XIII

The sweatin' Tommies wonder as they spade the beggars under,Why lootin' should be entered as a crime;So if my song you'll hear, I will learn you plain and clear'Ow to pay yourself for fightin' overtime;With the loot!Bloomin' loot!That's the thing to make the boys git up and shoot!It's the same with dogs and men,If you'd make 'em come againClap 'em forward with aLoo-loo-luluLoot!

The sweatin' Tommies wonder as they spade the beggars under,

Why lootin' should be entered as a crime;

So if my song you'll hear, I will learn you plain and clear

'Ow to pay yourself for fightin' overtime;

With the loot!

Bloomin' loot!

That's the thing to make the boys git up and shoot!

It's the same with dogs and men,If you'd make 'em come againClap 'em forward with aLoo-loo-luluLoot!

It's the same with dogs and men,

If you'd make 'em come again

Clap 'em forward with a

Loo-loo-lulu

Loot!

Against our soldiers, on the other hand, a great many of whom were very poor, there had not been a single accusation of looting. In the post-office, for instance, they ordered one of the captured British officers to guard the safe. In the streets where windows had been broken, they tried to keep the people from pillaging the shops. Whatever money our men found lying loose in the buildings they occupied was turned over to their superior officers.Again and again I myself had seen men of the Citizen Army, quite as poor as any British soldier, hand over money to Commandant Mallin. Had I only thought of it, I could have taken this with me when I was carried to the hospital. The cause would have been at least one hundred pounds richer.

At the College of Surgeons we had destroyed nothing except a portrait of Queen Victoria. We took that down and made puttees out of it. We did not feel we were doing any wrong, for it was Queen Victoria who, in 1848, wrote to her uncle, King Leopold of Belgium:

"There are ample means of crushing the rebellion in Ireland, and I think it very likely to go off without any contest, which people (I think rightly) rather regret. The Irish should receive a good lesson or they will begin it again."

From this quotation any one can seethat the Queen looked upon the Irish as aliens, which, indeed, they are.

We also were very careful of the museum and library at the College of Surgeons. Although the men did not have any covering and the nights were cold, they did not cut up the rugs and carpets, but doubled them and crept in between the folds in rows.

About Jacob's Biscuit Factory, during Easter Week, even though it was a very dangerous spot, the employees had hovered, for fear their means of livelihood would be destroyed. But it was not. The machinery was left uninjured, for we always remembered our own poor.

At Guinness's brewery, where great quantities of stout were stored, none of it was touched. Most of our men are teetotalers, anyway.

Some of the poor of Dublin had triedto pillage at first, but it was a pathetic attempt. I saw one specimen of this on Easter Tuesday, while carrying a despatch. There was a crowd of people about a shoe-shop. The windows had been smashed, and the poor wretches were clambering into the shop at great risk of cutting themselves. Once inside, despite all the outer excitement, they were taking the time totry on shoes! Many of them, one could see, had never had a pair of new shoes in their lives. Visitors to Dublin going through the poorer parts are always surprised at the number of children and young girls who walk about bare-footed in icy weather. It is in this way that their health is undermined.

One day during the week after I left the hospital, I heard that a batch of prisoners was to be taken to England aboard a cattle-boat leaving the piercalled North Wall. I went down at once to watch for them. It was a very wet day, and the prisoners had been marched six miles from Richmond barracks through the pouring rain. But they were singing their rebel songs, just as if they had never been defeated and were not on their way to the unknown horrors of an English prison.

The officer in charge seemed much excited, though he had five hundred soldiers to look after a hundred prisoners.

"For God's sake, close in, or we'll be rushed!" he shouted to his men. Then the soldiers, with fixed bayonets, "closed in" upon the wet crowd of rebels, who actually seemed to feel the humor of it.

I knew some of the boys, and walked in between the bayonets to shake hands with them and march a part of the way.They had heard I was dead, and looked at first as if they were seeing a ghost. One of them, a little, lame playwright of whom I had caught a glimpse at Bridewell, had told me at the time that he was writing a farce about the revolution to show its absurdity. He had had nothing to do with the rising, for it was his brother who had been with us at the College of Surgeons. There was not even a charge against him; yet here he was, limping along in the rain and mud, but still cheerful. This chap gave me a bundle of clothes and a message for his mother, so I hunted her up the next morning. She did not know he had been deported, and was in despair, for she had left her little cottage in the country to be near her son in Dublin. When I visited her she was just back from market with fruit she had boughtto take to him, as it was visiting day at the barracks.

These are some of the things that made even quiet old mothers grow bitter.

No one could leave Ireland for Scotland without a special permit from Dublin Castle. This permit was given only when one applied in person, so I decided to go after it. My friends were terrified; it was putting my head into the lion's mouth. But it was the only way, even though I might never come out of that building free.

I took my arm out of the sling, hoping I should not have to raise it; for I couldn't, nor can yet. For greater precaution, just before I reached Dublin Castle, I removed the republican colors I always wore, and put them in my pocket.

I was taken to a room where a policeofficial began to ask me questions. It was, I believe, my "loyal" Scotch accent that put them off guard, when I asked for a permit to go to Glasgow. At the hospital one of the nurses shook her head, following a long talk, and said:

"Your opinions and your accent don't go together."

I have often been told that I look more like a teacher of mathematics, which, indeed, I am, than like an Irish rebel, of which I am more proud.

The officer first asked me my name. I confess that I gave it to him while wondering what his next words would be. He merely asked my address in Dublin, so I gave him the address of friends with whom I was staying. Would that disturb him, I wondered?

