c\ IRISH ECLOGUES IRISH ECLOGUES BY EDWARD E. LYSAGHT NEW YORK BRENTANO'S 1920 Printed in Ireland J2EAUTY I meet with everywhere : A rounded bosom partly bare, A maiden's errant lock of hair Tossed in the balmy southern air, Eyes of violet deep as rare, Eyes that challenge the bold to dare, Beauty that needs no craftsman's care ; But none I see that is half so fair As the girl at home who is pleaged to share My life with me. Her beauty is not for all to see Like a rainbow's obvious brilliancy, It is traced with a delicate subtlety For I do not find a treasury Of perfect features, perfectly 20G1419 DEDICATION Planned with a sculptor s symmetry^ But a face that is full of energy^ Tef soft like an old time melody In the haunting Celtic minor key And an eye suffused with a sympathy That blends the whole into harmony ', ^ our arms entwined^ she looks at me In the firelight glow. Marseilles, 1913. CONTENTS I HEARD A LONE CALF CALLING 9 A RECOLLECTION OF A COLD WET NIGHT IN 1909 II CAITILIN'S FIELD 16 THE MARCH FAIR 2O THE JOY OF PERMANENCE 24 THE RIVER MEADOW 26 PALES AND CERES 28 SOME OF MY WORKMEN 3O THE GREY HORSE 38 THE ASS 39 THE SHEEP DOG 40 TO MY DOG 41 LOUGH DERG 43 DO YOU NEVER WANT TO BE ALONE 54 A DROWSY WINTER'S DAY 55 FURZE 57 ^stufin 59 FOOTNOTE 62 vii I HEARD A LONE CALF CALLING I HEARD a lone calf calling Plaintively, drearily, for the mother it had lost. I stood and watched the hungry cows around me Picking the scanty grass of early March. I leant awhile upon the four-pronged fork The day's work chanced to make my tool, And as I stood and gave my thoughts their liberty They came upon a way yet unexplored. Ah ! many a day I'd worked and stood Where I now idled a brief spell, But never seen the beauty of the life I led, Or felt how much the life of every day could show To one who cared to read. 9 I HEARD A LONE CALF CALLING 'Twas like the sudden glorious discovery A man makes when he finds he loves a woman ; Her features which he saw and knew before Change wondrously, as by some weird enchantment of the gods. And as I went on working till the twilight came My brain, awakened in its gladness, wildly sped its way In mad and formless song. 10 A RECOLLECTION OF A COLD WET NIGHT IN 1909 MY smoky lantern throws its flickering ray Now on the cobbles, now upon the walls ; I hear the log chains rattling in the stalls, I hear the chestnut whinnying to the grey ; Below the gate the fragrant scent of hay, Saved on a pleasant summer's day, Despite the cold raw wind and sleet recalls My shivering mind to thoughts of summer zephyrs. There in the lower yard the thirty heifers, The calves we knew last year, Sleek-coated, placid, mild-faced animals, Warm bedded, care not whether snow flake falls ii A COLD WET NIGHT IN 1909 Or midnight skies are clear, But in one long unceasing chorus, A duotone sonorous, They munch and champ, and chew the fragrant fodder. Their calm contentment throws on me a spell, Their peaceful mood floods me and all seems well. A minute since the cold incessant rain Beating in gusts against my lonely shutter, The big bleak empty barrack's ghostly sounds, The icy draughts that made my candle gutter, The four bare walls that were the gloomy bounds Of my inhabited domain, The narrow bed with blankets still untended, The nail where hung the rags that no one mended, 12 A COLD WET NIGHT IN 1909 Had filled my heart with something near to pain. I thought with longing of the idle days I spent at college, of the cheery room Where to sit single brought no lonely gloom Upon the brain, Remembered enviously the jovial friends Who came to share a glass, a rowdy song, And went their ways Without a care, a harum-scarum throng But now the sounds and smells around me From my obsession have unbound- me, No more a prey to dull misgiving I feel again the joy of living, Though by the storm my sense is staggered, Though I have felt forlorn and friendless Drifting upon an ocean endless, A single old familiar greeting Can send my morbid fancies fleeting. 