms to hold him where his life had sthrike, 
 
 And like a baby on her breast he cried 
 Our big son, Mike.
 
 72 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 TAKIN TAY AT RIELLYS . 
 
 ARRAH, did you know the Riellys that lived near 
 
 Donadea? 
 A fine old-fashioned place they had as snug as snug 
 
 could be, 
 And sure for dacint people you couldn t bate thim 
 
 round 
 The two and thirty counties of Ireland s blessed 
 
 ground. 
 
 Tis often I am thinkin of Sundays afther Mass 
 Whin down the mossy boreen that skirts their door 
 
 I d pass, 
 And "Come inside and rest yourself agra," Herself 
 
 would say, 
 And thin we d have potato cake and a cup of Irish 
 
 tay. 
 
 Such tay it was, with cream, bedad, and plinty more 
 
 in sight, 
 And sure the hot potato cake I m tastin here 
 
 to-night, 
 Twas butthered in the middle with the butther 
 
 runnin through 
 And faith, with all respects to ye, my face was 
 
 butthered too.
 
 Takin Tay at Riellys. 73 
 
 My stomach s sick and tired of the food tis gettin 
 
 now 
 With "buttherine" and milk in tins that never saw a 
 
 cow, 
 And once a woman says to me "I always take my 
 
 tay 
 With a slice of limon in it for that s the Russian 
 
 way." 
 
 I never was a Russian, a Frinchman or a Jew, 
 I m Irish every inch of me and my tastes are Irish 
 
 too, 
 
 I like a dish of cabbage with corned beef or pork 
 But O, for hot potato cake I d go from here to 
 
 Cork. 
 
 And Bridget Rielly was the one to make ye dhrink 
 
 and ait, 
 Ye d never lave her table while a crumb was on 
 
 your plate, 
 
 She never kept an impty pot nor griddle on her floor 
 Or shut agin a neighbor s face the latchpin of her 
 
 door. 
 
 It isn t goold I m wantin , though money s good ye 
 
 know, 
 And sure my health is fine, thank God as twinty 
 
 years ago. 
 But I m lonesome for the Riellys, this many a weary 
 
 day 
 And I m hungry for potato cake and a cup of Irish 
 
 tay.
 
 74 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 IN THE SPRING O THE YEAR. 
 
 IN the spring o the year we two went walkin , 
 
 O, but the greenin meadows were sweet, 
 
 And God to His world of love was talkin 
 
 In every daisy about our feet. 
 
 My heart was singin with joy arid laughter, 
 
 O, soul of my bosom, if I but knew 
 
 The desolate days that, were speedin afther 
 
 When I d go walkin no more with you. 
 
 In the spring o the year you lay adyin , 
 The greenin meadows were wild with rain 
 And God to His world of woe was sighin 
 In every splash on the window pane ; 
 Dhroopin to rest like a sea beat swallow 
 I felt you slippin away from me, 
 And the pitiful feet of me could not follow 
 Beyond those shadows of mysthery. 
 
 Now years keep comin and years keep goin , 
 Tis little I heed them green or grey, 
 Watchin the river of life whose flowin 
 Must sometime bring me a brighter day. 
 Then spring o the year or depth of winther 
 God will be talkin of joy agin 
 To me and His world when I shall inther 
 The same soft shadows where you went in.
 
 Parnell 75 
 
 PARNELL. 
 
 LIFT him up in the place of his people, let him stand 
 
 where the crowds go by, 
 The man who was pledged for our liberty, the man 
 
 who can never die, 
 O er the streets of that ancient city where the breath 
 
 of his soul was blown 
 Let him stand like a mighty Ard Ri that hovers 
 
 above his own. 
 
 Let the lips that unleashed our passions and the 
 
 hands that for us threw down, 
 The challenge of Man for his liberty be set over 
 
 Dublin town; 
 Let the dawn of our day be golden and the rain of 
 
 our night be sweet 
 Where the glory and pride of Erin are wreathed 
 
 about his feet. 
 
 Lift him up in the place of his people, let the surge 
 
 of their love be hurled 
 To the face that was turned in strength to them 
 
 from all the claims of the world, 
 While the nations of men are travailing in joy of a 
 
 ransomed birth 
 Set him here where the Celt is fashioning the crown 
 
 of his fate on earth.
 