"When did you come to Dublin?" he next asked.

"Holy Thursday," I replied.

"Then you've been here during the rising?"

"Yes," I said.

In a tone which showed how deeply he had been moved by Easter Week, he added:

"It's been a terrible business!"

To that I could feelingly agree.

At length he gave me a permit, not one to leave Dublin, but merely to see the military authorities. Here was another ordeal.

I went up to a soldier in the corridor and asked him where I should go.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"It's on this permit," I replied, holding it out to him.

But, as he seemed afraid to touch it, I told him my name, and he took me to the office where the military authorities were located. I shivered a little at the chance of his going in with me andtelling them I was a rebel. But he left me at the door.

To my relief, the questions put to me here were the same as before. I had only to tell the truth, and the polite officer handed over my pass.

As soon as I was outside the castle I replaced my republican colors and went home to friends who really did not expect to see me again.

THE PASS OUT OF IRELAND

THE PASS OUT OF IRELAND FOR WHICH THE AUTHOR,AT GREAT RISK, APPLIED IN PERSON AT DUBLIN CASTLE

Please pass Margaret SkinniderBetween Dublin & EnglandViaNorth Wallor Kingstown[Stamp: ASSISTANT PROVOST MARSHAL DUBLIN 2/6/16][name unclear] MajorAsst. provost Marshal

I did not go directly to Glasgow, however, for I heard that the police were watching all incoming trains. Instead, I went to a little seaside resort to recuperate. My sister, who had come over to Dublin to be with me after I left the hospital, went along, too. She was terrified when we got off the boat because police were watching the gangway. But nothing happened. My mother came to see me, and took it all splendidly, though from the first I had givenher an anxious time of it. She is a good rebel.

I was proud that I could tell my mother I had been mentioned three times for bravery in despatches sent to headquarters. The third time was when I was wounded. Commandant Mallin had said then:

"You'll surely be given the republican cross."

But the republic did not last long enough for that. Iwasgiven an Irish cross. This was the joint gift of the Cumman-na-mBan girls and the Irish Volunteers of Glasgow. They arranged, as a surprise for me, a meeting with addresses and songs. Since I had no hint of it, I was out of Scotland on the day set. They had to repeat part of the ceremony when I came back. It all was meant to be very solemn, but somehow I felt strange and absurd to be getting across for bravery that had led to death or prison so many others.

I had left Scotland very quietly to go to England and see some of our boys being held in Reading Jail without any charge against them. I had had a good talk with them, even though a guard stood near all the time. He was a pleasant-enough person, so we included him in our conversation, explaining the whole rising to him. The boys were in good spirits, too. They laughed when I told them I had always boasted I would never set foot in England. And here, on their account, I was not only in England, but in an English prison.

We had very few Irish revolutionists in the Scotch prisons. Two hundred of them were brought, during August, to Barlinnie Prison, but they were allowed to stay only a short time. Far too much sympathy was expressed for them bythe Irish in Glasgow and by Scotch suffragettes, who made a point of going to visit them and taking them comforts. Presently they were removed to the camp at Frongoch, Wales, where several hundred others who had taken part in the rising were interned. As they marched through the streets of Glasgow, we could not help noticing how much larger and finer looking they appeared than the British soldiers guarding them. They were men from Galway,—men who for six long days had put up a memorable fight in that county, and with less than forty rifles had held six hundred square miles! Three thousand of the rifles that went down with theAudhad been promised to Galway. Yet five hundred men had been ready to "go out" when they heard that, despite the countermanding order, Dublin forces were rebelling, no matter what the odds.

When I went back to Dublin in August, it was to find that almost every one on the streets was wearing republican colors. The feeling was bitter, too—so bitter that the British soldiers had orders to go about in fives and sixes, but never singly. They were not allowed by their officers to leave the main thoroughfares, and had to be in barracks before dark,—that is, all except the patrol. The city was still under martial law, but it seemed to me the military authorities were the really nervous persons. Much of this bitterness came from the fact that people remembered how, after the war in South Africa which lasted three yearsinstead of five days, only one man had been executed. Afterourrising sixteen men had been put to death.

Everywhere I heard the opinion expressed that if the revolution could have lasted a little longer, we would have been flooded with recruits. As it was, the rising had taken people completely by surprise. Before they could recover from that surprise, it was over, and its leaders were paying the penalty of death or imprisonment. One week is a short time for the general, uninformed mass of a dominated people to decide whether an outbreak of any sort is merely an impotent rebellion, or a real revolution with some promise of success. Besides, there have been so many isolated protests in Ireland, doomed from the first to failure.

There was evidence everywhere that the feeling of bitterness was not vague,but the direct result of fully understanding what had happened. At a moving-picture performance of "The Great Betrayal," I was surprised at the spirit of daring in the audience. The story was about one of those abortive nationalist revolts in Italy which preceded the revolution that made Italy free. The plot was parallel in so many respects to the Easter Week rising in Ireland that crowds flocked every day to see it. In the final picture, when the heroic leaders were shot in cold blood, men in the audience called out bitterly:

"That's right, Colthurst! Keep it up!"

Colthurst was the man who shot Sheehy Skeffington without trial on the second day of the rising. He had been promoted for his deeds of wanton cruelty, and only the fact that a royal commission was demanded bySkeffington's widow and her friends, made it necessary to adjudge him insane as excuse for his behavior, when that behavior was finally brought to light.