13 A COLD WET NIGHT IN 1909 A single perfume from the haggard, The subtle scent of sheltered cattle, A startled rooster's tittle-tattle, The champ of horses in the stable, The windcock creaking on the gable, Even a new calved heifer's moan, Her plaintive yearning monotone, Makes me feel less alone. Oh, ye Poets who have sung Praises of our country life, When ye hymned your tuneful words What knew ye of midnight work ; Of the cares that daily lurk Round a farmer's flocks and herds ; Had ye ever used the knife While a life in balance hung ; Had ye ever left your beds To tend a suffering horse's colic : A COLD WET NIGHT IN 1909 Had ye sat all night and shivered Till a heifer was delivered Of a stubborn first born calf ? Farmers cannot always laugh, Life is not all fun and frolic, Poetry her fancy sheds On reality bucolic. Yet for all your ignorance Ye have sung the truth by chance. Though the seasons may not favour, Though the cows are short of milk, Though disease attack my fold And my bullocks are unsold, Though my farm's remote and far From the towns where pleasures are, Though I go not clothed in silk Yet my fealty will not waver ; I still find the world's romance Here in my inheritance. 15 CAITILIN'S FIELD I SING the song of the man who has sweated and toiled All day at the saving of hay and the making of tramps * On a day when his work is well spent, and the crop is not spoiled By the rain that he damns. When the dew has gone off of the ground, and the heat of the sun Is very near able to melt the prong of his fork, When already the small little breeze the task has begun, Then man sets to work. * Local word for wynds or tramp-cocks, pronounced tram. 16 CAITILIN'S FIELD Five acres of good meadow hay is in Caitilin's field, In windrows we have it made up, 'twill not rain, we've no fear, 'Tis only the fools who make cocks when the clouds are concealed And the sky is all clear. Ten men there are with me as well as myself, and a boy To ride on the horse that draws in the hay from the rows ; We'll easily tramp it by night, and we'll count it a joy To do it, God knows. Three tramps are kept going at once, for the meadow is flat And the skeeter works smoothly, and quickly its loads are upturned, 17 B CAITILIN'S FIELD Till the sweat runs off us in streams, and the man that is fat His wage will have earned. There's skill in the work, for it isn't mere ignorant labouring To build up a tramp while two men are forking their best, And not have it turn when its made, to be for the neighbouring Farmers a jest. There's skill in the skeeting, there's skill in the pulling, there's skill In the way that the hay is forked off of the ground, for you'll see When a man comes out of a town, though he work with a will, What a fool he does be. 18 CAITILIN'S FIELD Tired we may be when at night we have forked the last sop, The last sugan is tied, and we put on our coats to go home, But we wouldn't change place with the King in his Parliament shop, Or the Pope that's in Rome. For what do the dwellers in palaces know of the feel Of the arm that is wearied with work, yet ready for more, Or the appetite simple and keen a man brings to the meal His house has in store ? THE MARCH FAIR THREE o'clock, and with a start I waken, cursing fair and mart. And the bullocks, if they knew, Surely would be cursing too ; Seven English miles have they, Long before the dawn of day, Seven English miles to tramp. (Where the divil is the lamp ?) Bullocks ! In your innocence Yours a day of abstinence. It will take two hours and more For us to go to Killimor. Then when we're there we'll stand forlorn Like long wooled sheep that have been shorn, Too early in the summer. 