 76 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 Patriot, hero or demagogue what matter the cry 
 
 he met, 
 On the scroll of eternal liberty the place of his fame 
 
 is set, 
 And there will the royal greatness that shadowed 
 
 the might of kings 
 Be one with the spirit of man that lies at the core 
 
 of created things. 
 
 Lift him up in the place of his people, for the earth s 
 
 soul quickens apace, 
 And the nations of men are standing heart riven 
 
 and face to face 
 Gauging the dreams that a race may dare whatever 
 
 that race may be, 
 For the tribes of God know but one free sod on the 
 
 summits of Liberty. 
 
 Lift him up in the place of his people, on the road 
 
 that is free to men, 
 Where never a tyrant dares to flaunt the shame of 
 
 our bonds again; 
 O er the streets of that ancient city, where the 
 
 breath of his soul was blown, 
 Let him stand like a mighty Ard Ri that hovers 
 
 above his own.
 
 The Old Bog Road. 77 
 
 THE OLD BOG ROAD. 
 
 MY feet are here on Broadway this blessed harvest 
 
 morn 
 But O, the ache that s in thim for the sod where I 
 
 was born; 
 My weary hands are blisthered from toil in cold and 
 
 heat 
 And tis O, to swing a scythe to-day through fields of 
 
 Irish wheat. 
 Had I my choice to journey back or own a king s 
 
 abode 
 Tis soon I d see the hawthorn tree by the old bog 
 
 road. 
 
 Whin I was young and innocent my mind was ill at 
 
 ease 
 Through dhramin of America and goold beyant the 
 
 seas, 
 Och, sorra take their money but tis hard to get that 
 
 same 
 And what s the whole world to a man whin no one 
 
 spakes his name! 
 I ve had my day and here I am with buildin bricks 
 
 for load 
 A long three thousand miles away from the old bog 
 
 road.
 
 78 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 My mother died last springtime whin Ireland s 
 
 fields were green, 
 The neighbors said her wakin was the finest ever 
 
 seen, 
 There were snowdrops and primroses piled up 
 
 around her bed 
 And Ferns Church was crowded whin her funeral 
 
 Mass was said. 
 And here was I on Broadway with buildin bricks for 
 
 load 
 Whin they carried out her coffin from the old bog 
 
 road. 
 
 There was a dacint girl at home who used to walk 
 
 with me, 
 Her eyes were soft and sorrowful like moonbames 
 
 on the sea, 
 
 Her name was Mary Dwyer, but that is long ago 
 And the ways of God are wiser than the things a 
 
 man may know. 
 She died the year I left her, but with buildin bricks 
 
 for load 
 I d best forget the times we met on the old bog road. 
 
 Och, life s a weary puzzle, past findin out by man, 
 I take the day for what it s worth and do the best 
 
 I can, 
 Since no one cares a rush for me what need to make 
 
 a moan, 
 I go my way and dhraw my pay and smoke my pipe 
 
 alone.
 
 The Ancient Race. 79 
 
 Each human heart must know its grief though bitther 
 
 be the load 
 So God be with old Ireland and the old bog road. 
 
 THE ANCIENT RACE. 
 
 I DREAMED that from Time s high threshold I saw 
 
 a vision of earth 
 Since out of primeval chaos the first lands blossomed 
 
 forth, 
 And the warring hosts in battalions for Right and 
 
 Wrong were arrayed 
 Gainst the souls of men and of nations when God s 
 
 first laws were made. 
 
 And up through the changing ages strange forms and 
 
 tribes of men 
 Arose from the gloom to vanish like wraiths in the 
 
 gloom again. 
 And many a proud dominion went down with its 
 
 thrones and kings 
 Like a story heard in the twilight to the place of 
 
 forgotten things. 
 
 I saw the slave in his bondage shrink back from the 
 
 scourger s hands, 
 And the blood of a million martyrs flow red over 
 
 ruined lands;
 
 80 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 Then, lo, on a shifted morrow the slave by his 
 
 master stood 
 And the crimson tide was a ruby in the crown of 
 
 man s brotherhood. 
 
 Then spake I unto the Watcher who stands for aye 
 
 in the Gate. 
 Keeper he of the records men write on the books 
 
 of Fate, 
 "Show me with clearer vision, O, Thou of the scrolls 
 
 divine! 
 The story of mine own people in the house of their 
 
 life and mine." 
 