It was on the occasion of my visit to the moving-pictures that I was annoyed by the knowledge that a detective was following me. His only disguise was to don Irish tweeds such as "Irish Irelanders" wear to stimulate home industry. He had been following me about Dublin ever since my arrival for my August visit. To this day I don't know why he did not arrest me, nor what he was waiting for me to do. But I decided now to give him the slip. In Glasgow I have had much practice jumping on cars going at full speed. The Dublin cars are much slower, so as a car passed me in the middle of the block, I suddenly leaped aboard, leaving my British friend standing agape with astonishment onthe sidewalk. Doubtless he felt the time had come for me to carry out whatever plot I had up my sleeve, and that he had been defeated in his purpose of looking on. I never saw him again.

Even the children of Ireland have become republicans. There was a strike not long ago in Dublin schools because an order was issued by the authorities that school children should not wear republican colors. The day after the teachers made this announcement some few children obeyed the order, but they appeared in white dresses with green and orange ribbons in their hair or cap. When this, too, was forbidden, the pupils in one of the schools marched out in a body, and proceeded to other schools throughout the city to call out the pupils on strike. Any school that did not obeytheir summons promptly had its windows smashed. Finally, the police were called and marched against them. The children, as the sympathetic press put it, "retreated in good order to Mountjoy Square, where they took their stand and defended their position with what ammunition was at hand, namely, paving-stones." The end of it all was that the children won, and went back to school wearing as many badges or flags as they wished.

Irish boys are showing their attitude, too, for at Padraic Pearse's school, conducted now by a brother of Thomas McDonagh who taught there before the rising, there are several hundred boys on the waiting-list. The school never was as crowded before; the work that Pearse gave his life for, the inspiriting of Irish youth, is still going on.

Out on Leinster Road one day, I walked past that house where, not nine months before, I had met so many people of the republican movement. The house was empty, with that peculiar look of bereavement that some houses wear. It had been an embodiment of the Countess Markievicz, and, now that she was gone, looked doomed. Where was she? Over in England in Aylesbury Prison, but fortunately at work in the kitchen. I could not fancy her depressed beyond activity of some sort that in the end would be for Ireland's good.

"A felon's cap's the noblest crown an Irish head can wear."

This was one of her favorite quotations, and I knew that in wearing the cap, her courage would not desert her. Her sister had seen her, and told me she was in good spirits; grateful thatthey had put her to work and not left her to inactivity or brooding thoughts. She had repeated what an old woman in Mountjoy Prison had said to her:

"Man never built a wall but God Almighty threw a gap in it!"

Last November I paid another visit to Dublin. The bitterness had increased.

Here is one of my favorite songs as a child:

O'DONNELL ABOO

IProudly the note of the trumpet is sounding,Loudly the war-cries arise on the gale;Fleetly the steed by Lough Swilly is bounding,To join the thick squadrons in Saimear's green vale.On, every mountaineer,Strangers to fight and fear!Rush to the standard of dauntless Red Hugh!Bonnaught and gallowglass,Throng from each mountain pass;Onward for Erin, O'Donnell Aboo!IIPrincely O'Neill to our aid is advancingWith many a chieftain and warrior clan.A thousand proud steeds in his vanguard are prancing'Neath borderers brave from the banks of the Bann.Many a heart shall quailUnder its coat of mail;Deeply the merciless foeman shall rue,When on his ear shall ring,Borne on the breezes' wing,Sir Connell's dread war-cry, "O'Donnell Aboo!"IIIWildly o'er Deamond the war-wolf is howling!Fearless the eagle sweeps over the plain!The fox in the streets of the city is prowling!All, all who would scare them are banished or slain!Grasp every stalwart handHackbut and battle brand,Pay them all back the deep debt so long due!Norris and Clifford wellCan of Sir Connell tell;Onward to glory, "O'Donnell Aboo!"IVSacred the cause of Clan Connail's defending,The altars we kneel at, the homes of our sires.Ruthless the ruin the foe is extending.Midnight is red with the plunderers' fires.On with O'Donnell, then!Fight the old fight again,Sons of Sir Connell, all valiant and true;Make the false Saxon feelErin's avenging steel!Strike for your country, "O'Donnell Aboo!"

Proudly the note of the trumpet is sounding,

Loudly the war-cries arise on the gale;

Fleetly the steed by Lough Swilly is bounding,

To join the thick squadrons in Saimear's green vale.

On, every mountaineer,

Strangers to fight and fear!

Rush to the standard of dauntless Red Hugh!

Bonnaught and gallowglass,

Throng from each mountain pass;

Onward for Erin, O'Donnell Aboo!

IIPrincely O'Neill to our aid is advancingWith many a chieftain and warrior clan.A thousand proud steeds in his vanguard are prancing'Neath borderers brave from the banks of the Bann.Many a heart shall quailUnder its coat of mail;Deeply the merciless foeman shall rue,When on his ear shall ring,Borne on the breezes' wing,Sir Connell's dread war-cry, "O'Donnell Aboo!"

Princely O'Neill to our aid is advancing

With many a chieftain and warrior clan.

A thousand proud steeds in his vanguard are prancing

'Neath borderers brave from the banks of the Bann.

Many a heart shall quail

Under its coat of mail;

Deeply the merciless foeman shall rue,

When on his ear shall ring,

Borne on the breezes' wing,

Sir Connell's dread war-cry, "O'Donnell Aboo!"

IIIWildly o'er Deamond the war-wolf is howling!Fearless the eagle sweeps over the plain!The fox in the streets of the city is prowling!All, all who would scare them are banished or slain!Grasp every stalwart handHackbut and battle brand,Pay them all back the deep debt so long due!Norris and Clifford wellCan of Sir Connell tell;Onward to glory, "O'Donnell Aboo!"