20 THE MARCH FAIR 7 Tis eight o'clock and ne'er a bid : What fools to come* yet well we did, For out from yonder caravan, Where Mrs. Browne wields her tin-can And serves cold herrings, tea and bread To Michael, Paddy, Tom and Ned, There comes a man who's slep' it out : He's a shipper, there's no doubt. I know him, sure, 'tis Johnny Curtin, He'll buy our cattle now for certain. I ask a hundred for the ten, He scans them slightingly and then He turns away without a word. I wink my eye to Mick, the herd. " Come here, I want you, Sir," cries he, " What is the bullocks' price to be ? " "They're not worth nine." But Jim Molony (We all know Jim, the poor old crony) 21 THE MARCH FAIR Puts in his word without a smile : " I don't care which, but wait awhile Ask nine fifteen and cut a crown." " Is that the way you'd beat me down ? " John strikes my hand and goes away. And then comes back again to say He'll not break Jim Molony's word. (We all say that, we're so absurd) And so at last the bargain's struck ; It's left to me about the luck. " Begob ! " says Mick, " for all his tricks They're dear enough at nine twelve six." So later on when we've been paid, We'll drink their health in lemonade. (The divil sweep those pledges) Herded with others, scores and scores, Our bullocks, mixed with cows and stores, 22 THE MARCH FAIR Are driven through the thronging fair Out to the railway station, where Numbers of trucks, all just the same, Swallow the beasts we knew by name, Which lose in leaving Mick and me Their individuality. God ! On what venture ye embark, To feed at length some city clerk Whose widest world is Blackpool. 2 3 THE JOY OF PERMANENCE OLD John with his plough may turn a scrape As true as the flight of an arrow, But well he knows that it can't escape The levelling stroke of the harrow. Danny has built a faultless rick, I never saw one to beat it ; But his work is not made with stone or brick Later on the cattle will eat it. I have shaken oats from year to year, But at heart I have laboured sadly, For it all looks the same when the fields are clear, Though I scatter it never so badly. 24 THE JOY OF PERMANENCE But here is a work that I feel is worth The full of our human endeavour, For we're leaving our mark on the face of the earth, A mark that will stay for ever. We are battling with ancient barren land, Boulders and straggling heather ; We have worked till the tan on our arms is tanned Double deep by the cut of the weather. Rocks and stones we have raised and moved Till a great wide wall has risen Round the bounds of a field that no man loved And the goats used to count a prison. And now it is levelled and limed and ploughed : The brown earth calls for the sower. In six months this will be one of a crowd When it falls to the scythe of the mower. 25 THE RIVER MEADOW G RACEFULLY, steadily, easily Three men are mowing Bending and rising they capture the Rhythm of rowing. Swish goes the cut of the scythes as they Glide all together Through the cool stems of the river hay In the hot weather. Then at the end of the swath comes the Sound of the honing Grating but ringing melodiously Like a bee droning. 26 THE RIVER MEADOW Morning and noon time and evening Comes a young maiden Porter and buttermilk carrying Willingly laden. And while they drink under shadowy Willows eternal The meadow distils for them heavenly Scent of sweet-vernal.* * It may not be generally known that sweet-vernal is the name of the grass which gives the characteristic scent to freshly cut hay. PALES AND CERES PALES I AM the goddess of the Golden Vale, I rule the downs and the fat plains of Meath, And to my devotees I can bequeath The rich sleek ox, the overflowing pail, The cool of summer dairies in the dale, Where lies the homestead, girdled with a wreath Of prying creepers groping underneath The thatch, the dingy beams within to scale. And in the luscious pastures stand my kine, Some suckle calves, some plod home to the byre, Bullocks knee deep in pasture graze their fill, Or seek the shallows in a careless line, Or under shady branches lie quite still Chewing the cud with jaws that never tire. 28 PALES AND CERES CERES HEED not O Eire, the specious promises Of idle Pales, hearken unto me, I am the queen of life and