 The Watcher smiled as he answered, "Dost fear 
 
 for the Celtic race ! 
 Behold by the north star s shining they stand in their 
 
 destined place." 
 And then with a shock of vision I saw what the high 
 
 gods see 
 Whose hands on the Nations heartstrings make 
 
 failure or victory. 
 
 A continent old and hoary, grown mad in its vain 
 desires, 
 
 O erthrown in a swirl of waters and crash of a thou 
 sand fires,* 
 
 * According to an ancient legend, Ireland arose from the ocean after 
 the old continent of Atlantis was submerged thereby.
 
 The Ancient Race. 81 
 
 Then, lo, as the darkness lifted in an aura of light 
 
 divine, 
 Uprose the home of my people neath the star of 
 
 their fates and mine. 
 
 Purified, holy and verdant stood Eire in safe retreat, 
 With the winds of dawn on her forehead, the surges 
 
 about her feet; 
 While out of the highest heavens I heard the decree 
 
 roll forth 
 "With the leaven of this my daughter I shall leaven 
 
 the tribes of earth." 
 
 O, many the days of glory when the light of her 
 
 learning shone 
 Through the dim byways of a world that sighed for 
 
 a glimpse of dawn. 
 When the fame of her saints and sages was bright as 
 
 her own green sod 
 Ere the awful hour of her testing was struck from 
 
 the chimes of God. 
 
 Then saw I her altars shattered, her shrines in the 
 
 dust laid low, 
 And through the halls of her broken kings the feet 
 
 of a foeman go, 
 With her eyes to the north star lifted she stood by 
 
 her slaughtered dead, 
 The Lord s Handmaid of the world a beggar for 
 
 alms and bread.
 
 82 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 In bondage and persecution, in famine and fever 
 
 ships 
 Were her children beaten and scattered, their death 
 
 cries searing her lips. 
 And as ever the blood-stained ages grew darker with 
 
 woe and dread 
 I turned me unto the Watcher, "Have pity, and 
 
 spare," I said. 
 
 But the Watcher smiled as he answered, "Would st 
 
 weep for the Celtic race? 
 Behold in the noonday shining they go to their 
 
 destined place." 
 And then with unveiled vision I saw in a blazing 
 
 glow 
 The exiled ranks of my people to the heart of the 
 
 whole world go. 
 
 Raising temples and cities, sailing o er trackless seas, 
 Priests and soldiers and pioneers, builders in war and 
 
 peace, 
 While ever their homage and yearning went back 
 
 with a love divine 
 To the shrine of their souls behind them the land 
 
 of their hearts and mine. 
 
 Again I turned to the Watcher "How endeth the 
 
 tale?" I said, 
 "Shall this mother of heroes and sages be a land 
 
 of the quick or the dead?,"
 
 The Cuckoo s Call. 83 
 
 But ever he smiled in answer, "Fear not, for the 
 
 Celtic race 
 Is tested and weighed by the gods who made their 
 
 first and their final place." 
 
 Then, lo, in a blaze of glory stood Eire, our love of 
 
 the lands, 
 With a Victor s smile on her forehead and peace 
 
 in her chainless hands; 
 While out of the highest Heavens the jubilant cry 
 
 rang forth 
 "With the leaven of this my daughter I have 
 
 leavened the tribes of earth." 
 
 THE CUCKOO S CALL. 
 
 O, WHAT is it I m dhreamin of from weary day to 
 
 day? 
 
 Tis Spring beyant in Ireland and me so far away. 
 And what is it I m hearin clear above the city s 
 
 glare, 
 Och sure it is the cuckoo s call at home in old Kildare. 
 
 Aye, Spring is there in Ireland with lambs upon the 
 hills 
 
 And rainy breezes playin with the yalla daffodils, 
 
 Primroses peepin by the hedge and daisies every 
 where 
 
 While thrushes sing their songs of love from green- 
 in bushes there.
 
 84 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 Across the wild Atlantic it is beatin on my lips 
 That little wind of April like a baby s finger tips, 
 Tis dhrivin me to madness for the things I want 
 
 to-day 
 With Spring beyant in Ireland and me so far away. 
 