III

Wildly o'er Deamond the war-wolf is howling!

Fearless the eagle sweeps over the plain!

The fox in the streets of the city is prowling!

All, all who would scare them are banished or slain!

Grasp every stalwart hand

Hackbut and battle brand,

Pay them all back the deep debt so long due!

Norris and Clifford well

Can of Sir Connell tell;

Onward to glory, "O'Donnell Aboo!"

IVSacred the cause of Clan Connail's defending,The altars we kneel at, the homes of our sires.Ruthless the ruin the foe is extending.Midnight is red with the plunderers' fires.On with O'Donnell, then!Fight the old fight again,Sons of Sir Connell, all valiant and true;Make the false Saxon feelErin's avenging steel!Strike for your country, "O'Donnell Aboo!"

Sacred the cause of Clan Connail's defending,

The altars we kneel at, the homes of our sires.

Ruthless the ruin the foe is extending.

Midnight is red with the plunderers' fires.

On with O'Donnell, then!

Fight the old fight again,

Sons of Sir Connell, all valiant and true;

Make the false Saxon feel

Erin's avenging steel!

Strike for your country, "O'Donnell Aboo!"

This was the other:

THE JACKETS GREEN

When I was a maiden fair and youngOn the pleasant banks of Lee,No bird that in the wild wood sangWas half so blythe and free;My heart ne'er beats with flying feet,Tho' Love sand me his queen,Till down the glen rode Saisfield's menAnd they wore their jackets green.IIYoung Donal sat on his gallant grayLike a king on a royal seat,And my heart leaped out on his regal wayTo worship at his feet;O Love, had you come in those colors dressed,And woo'd with a soldier's mien,I'd have laid my head on your throbbing breastFor the sake of the Irish green.IIINo hoarded wealth did my love ownSave the good sword that he bore,But I loved him for himself aloneAnd the colors bright he wore.For had he come in England's redTo make me England's queen,I'd rove the high green hills insteadFor the sake of the Irish green.IVWhen William stormed with shot and shellAt the walls of Garryowen,In the breach of death my Donal fell,And he sleeps near the treaty stone.That breach the foeman never crossedWhile he swung his broadsword keen,But I do not weep my darling lost,For he fell in his jacket green.

When I was a maiden fair and young

On the pleasant banks of Lee,

No bird that in the wild wood sang

Was half so blythe and free;

My heart ne'er beats with flying feet,

Tho' Love sand me his queen,

Till down the glen rode Saisfield's men

And they wore their jackets green.

IIYoung Donal sat on his gallant grayLike a king on a royal seat,And my heart leaped out on his regal wayTo worship at his feet;O Love, had you come in those colors dressed,And woo'd with a soldier's mien,I'd have laid my head on your throbbing breastFor the sake of the Irish green.

Young Donal sat on his gallant gray

Like a king on a royal seat,

And my heart leaped out on his regal way

To worship at his feet;

O Love, had you come in those colors dressed,

And woo'd with a soldier's mien,

I'd have laid my head on your throbbing breast

For the sake of the Irish green.

IIINo hoarded wealth did my love ownSave the good sword that he bore,But I loved him for himself aloneAnd the colors bright he wore.For had he come in England's redTo make me England's queen,I'd rove the high green hills insteadFor the sake of the Irish green.

III

No hoarded wealth did my love own

Save the good sword that he bore,

But I loved him for himself alone

And the colors bright he wore.

For had he come in England's red

To make me England's queen,

I'd rove the high green hills instead

For the sake of the Irish green.

IVWhen William stormed with shot and shellAt the walls of Garryowen,In the breach of death my Donal fell,And he sleeps near the treaty stone.That breach the foeman never crossedWhile he swung his broadsword keen,But I do not weep my darling lost,For he fell in his jacket green.

When William stormed with shot and shell

At the walls of Garryowen,

In the breach of death my Donal fell,

And he sleeps near the treaty stone.

That breach the foeman never crossed

While he swung his broadsword keen,

But I do not weep my darling lost,

For he fell in his jacket green.

Here is a song that Madam liked very much. It was the most popular song of the Fenians:

THE FELONS OF OUR LAND

Fill up once more, we'll drink a toastTo comrades far away,No nation upon earth can boastOf braver hearts than they;And though they sleep in dungeons deep,Or flee, outlawed and banned,We love them yet, we can't forgetThe felons of our land.In boyhood's bloom and manhood's prideForedoomed by alien laws,Some on the scaffold proudly diedFor Ireland's holy cause;And, brother, say, shall we to-dayUnmoved, like cowards stand,While traitors shame and foes defameThe felons of our land?Some in the convict's dreary cellHave found a living tomb,And some, unknown, unfriended, fellWithin the prison's gloom;But what care we, although it beTrod by a ruffian band?God bless the clay where rest to-dayThe felons of our land!Let cowards sneer and tyrants frown,Oh, little do we care!The felon's cap 's the noblest crownAn Irish head can wear!And every Gael in InnisfailWho scorns the serf's vile brand,From Lee to Boyne would gladly joinThe felons of our land!

Fill up once more, we'll drink a toast

To comrades far away,

No nation upon earth can boast

Of braver hearts than they;

And though they sleep in dungeons deep,

Or flee, outlawed and banned,

We love them yet, we can't forget

The felons of our land.