energy ; I check the hopeful exile's eagerness ; I keep the life blood in my villages, For when I govern a community There will the pleasant sound of labour be I feel no pride in ranches tenantless. My beauty lies in sight of human toil, In the green corn when pastures still are white, Or in a yellowing cornfield in the breeze, In the sweet smell when freshly turns the soil, In rows of pointed stooks at glimmering night, Or thresher's hum like buzz of million bees. 29 SOME OF MY WORKMEN D I DANNY COGHLAN ANIEL Coghlan, down from the mountains, Tough hardy Dan, from beyant in the mountains, You're the best worksman I know. Thin is your arm, sure, Yerra, what harm, sure, 'Tis you have the go ! You have the knowledge, you have the strength, too : Knowledge is great, but men must have strength too, Each by itself is no good ; Then you are quick, Dan, Some men are thick, Dan, Thicker than wood. 30 SOME OF MY WORKMEN Keenly you work ; 'tis hard to get keen men. I love to be watching or working with keen men, Men who learnt labour at home. You have ten acres, man, Keep it, be Jakers, man, Let emigrants roam. You are the right man, one I can trust in, I could never leave home if I'd no one to trust in And know that my work will be done. The divil a loss, boys, While he is your boss, boys, The divil a one. You're independent, never obsequious, A man of free birth is never obsequious, He leaves it to schemer and slave. If this poem should live, lad, 'Tis all I've to give, lad, For all that you gave. 3 1 SOME OF MY WORKMEN I LOOK upon you as a curiosity, you master of excuse and wile. You clothe your tortuous scheming with verbosity, But I confess you only make me smile. You are a part of that still puzzling mystery That English rule bequeathed us from the past, Your type is simply the result of history, And into history it's sinking fast. SOME OF MY WORKMEN III JAMESY WHEN there's a dirty job to do, Or one man has the work of two, Nobody ever questions who Be there many or be there few : 'Tis Jamesy Shaughnessy ! When we are loading posts of oak Upon a high-wheeled one-horse yoke Who has the heavy ends bespoke And lifts till his arms are almost broke But Jamesy Shaughnessy ! 33 c SOME OF MY WORKMEN Yet there's one man who's always willing No matter if he's in the killing Of pigs, or maybe he'll be filling Dung carts all day, or ridges tilling, Though he may not know a crown from a shilling, That's Jamesy Shaughnessy ! 'Tis equal what or where the place, He always wants to force the pace, At digging spuds he's mad to race, Or hoeing : " Sure, 'tis all a case," Says Jamesy Shaughnessy. But then at digging spuds or hoeing, And even binding sheaves or mowing, When you're too fond of rapid going The bad results will soon be showing, O, Jamesy Shaughnessy ! 34 SOME OF MY WORKMEN His beard is just a tangled mat, He always wears an old hard hat, And he never stops to smoke or chat What can I do with a man like that, Eh, Jamesy Shaughnessy ? If I give him a job that's tasty or neat Sure, his own gossoon will have him beat, All he has is muscle and bone. I must send him off and leave him alone For he'll work his best without deceit, Nor go away till the job's complete, What do you say, Jamesy ? For I have to get the best that I can Out of every labouring man, I don't care whether he's Jim or Dan Or Jamesy Shaughnessy. It is only fair to Jamesy to say that these verses were written some years ago, before I knew him as well as I do now. The hard hat is discarded, the beard neatly trimmed, and Jamesy, who has found his true vocation as yardman, is now one of my most trusted and reliable men. 35 SOME OF MY WORKMEN IV THADY ANGLIM (R. I. P.) THADY, for all your shaggy face And halting crab-like gait, I must accord to you a place Among the verses in this book : You'll never learn your fate. For all your thoughts, your very look, Told of a purpose undeterred, You had but one delight, You only wept when loss occurred Among the members of our