 Tis beatin on my heartsthrings and tis beatin on 
 
 my breast 
 Tis callin me to Ireland with a cry that will not 
 
 rest, 
 To buddin branch and bramble and sloe threes 
 
 glimmerin white 
 And little sthreams that whisper there down every 
 
 wind of night. 
 
 O, greenin heart of Ireland three thousand miles 
 
 from me 
 
 My arms to you I m reachin out across the salty sea ; 
 The cuckoo s call rings through my blood, across 
 
 the world tis blown 
 For Spring is there in old Kildare and I m alone, 
 
 alone. 
 
 ROLL BACK THE STONE. 
 
 ROLL back the stone, for the Lord hath spoken 
 And dawn is white where her night was known, 
 
 Behold her fetters of death are broken 
 And Erin is risen roll back the stone!
 
 Roll Back the Stone. 85 
 
 Do you feel the thrill of her coming, nations, 
 
 Whose proud feet trampled her, blood and bone, 
 
 Or wist ye not that her centuried patience 
 
 But bided His summons? Roll back the stone! 
 
 Roll back the stone, for the truth and glory 
 
 Of every aeon since time was young 
 Are shrined in the dreams of her unwrit story, 
 
 From deep to deep of the ages swung; 
 For the lords of life at the first words spoken 
 
 Set seal on the Celt as their chosen own 
 To toil and serve till the bonds where broken 
 
 From man and his mission. Roll back the stone ! 
 
 O ! hers was a spirit no death could stifle, 
 
 The greatest in loving, the least in hate, 
 The foremost where Liberty primed her rifle 
 
 And Freedom was wrung from the depths of fate. 
 Yea, when her own green flag was lying 
 
 A broken reed by a broken throne, 
 Her soul from the ramparts of life was crying 
 
 Defiance to tyrants. Roll back the stone ! 
 
 Roll back the stone, for she stands immortal, 
 
 A watcher of time by the war lords shod, 
 And who but her heroes shall guard the portal 
 
 Whence laws swing down from the courts of God? 
 And who shall reign on the heights forever 
 
 But she who lay in the dust alone, 
 And who will rule but the soul that never 
 
 Was stained with dishonor? Roll back the stone !
 
 86 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 Roll back the stone, for with hell below her 
 
 And arms outspread on a centuried cross 
 She won all the ways of the world to know her 
 
 And agonize there with her, loss by loss. 
 And so in a passion of joy and wonder 
 
 She stands in the dawn where her night was 
 
 known, 
 While the angels of Liberty chant in thunder 
 
 " She is risen, is risen." Roll back the stone ! 
 
 THRAMPIN DOWN TO SLIGO. 
 
 THRAMPIN down to Sligo with my peddler s cart, 
 There s Dublin left behind me and the plains of 
 
 Kildare, 
 
 Thrampin down to Sligo and the ways of my heart 
 Where Maurya s waitin for me in her grey- 
 
 sthreaked hair; 
 Just the same dear woman that I kissed by Loch 
 
 Gill 
 Thirty-seven years ago and my Maurya still. 
 
 I m sick of Dublin city with its noise and its fret, 
 
 I m sick of sellin vanithees my wares by the road, 
 For down beyond the Shannon the blackthorn bushes 
 
 set 
 
 Their little blossoms out to say that Spring is 
 abroad;
 
 Thrampin Down to Sligo. 87 
 
 And one old thrush I m knowin these five years and 
 
 more 
 Is settin up her nest beside my own cabin door. 
 
 My little donkey s tired and I am tired too, 
 
 When sixty years are on you what joy is there in 
 
 life 
 But to rest beside the things you know are always 
 
 thrue, 
 And what to man is thruer than his home and his 
 
 wife ! 
 So I m thrampin down to Sligo, to my own heart s 
 
 share 
 Where Maurya s waitin for me in her grey- 
 
 sthreaked hair. 
 
 The nights are sweet about me and the dawns rain 
 
 grey 
 
 And every step I go is over good Irish sod, 
 Were you ever in America? " a man said yesther- 
 
 day, 
 
 " Begor, I never was," said I, " I thank my God;" 
 So I m thrampin down to Sligo where the sea winds 
 
 race 
 And there s welcome waitin for me in my Maurya s 
 
 face,
 
 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 BONFIRE NIGHT IN IRELAND. 
 