In boyhood's bloom and manhood's prideForedoomed by alien laws,Some on the scaffold proudly diedFor Ireland's holy cause;And, brother, say, shall we to-dayUnmoved, like cowards stand,While traitors shame and foes defameThe felons of our land?

In boyhood's bloom and manhood's pride

Foredoomed by alien laws,

Some on the scaffold proudly died

For Ireland's holy cause;

And, brother, say, shall we to-day

Unmoved, like cowards stand,

While traitors shame and foes defame

The felons of our land?

Some in the convict's dreary cellHave found a living tomb,And some, unknown, unfriended, fellWithin the prison's gloom;But what care we, although it beTrod by a ruffian band?God bless the clay where rest to-dayThe felons of our land!

Some in the convict's dreary cell

Have found a living tomb,

And some, unknown, unfriended, fell

Within the prison's gloom;

But what care we, although it be

Trod by a ruffian band?

God bless the clay where rest to-day

The felons of our land!

Let cowards sneer and tyrants frown,Oh, little do we care!The felon's cap 's the noblest crownAn Irish head can wear!And every Gael in InnisfailWho scorns the serf's vile brand,From Lee to Boyne would gladly joinThe felons of our land!

Let cowards sneer and tyrants frown,

Oh, little do we care!

The felon's cap 's the noblest crown

An Irish head can wear!

And every Gael in Innisfail

Who scorns the serf's vile brand,

From Lee to Boyne would gladly join

The felons of our land!

This is one of the songs of earlier risings which we all sang during the last one:

WRAP THE GREEN FLAG 'ROUND ME, BOYS

IWrap the green flag 'round me, boys,To die 'twere far more sweet,With Erin's noble emblem, boys,To be my winding-sheet;In life I longed to see it wave,And followed where it led,But now my eyes grow dim, my handWould grasp its last bright shred.IIOh, I had hopes to meet you, boys,On many a well-fought field,When to our bright green banner, boys,The treacherous foe would yield;But now, alas, I am deniedMy dearest earthly prayer,You'll follow and you'll meet the foeBut I shall not be there.IIIBut though my body molder, boys,My spirit will be free,And every comrade's honor, boys,Will still be dear to me;And in the thick and bloody fight,Let not your courage lag,For I'll be there, and hovering nearAround the dear old flag!

Wrap the green flag 'round me, boys,

To die 'twere far more sweet,

With Erin's noble emblem, boys,

To be my winding-sheet;

In life I longed to see it wave,

And followed where it led,

But now my eyes grow dim, my hand

Would grasp its last bright shred.

IIOh, I had hopes to meet you, boys,On many a well-fought field,When to our bright green banner, boys,The treacherous foe would yield;But now, alas, I am deniedMy dearest earthly prayer,You'll follow and you'll meet the foeBut I shall not be there.

Oh, I had hopes to meet you, boys,

On many a well-fought field,

When to our bright green banner, boys,

The treacherous foe would yield;

But now, alas, I am denied

My dearest earthly prayer,

You'll follow and you'll meet the foe

But I shall not be there.

IIIBut though my body molder, boys,My spirit will be free,And every comrade's honor, boys,Will still be dear to me;And in the thick and bloody fight,Let not your courage lag,For I'll be there, and hovering nearAround the dear old flag!

III

But though my body molder, boys,

My spirit will be free,

And every comrade's honor, boys,

Will still be dear to me;

And in the thick and bloody fight,

Let not your courage lag,

For I'll be there, and hovering near

Around the dear old flag!

This song, written by the Countess Markiewicz to the tune of "The Young May Moon," had a great effect in Dublin, before the rising, in preventing the British from getting Irish recruits. It was sung everywhere and went thus:

ANTI-RECRUITING SONG

IThe recruiters are raidin' old Dublin, boys,It's them we'll have to be troublin', boys,We'll go to their meetin's and give them such greetin's,We'll give them in German for fun, me boys;'Tis the Germans they're out to destroy, me boys,Whose prosperity did so annoy, me boys,So let each Irish blade just stick to his tradeAnd let Bull do his own dirty work, me boys.CHORUSFor the Germans are winning the war, me boys,And England is feeling so sore, me boys,They're passing conscription, the only prescriptionTo make Englishmen go to the front, me boys.IIYour boss, he won't go to the war, me boys,Hun bullets do him so annoy, me boys,So kindly he frees you, he does it to squeeze youTo fight for his money and him, me boys;They've hunger conscription in Ireland, boys,You'll starve till you're thin as a wire, me boys,You'll get very thin, but you won't care a pinFor you'll know it's for Ireland's sake, me boys.CHORUSFor the English are losing the war, me boys,And they wantusall killed before, me boys,The great German nation has sworn their damnation,And we'll echo the curse with a will, me boys.IIIThen hurrah for the gallant old Dublin, boys,And if you wouldn't be muddlin', boys,Join a Volunteer corps, or, if that is a bore,The Citizen Army's as good, me boys.Then hurrah for the Volunteers, me boys,Ireland in arms has no fears, me boys,And surely if we would see Ireland free,We'll arm and we'll drill for the Day, me boys.CHORUSFor the Germans are going to win, me boys,And Ireland will have to butt in, me boys,From a Gael with a gun the Briton will run,And we'll dance at the wake of the Empire, boys!

The recruiters are raidin' old Dublin, boys,

It's them we'll have to be troublin', boys,

We'll go to their meetin's and give them such greetin's,

We'll give them in German for fun, me boys;

'Tis the Germans they're out to destroy, me boys,

Whose prosperity did so annoy, me boys,

So let each Irish blade just stick to his trade

And let Bull do his own dirty work, me boys.