herd, Now, we are weeping you, interred For ever from our sight. SOME OF MY WORKMEN V WILLIAM MORRISSEY (1843-1913) NO mighty warrior lies in that cold grave, No king who bears a high illustrious name, Nor politician with a transient fame, Nor even a singer famous for his stave. You were a simple honest man. No knave Can breathe a scandal, find a tint of shame, Nor for a meanness lay on you the blame, A simple servant always : never a slave. What can I say of you in greater praise ? A simple honest man were you here now You would not wish a higher compliment. So when at seventy years you've done your days, And to a hostile world have made your bow, I say what I have said before you went. 37 I LOVE the summer months because I eat The fresh green grass, because my tired feet Find soft moist standing in the time of heat. I love the winter, when my rattling chain Binds me in reach of hay and good plump grain And a strong roof keeps out the wind and rain. THE ASS ESJG, long ago I was a foal, A happy, shaggy little foal, I used to gallop, graze and roll, And when I thought, I thought the whole World was a meadow. But now I work and pull a car, A heavy overloaded car ; I smell the meadows from afar : But only once a week they are More than a shadow. 39 THE SHEEP DOG E^PING and barking, madly careering, Nimbly avoiding their kicks, I am steering The dairy cows home to the byre ; The sluggish cows home. Working the sheep is my joy of existence, Rounding them into the fold from a distance, Snapping the last as he runs Through the gate of the pen. Trotting sedately when worktime is finished I follow my master, my keenness diminished, Till I stretch myself out by the fire At the feet of the men. 40 TO MY DOG OH what do we care for the boasts of the shooters Who prate of their bags and their battues and drives, Who ride to their moors and their coverts in motors And chat while they wait to other men's wives ; Who leave all the work and the fun to the beaters, All thinking and craft to their headkeeper's brains, Who dream not of duck but of Darracq two seaters, Whose joy in the bag is how much it contains. 4 1 TO MY DOG Eat this bone for you've work before you to-day ; Now a bite for me and then we'll away. LOUGH DERG I A I push out my boat And carelessly float Down the sluggish stream To the beds of reeds And the deep stemmed weeds Where the minnows dream, Soon a startled Coot With trailing foot Leaves a bubbling wake, As he splashes away To the bosom grey Of the open lake ; 43 LOUGH DERG And the dabchick strives With his slippery dives To escape unseen ; And the divers swim, At the water's rim, To their rushy screen. The kittiwakes' white Gives a touch of light To the lough's dull breast, As they rise and dip, Like a faery ship, At the waves' behest. 44 LOUGH DERG II A CLUMP of high green reeds now yellowing in decay, An island landless and without a shore, I know of such a hiding place in every little bay Where I can check my boat's drift, where she and I can stay, And I can learn the lake bird's lore. First the gulls, the laughing gulls, come circling round my head, Laughing they pitch on yonder rock, And sometimes with them a tern uncomraded, 45 LOUGH DERG That child of the breezes in some aery kingdom bred, Circles still, while below the gulls mock. Small and unnoticed the dotterel and his mate Come swinging and darting on their skimming course, They alight, but to return, or if by chance they wait Rest never finds them, but an evergoading fate Drives them on with an unseen force. * With a rushing sound of wings, Like a sudden breeze When it strikes the tops Of an ancient wood, A flock of wild duck comes, LOUGH DERG With unchecked speed They swish through the air In a flashing curve Dropping upon the water's face As lightly as a mayfly ; There they float and idly swim, Idly paddle in the shallows. Some stand up and stretch a wing, Tired with speed of journeying, One turns back his head to sleep, One but I have made some sound- They are off and far away Lost among the misty grey I can see them flashing dim Making for securer shallows. 