 TlS Bonfire Night in Ireland, God, but the years go 
 
 fast, 
 And here s myself a lonesome man who lives but in 
 
 the past, 
 The long day s work is over and stars come out 
 
 above 
 But sure they re not the stars of home, the ones I 
 
 used to love ; 
 And neither is this burning night like that old night 
 
 in June 
 When Tommy Casey whistled up " The Rising of 
 
 the Moon." 
 
 Sure that same boy could make the dead get up and 
 
 stir their feet, 
 I d rather spend an hour with him than all I drink 
 
 or eat, 
 Beginning soft and easy with u The Harp " or 
 
 " Shrule Aroon " 
 Tis soon he d have you fighting mad with some old 
 
 Fenian tune; 
 But when he d start the " Rocky Road " or 
 
 " Humors of Glandore," 
 A blind and bothered cripple couldn t help but welt 
 
 the floor.
 
 Bonfire Night in Ireland. 89 
 
 O, Lord, those nights in Ireland with the meadows 
 
 ripe to mow 
 And corncrakes voices telling you old things of long 
 
 ago. 
 I can see the big moon rising now, a globe of silver 
 
 white, 
 I can smell the hawthorn blossoms here across this 
 
 scorching night, 
 Aye, flinging all the years behind, I live that night in 
 
 June 
 When Tommy Casey whistled up " The Rising of 
 
 the Moon." 
 
 With our kippeens on our shoulders where our 
 
 fathers pikes were drawn 
 We marched about the ashes as the day began to 
 
 dawn, 
 And the call of all the ages flung its challenge in our 
 
 face 
 As we pledged our lives to Ireland and the glory of 
 
 the race; 
 And there stood Tommy Casey whistling up to 
 
 Heaven the tune, 
 That made us freemen for a while, "The Rising of 
 
 the Moon." 
 
 Oh, well, tis all a memory now, and I m a lonesome 
 
 man, 
 While Tommy Casey sleeps to-night below by San 
 
 Juan.
 
 90 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 Aye, sure he died for liberty for when she lifts her 
 
 hand 
 What better henchmen has she than the sons of that 
 
 old land, 
 Whose lives and souls and deeds for her have woven 
 
 such wondrous tune 
 That Gabriel s trumpet knows by now u The Rising 
 
 of the Moon!" 
 
 Tis Bonfire Night in Ireland, and the hawthorn still 
 
 is sweet, 
 While Murphy s cross-roads echo to the thrill of 
 
 dancing feet; 
 There s laughter, love, and music, and a big moon 
 
 shining white, 
 But, O, my God, the weary miles that part us all 
 
 to-night. 
 And there is none to take his place, who stood that 
 
 night in June, 
 And made us freemen for a while with " The Rising 
 
 of the Moon."
 
 The Old Road Home. 91 
 
 THE OLD ROAD HOME. 
 
 I WOULD know it in the darkness were I deaf and 
 
 dumb and blind, 
 I would know it o er the thrashing of a million 
 
 miles of foam, 
 I would know it sun or shadow, I would know it rain 
 
 or wind, 
 
 The road that leads to Ireland, aye, the old road 
 home. 
 
 Sure the angels up in Heaven would be pointing it 
 
 to me 
 From every track that man has made since first 
 
 he learned to roam, 
 And my feet would leap to greet it like a captive 
 
 thing set free 
 
 The road that leads to Ireland, aye, the old road 
 home. 
 
 I would find the hawthorn bushes, I would find the 
 
 boreen s gap 
 
 With one old cabin standing mid the soft green 
 ing loam, 
 If the world was all a jumble on the great Creator s 
 
 lap 
 
 I would know the road to Ireland, aye, the old 
 road home.
 
 92 Songs of the Dawn. 
 
 A DHOC AN DHORRIS. 
 
 HERE where my rhymes are ended and you leave the 
 
 old for the new 
 I m pledging a dhoc an dhorris, O, friends of my 
 
 heart to you, 
 I know that my simple singing will fade from your 
 
 ears as soon 
 As the song of a wayside robin you heard by the 
 
 road in June; 
 But the dreams I have dreamed for Ireland, please 
 
 God they will never die 
 Till we re drinking a dhoc an dhorris to the world 
 
 itself, Good-bye.
 
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 UNIVERSITY OF C VLIFORNU 
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