CHORUSFor the Germans are winning the war, me boys,And England is feeling so sore, me boys,They're passing conscription, the only prescriptionTo make Englishmen go to the front, me boys.

CHORUS

For the Germans are winning the war, me boys,

And England is feeling so sore, me boys,

They're passing conscription, the only prescription

To make Englishmen go to the front, me boys.

IIYour boss, he won't go to the war, me boys,Hun bullets do him so annoy, me boys,So kindly he frees you, he does it to squeeze youTo fight for his money and him, me boys;They've hunger conscription in Ireland, boys,You'll starve till you're thin as a wire, me boys,You'll get very thin, but you won't care a pinFor you'll know it's for Ireland's sake, me boys.

Your boss, he won't go to the war, me boys,

Hun bullets do him so annoy, me boys,

So kindly he frees you, he does it to squeeze you

To fight for his money and him, me boys;

They've hunger conscription in Ireland, boys,

You'll starve till you're thin as a wire, me boys,

You'll get very thin, but you won't care a pin

For you'll know it's for Ireland's sake, me boys.

CHORUSFor the English are losing the war, me boys,And they wantusall killed before, me boys,The great German nation has sworn their damnation,And we'll echo the curse with a will, me boys.

CHORUS

For the English are losing the war, me boys,

And they wantusall killed before, me boys,

The great German nation has sworn their damnation,

And we'll echo the curse with a will, me boys.

IIIThen hurrah for the gallant old Dublin, boys,And if you wouldn't be muddlin', boys,Join a Volunteer corps, or, if that is a bore,The Citizen Army's as good, me boys.Then hurrah for the Volunteers, me boys,Ireland in arms has no fears, me boys,And surely if we would see Ireland free,We'll arm and we'll drill for the Day, me boys.

III

Then hurrah for the gallant old Dublin, boys,

And if you wouldn't be muddlin', boys,

Join a Volunteer corps, or, if that is a bore,

The Citizen Army's as good, me boys.

Then hurrah for the Volunteers, me boys,

Ireland in arms has no fears, me boys,

And surely if we would see Ireland free,

We'll arm and we'll drill for the Day, me boys.

CHORUSFor the Germans are going to win, me boys,And Ireland will have to butt in, me boys,From a Gael with a gun the Briton will run,And we'll dance at the wake of the Empire, boys!

CHORUS

For the Germans are going to win, me boys,

And Ireland will have to butt in, me boys,

From a Gael with a gun the Briton will run,

And we'll dance at the wake of the Empire, boys!

Here is another satirical song, very popular just before and during the rising. The man who sung it, called Brian na Banba, was deported by the English after the rising:

HARP OR LION?

Neighbors, list and hear from meThe wondrous news I've read to-day,Ireland's love of liberty'Tis said is dead and passed away;Irish men have all grown wiser,Now they'll heed no ill adviser,They despise their country's story,All they love is England's glory—Ha, ha, ha!Ha, ha, ha!All they love is England's glory,Ha, ha, ha!Now we all must grieve to knowThe deep offense our fathers gave,Meeting men with thrust and blowThat came to rob them and enslave;We should blush for their ill-doing,Give their errors no renewing,And, unlike those old transgressors,Never hurt our isle's oppressors—Ha, ha, ha!Ha, ha, ha!Never hurt our isle's oppressors,Ha, ha, ha!Only think of Hugh O'Neill,Thundering down in furious style,To assail with lead and steelThe rovers from our sister isle;Chiefs and clans in all directionsWith their far and near connections,Warriors bold and swift uprisers,Rushing on their civilizers—Ha, ha, ha!Ha, ha, ha!On their gracious civilizers,Ha, ha, ha!Surely, friends, the chance is greatWe'll cast a cloud on Emmet's fame,Scoff at Tone and '98,And scorn Lord Edward's honored name;Then, in quite a loyal manner,Clip and dye our old green banner,And, where hangs the harp of Brian,Place the mangy British lion—Ha, ha, ha!Ha, ha, ha!Place the mangy British lion,Ha, ha, ha!Surely, friends, it seems to me,England's self ere now should know,These are things she'll never see,Let Ireland's star be high or low;That's the truth, whoe'er denies it,Scouts it, flouts it, or decries it,Aids to spread a vile invention,Drawn from—where I will not mention!Ha, ha, ha!Ha, ha, ha!From the place 'tis wrong to mention,Ha, ha, ha!

Neighbors, list and hear from me

The wondrous news I've read to-day,

Ireland's love of liberty

'Tis said is dead and passed away;

Irish men have all grown wiser,

Now they'll heed no ill adviser,

They despise their country's story,

All they love is England's glory—

Ha, ha, ha!

All they love is England's glory,

Ha, ha, ha!

Now we all must grieve to knowThe deep offense our fathers gave,Meeting men with thrust and blowThat came to rob them and enslave;We should blush for their ill-doing,Give their errors no renewing,And, unlike those old transgressors,Never hurt our isle's oppressors—Ha, ha, ha!Ha, ha, ha!Never hurt our isle's oppressors,Ha, ha, ha!

Now we all must grieve to know

The deep offense our fathers gave,

Meeting men with thrust and blow

That came to rob them and enslave;

We should blush for their ill-doing,

Give their errors no renewing,

And, unlike those old transgressors,

Never hurt our isle's oppressors—

Ha, ha, ha!

Never hurt our isle's oppressors,

Ha, ha, ha!