47 LOUGH DERG III THEN the swerving plover, that gossiping bird Who every moment swoops out of his course, As if some far away music he heard, And he wanted to trace the elusive charm Of the phantom melody down to its source At the brim of the water, ; nor comes to harm As he falls headlong from a dizzy height, And fluttering down his comrades follow In a mass confused till they reunite With a tern-like grace and the ease of a swallow Into a disciplined serried array, One aimless purpose common to all ; LOUGH DERG All instantly answering one common whim, They wing their devious voyage away, Hastening still to that unknown call, That will-o'-the-wisp at the water's brim Which they found not there, but seek it now Among the boulders or after the plough, And their wings flash white as they wheel in the sun, Or gambol and tumble in aery fun. 49 LOUGH DERG IV ON MY WAY HOMEWARD AT THE END OF THE DAY A GENTLE breeze that ^has timely veered From the west to the east, and has made of the sky An indigo vault of transparent hue, A deep-toned matchless infinite blue, Is helping my boat, as I lazily ply My oars on the course I have oft-times steered ; But I think tonight there is something weird In the change of the sky and the half-risen moon, -* < 50 LOUGH DERG For the curlew's call seems eerier now As, seeking his mates, he crosses my bow, And the coots who croak in the rushy lagoon, Where they built their nests and their nestlings reared, Or utter that short sharp sound of their own Like the click of a mason chiselling stone, Make the world that I know seem aloof and unknown. I come to some rocks in the midst of the lake Where the pillibeen meeks have found their rest Counting their bivouac safe from harm, Till the sentinel sounds the note of alarm, And their chattering stops and the ceaseless quest Once more their winnowing wings undertake. Should they sleep the redshank is ever awake; LOUGH DERG As the watchdog barks when a stranger appears, So his shrilling to tardier wild fowl pro- claims The advent of man who murders and maims (Whom every creature instinctively fears, And only the dog will never forsake) Though his throat is slender and long his bill Those three wild notes quiver piercing shrill, To tell of the enemy out to kill. The stillness of night settles down once more r Stiller now since the silence was rent by the whir That the wings of the pillibeens made as they rose, Or the rumbling creak of a cart as it goes On its homeward way, or a cottager 52 LOUGH DERG Sings a snatch of song, on a distant shore, And the sound comes clearly travelling o'er The stretch of the tiny rippling waves And makes when it ceases the stillness more still. But the quiet has ever a murmuring trill, The faintest of echoes from watery graves, Where naiads forgotten still whisper their lore, Where the trout and the red-finned perch evade The grisly king-pike's ambuscade As they glide through the weeds of a limpid glade Fathoms down. 53 DO YOU NEVER WANT TO BE ALONE DO you never want to be alone Away from the octopus man, To be at one with the pine trees' moan, Where they moan in monotonous monotone As they moaned when the world began; To don the wings of the buzzing drone ; To wander free with the old god Pan ; To ponder awhile on the wondrous plan That governs both saint and courtesan, Their destiny and our own ? 