Only think of Hugh O'Neill,Thundering down in furious style,To assail with lead and steelThe rovers from our sister isle;Chiefs and clans in all directionsWith their far and near connections,Warriors bold and swift uprisers,Rushing on their civilizers—Ha, ha, ha!Ha, ha, ha!On their gracious civilizers,Ha, ha, ha!

Only think of Hugh O'Neill,

Thundering down in furious style,

To assail with lead and steel

The rovers from our sister isle;

Chiefs and clans in all directions

With their far and near connections,

Warriors bold and swift uprisers,

Rushing on their civilizers—

Ha, ha, ha!

On their gracious civilizers,

Ha, ha, ha!

Surely, friends, the chance is greatWe'll cast a cloud on Emmet's fame,Scoff at Tone and '98,And scorn Lord Edward's honored name;Then, in quite a loyal manner,Clip and dye our old green banner,And, where hangs the harp of Brian,Place the mangy British lion—Ha, ha, ha!Ha, ha, ha!Place the mangy British lion,Ha, ha, ha!

Surely, friends, the chance is great

We'll cast a cloud on Emmet's fame,

Scoff at Tone and '98,

And scorn Lord Edward's honored name;

Then, in quite a loyal manner,

Clip and dye our old green banner,

And, where hangs the harp of Brian,

Place the mangy British lion—

Ha, ha, ha!

Place the mangy British lion,

Ha, ha, ha!

Surely, friends, it seems to me,England's self ere now should know,These are things she'll never see,Let Ireland's star be high or low;That's the truth, whoe'er denies it,Scouts it, flouts it, or decries it,Aids to spread a vile invention,Drawn from—where I will not mention!Ha, ha, ha!Ha, ha, ha!From the place 'tis wrong to mention,Ha, ha, ha!

Surely, friends, it seems to me,

England's self ere now should know,

These are things she'll never see,

Let Ireland's star be high or low;

That's the truth, whoe'er denies it,

Scouts it, flouts it, or decries it,

Aids to spread a vile invention,

Drawn from—where I will not mention!

Ha, ha, ha!

From the place 'tis wrong to mention,

Ha, ha, ha!

Another song, written to discourage recruiting for the English army in Ireland, goes thus:

EIGHT MILLIONS OF ENGLISH MEN

IGood old Britain, rule the wavesAnd gobble up all the land,Bring out the blacks and Indian bravesTo jigger the German band;Call up Australia and Canada, too,To shatter the Kaiser's den,We'll stick to the looms while the howitzer booms,Eight millions of English men;Of mafficking, manly men;Of valiant, loyal men;We'll capture the trade from here to Belgrade,Eight millions of English men.IIThere are plenty of fools in Ireland still,Just promise them something soon,A Union Jack, or a Home Rule Bill,Or a slice of the next new moon;And they'll rush to the colors with wild hurroos,What price the War Lord then?They'll settle his hash, while we gobble his cash,Eight millions of English men;Of beef-eating, bull-dog men;Of undersized, able men;We're shy of the guns, but we'll beggar the Huns,Eight millions of English men.

Good old Britain, rule the waves

And gobble up all the land,

Bring out the blacks and Indian braves

To jigger the German band;

Call up Australia and Canada, too,

To shatter the Kaiser's den,

We'll stick to the looms while the howitzer booms,

Eight millions of English men;

Of mafficking, manly men;

Of valiant, loyal men;

We'll capture the trade from here to Belgrade,

Eight millions of English men.

IIThere are plenty of fools in Ireland still,Just promise them something soon,A Union Jack, or a Home Rule Bill,Or a slice of the next new moon;And they'll rush to the colors with wild hurroos,What price the War Lord then?They'll settle his hash, while we gobble his cash,Eight millions of English men;Of beef-eating, bull-dog men;Of undersized, able men;We're shy of the guns, but we'll beggar the Huns,Eight millions of English men.

There are plenty of fools in Ireland still,

Just promise them something soon,

A Union Jack, or a Home Rule Bill,

Or a slice of the next new moon;

And they'll rush to the colors with wild hurroos,

What price the War Lord then?

They'll settle his hash, while we gobble his cash,

Eight millions of English men;

Of beef-eating, bull-dog men;

Of undersized, able men;

We're shy of the guns, but we'll beggar the Huns,

Eight millions of English men.

This is a song that includes the Irish leaders in Parliament in its satire on Irish "loyalty" to England:

"Now," says Lady Aberdeen,"I've a message from the QueenTo the loyal hearts in Ireland here at home;She wants you all to gather socks,Plain as I, or decked with clocks,Just to prove the Irish loyal to the throne."CHORUSTo Hell with the King, and God save Ireland,Get a sack and start the work to-day,Gather all the socks you meet, for the English Tommies' feet,When they're running from the Germans far away!"When you've gathered all the socks,Send them on to Dr. Cox,Or to Redmond, or to Dillon, or myself,For the party on the floorHave agreed to look them o'erWhile the Home Rule Bill is resting on the shelf."CHORUS

"Now," says Lady Aberdeen,

"I've a message from the Queen

To the loyal hearts in Ireland here at home;

She wants you all to gather socks,

Plain as I, or decked with clocks,

Just to prove the Irish loyal to the throne."

CHORUSTo Hell with the King, and God save Ireland,Get a sack and start the work to-day,Gather all the socks you meet, for the English Tommies' feet,When they're running from the Germans far away!

CHORUS

To Hell with the King, and God save Ireland,

Get a sack and start the work to-day,

Gather all the socks you meet, for the English Tommies' feet,

When they're running from the Germans far away!