54 A DROWSY WINTER'S DAY SOMETIMES when on a drowsy winter's day My hands refuse to work and I am filled With a mad wish to give my senses play, Or pen the words my fancy has distilled, Then, as by chance, my steps will seek a path, Shunning to meet a single shepherd's dog, To some uncharted peaceful solitude. For in this ancient country many a rath And rolling mountain and forsaken bog Offer to share with me my lonely mood. Oh God ! who made them, what a mastery Of all the arts has your omnipotence, To have created such a symphony Of sound and colour ; my benumbed sense 55 A DROWSY WINTER'S DAY Dulls ere I find some words to tell of it. Gone are the mists but now that cast a gloom Over the land and the belated sun Shines palely, like a lamp in evening lit While still some daylight strays into a room Before the curtain's drawn and tea's begun. Palely he shines, yet touching by his glow The madder birch-tops with a tint of rose And purple shadows, as with motion slow The branches sway where'er the light wind blows, Marking the hollies in their sombre green (Clothed midst the naked boughs of migthier trees) Where they still keep the soft rain's glisten- ing dew ; Or in the furze that bounds the old bohreen Some bolder blossom than the rest he sees, And lights this tiny speck of golden hue. 56 FURZE YELLOWER far than Meredith's yellow picture, Golden as no other thing is golden in the earth, Ireland is golden in spring and early summer:- Gold is winter's deathbed, gold is summer's birth. Big beds of furze, sheets of golden blossom, Stretch gently sloping on every mountain rise, Hedgerows and ditches are all a mass of furze bloom, Shining, though no sunlight gilds our opal skies. 57 Agvitsin. UA t>uit mop AgAm i mo CeAngA tbutCAf AC. t)eip- eAnn ff gpeim Ap iomt>A f.6Ap t>e mo cineAt), Agtif beip eAnn f i speim opmf A Anoif. UAim im' tfiACleiginn, f-Si'oip liom fgpiobAt), 50 mAll, Ce^nA p6m. fin : pe^p t)ei(b mbliATinA piCexvo o'^oif ^juf onoe ^5 ceAgAfg A teAngA m4tAft)-A t)6. O'n tA T>O- pugAt) m6 DI of 45 6ifceA6c teif An mt)6AptA Ap gAC CAOO. 5 "oeimin if Aluinn An ceAngA An t)6Af\lA, Aguf CA ctu Ap A Licpi*eACc Ap puit) An T>omAin, AC ni h-6 ceAngA mo finnfe^p 6 ; ni f.iu mo CeAngA f.6m e Aguf fAf nAt)uptA nA tiAimf ipe inpte ; if 6Agcof rhAit Ap f-At) ACA An Am All T)A tBAngA. Hi f.lA1p T)Om f.o$luim 50 -ouAtbrhAp Aguf me im' peAp. StigAnn leAnb ceAngA A outCAif ifceAC C6m nAt)uptA te bAinne ciC A tiiAt^p ; if gopc mitpeAbtA A cuipceAp piAncA Aip 50 pupAf. ponnAnn gAC (SipeAnnAc f.em gup b'i An A teAngA ouCCAfAC. CuipeAnn An pipmne feo AtAf m6p Aip-feAn, Aguf AifcuipeAnn ceine A AtAif Aip poinnc -o'eAfbAt) A AOife leinb. pionnAnn -ouine An f-fpmne feo t)e ppeib, -oume eite i n-oiAit) A C6ite ; AC if iomt)A peAp, Aguf beAn, teif, A Aimfi i, Agf jeibeAnn -ouine 6igm A oipeA XXtbAn nA AJA nA t)fteAcnACAib, 6ij\ inf nA ciojxtAib fin ni nAijte teif nA uAifte A -oce-AnsA p6m t)o t^t5Ai|\c. AC itif An t>!onn An Cxiinnc A tti pip i n-Aice ceAngAt) l)ionn An ^Aetiitge T)'AClof Anoif 1 n-iomt)A fitpt)e. t)ionn fi Ag tiA mACAitH,ei$inn 1 Ap ni nAriiAHo nA 1i6i|\eAnn luCc An fin 50 I6if\, f.6 mAp if T>OI$ te T)AOiniti feijin. tDionn An 5 Ae ' 6ll '5 e A 5 < ooif\fe6if., Ag fAOf, AS ceA|\- ouit>e, AS f.iu n 1 mt)Aite AtA CliAt gniT) Of cionn lion-cige obAi^ rh6p -Aguf IAD Ag cAttAifc A|\ nA leAn- bAlb 5 Ae * ll '5 e " tAbAlpC Af T)CU1f AgUf o'f.O5liiim 'n-A TiiAit) fin. CA bAjiArhAil An An 5 Ae * lL 5 e c6 5 tribemff f6m |\o-AOfCA n<3 fd-teifgeAriiAil Cun i ^ogluim. Cim 6 i rnbuit)eAn tlA CAtfVdC AgUf 1AT)f An Ag CUf Ainm 5Aet)6AlA6 A|\ nA ff.4iT)eA<5Aib ; T)Atui5teAj\ cf.ut 5 Ae * eAl - A<:: nA n-Ainm Ap ^uinnedgAib nA fiopAi Aguf Af CAipcib ; bei^iT) p^ip^AptA nuAitieACcA leAtAnAig JAetnlge, Aguf ni put^iji -DO f gotAijiiti nA hOltf goile tl^lif iunt)A i tttA bionn bAfiAttiAil An nAifiuin mAllbionn fi 50 -oeirfiin CA tDpi CuAlAnn C6m lAn -oe te hAon AIC 1 n^ipinn. t)iof Ann te "DenbeAnnAige ; "DO im' Coinnib Aguf mife Ag fiubAt A|\ 60 An T>cpAij;. 1f i n^Ae-dlge ATDU&AIHC AOinne " 'm p^jvoun ASAC " Aguf if 5Aet>ilse A DiOT>Ap AS lAbAipc Aguf iAt>f An AS t>6AnArii f usjtAt) Aguf A' 5tAOt>AC AP A Ceile. 1f *o6i Horn gup Annfo ACA gipim An f\ot>A. 1T14 ^ogtuimeOCAiT) nA pAif ci Agup lA-opAn 65, bei-6 An jjAe-tJitge Ag A bpAifCit) p6m Ap n6f cAinncefiip DUtCAfAC. Til tteA-6 An ^1Opt>lAf ACA, AC t)A fAOpA- it)ie A tiocpAt) An CAinnc CUCA, Aguf tAttpCCAi-oif An AgUf 1ATf An Ag f\At> nA |\UT)Ai ACA 1OnnCA peit)ip teif nA pAifCib p6m Af -oceAnsA -oo UA fuit AgAinn 50 mbeit) 6ipe 1 n-A cip t>A- T)e ttApp An tD6AplA teAn|?ArnuiT) Af ^|\ Agup Af\ ^p 5CAiT)|\eAtfi teif An gcuit) eite oe'n -ooriiAn : cotneA'opAmtii'o An 5^et)it5e o'Af'ocein- ceAnAit> Aguf -ouinn pem. SAOjtpAit) An t)6AftA finn 6 beit oiteAnAC ; f AO^pAit) An ^AetHlge finn 6 Ceit UA nA t)AncA inf An leAbAp fo 6ifeAnnAC, AC ni'l fiA-o ^AetieAtAC : ni n-6 mo Coil AC mo CpAnn 50 opiul fAn FOOTNOTE * LIKE so many others of my race I have become obsessed by my ignorance of what should be my native language. It has gripped me, and so I am a learner : am already able to write haltingly. But think what it means to be taught your mother tongue when for thirty years your com- panions have spoken around you none but a tongue which, however beautiful in itself, however glorious the literature it has produced, is not the language of your forefathers, is not even a modern modification of it, but one whose very essence and genius is completely strange to it ; to learn laboriously as a man what should be absorbed as a child, when the mind is still an unbroken field and the whole being is receptive and impressionable as it can never be again. Yet something of what is lost by this is regained in the enthusiasm which pervades each Irishman when he makes the discovery for himself that Gaelic is the native tongue of Ireland. To some the discovery comes suddenly, to some gradually, but many have made it and many are making it daily. As Gaelic dies out in the Gaeltacht, and dies there faster than it dies in the Highlands of Scotland * Translation of 62 FOOTNOTE or the other branch of the Celtic tongue dies in Wales, because our Irish upper classes are dead as such, in the Gaultacht it is reviving and again lifting its once despised head beside its foreign conqueror. In unexpected places you will meet the Gaelic now : students there are in Trinity College who have it (an institution erroneously but not altogether unnaturally believed by many Irish- men to be anti-Irish) ; you will meet a porter on a Dublin railway station, a barber's assistant, a shoemaker, even a policeman who has it ; it is spoken at ceilidhs at night where Gaels foregather ; the superhuman effort has even been made and accomplished by, I believe, over thirty families in Dublin of bringing up their children in their infancy in the Irish language only, without a word of English. Everywhere I see evidences that the Irish public (even if it has not the youth or energy in most cases to carry out its belief to its logical conclusions) is beginning to feel that Gaelic ought to be the national language. Why else do we have a corporation, not very many of whose members are bilingual, posting the names of the streets in Gaelic ; shopkeepers painting the Gaelic form of their names on window and van ; newspapers with their Gaelic columns ; Gaelic a compulsory subject in the new National University F When public opinion is slow it is generally powerful. I was in Bray recently, surely as anglicized a place as 63 FOOTNOTE there is to be found In Ireland, and as I was walking along the esplanade a number of small children ran into me : " 'm p-Ajvoun AgAC," said one to me, and they ran off playing, and shouting to one another not in English but in Irish. Here it seems to me is the gist of the whole matter. If the children learn the language when they are young, their children in turn will acquire it naturally as native speakers acquire it, if not with tne true native speaker's btdf, at least with the fluency that will make it their natural language of self-expression, and we shall have attained our ideal which is to be a bilingual nation, keeping English as the language of commerce and inter- course with the outer world, and Irish as the language of our homes and our national life. English will save us from being insular, Irish from being provincial. The foregoing verses are of Ireland, but they are not Gaelic : it was my fate, not I, decided that.