"When you've gathered all the socks,Send them on to Dr. Cox,Or to Redmond, or to Dillon, or myself,For the party on the floorHave agreed to look them o'erWhile the Home Rule Bill is resting on the shelf."

"When you've gathered all the socks,

Send them on to Dr. Cox,

Or to Redmond, or to Dillon, or myself,

For the party on the floor

Have agreed to look them o'er

While the Home Rule Bill is resting on the shelf."

CHORUS

(Same as first stanza. The first line is a parody on the loyalist toast: "Here's a health to the King, and God save Ireland!")

The Irish Citizen Army song was written by Jo Connolly, a young workingman, whose brother, Sean Connolly, was killed while leading the attack on Dublin Castle Easter Monday. Jo was the boy who cut loopholes in the roof of the College of Surgeons. He was deported to Wandsworth Prison, but after a few months was released. The song is sung to the tune which you know as "John Brown's Body":

THE IRISH CITIZEN ARMY

IThe Irish Citizen Army is the name of our wee band,With our marchin' and our drillin', I'm sure you'll call it grand;And when we start our fightin' it will be for Ireland,And we'll still keep marching on!CHORUSGlory, glory to old Ireland!Glory, glory to our sireland!Glory to the memory of those who fought and fell,And we'll still keep marching on!IIWe've got guns and ammunition, we know how to use them well,And when we meet the Saxon, we will drive them all to Hell;We've got to free our country and avenge all those who fell,So we still keep marching on!CHORUSIIIKing George he is a coward, that no one can deny,When the Germans come to England, from there he'll have to fly;And if he comes to Ireland then, by God, he'll have to die,And we'll still go marching on!CHORUSIVWhen the Germans come to free us, we will lend a helping hand,For we believe they're just as good as any in the land,They're bound to win our rights for us, let England go be damned!And we'll still keep marching on!

The Irish Citizen Army is the name of our wee band,

With our marchin' and our drillin', I'm sure you'll call it grand;

And when we start our fightin' it will be for Ireland,

And we'll still keep marching on!

CHORUSGlory, glory to old Ireland!Glory, glory to our sireland!Glory to the memory of those who fought and fell,And we'll still keep marching on!

CHORUS

Glory, glory to old Ireland!

Glory, glory to our sireland!

Glory to the memory of those who fought and fell,

And we'll still keep marching on!

IIWe've got guns and ammunition, we know how to use them well,And when we meet the Saxon, we will drive them all to Hell;We've got to free our country and avenge all those who fell,So we still keep marching on!

We've got guns and ammunition, we know how to use them well,

And when we meet the Saxon, we will drive them all to Hell;

We've got to free our country and avenge all those who fell,

So we still keep marching on!

CHORUS

IIIKing George he is a coward, that no one can deny,When the Germans come to England, from there he'll have to fly;And if he comes to Ireland then, by God, he'll have to die,And we'll still go marching on!

III

King George he is a coward, that no one can deny,

When the Germans come to England, from there he'll have to fly;

And if he comes to Ireland then, by God, he'll have to die,

And we'll still go marching on!

CHORUS

IVWhen the Germans come to free us, we will lend a helping hand,For we believe they're just as good as any in the land,They're bound to win our rights for us, let England go be damned!And we'll still keep marching on!

When the Germans come to free us, we will lend a helping hand,

For we believe they're just as good as any in the land,

They're bound to win our rights for us, let England go be damned!

And we'll still keep marching on!

Here is the song of the Irish Volunteers, sung at all concerts held before the rising to get funds for rifles and ammunition. The Volunteers sang it whenever they marched, and I have been told the men in the rising of '67 also sang it. It was sung everywhere during the last rising. When we first withdrew to the College of Surgeons, Frank Robins sang it, and we all joined in the chorus:

VOLUNTEER MARCHING SONG

I'll sing you a song, a soldier's song,With a cheering, rousing chorus,As round the blazing camp-fire we throng,The starry heavens o'er us;Impatient for the coming fight,And, as we watch the dawning light,Here in the silence of the nightWe'll chant the soldier's song:CHORUSSoldiers are we whose lives are pledged to Ireland!Some have come from a land beyond the wave,Sworn to be free! No more our ancient sirelandShall shelter the despot and the slave!To-night we'll man the bearna booighill,[1]In Erin's cause come woe or weal,'Mid cannon's roar or rifle's peal,We'll chant a soldier's song!'Mid valleys green and towering crag,Our fathers fought before us,And conquered 'neath the same old flagThat's proudly floating o'er us;We're children of a fighting raceThat never yet has known disgrace,And as we go our foe to face,We'll chant a soldier's song:CHORUSSons of the Gael, men of the Pale,The long-watched day is breaking!The serried ranks of InnisfailHave set the tyrant quaking!But now our camp-fire's burning low,See in the east a silver glow!Out yonder waits the Saxon foe!Then chant a soldier's song:CHORUS

I'll sing you a song, a soldier's song,

With a cheering, rousing chorus,

As round the blazing camp-fire we throng,

The starry heavens o'er us;

Impatient for the coming fight,

And, as we watch the dawning light,

Here in the silence of the night

We'll chant the soldier's song:

CHORUSSoldiers are we whose lives are pledged to Ireland!Some have come from a land beyond the wave,Sworn to be free! No more our ancient sirelandShall shelter the despot and the slave!To-night we'll man the bearna booighill,[1]In Erin's cause come woe or weal,'Mid cannon's roar or rifle's peal,We'll chant a soldier's song!

CHORUS

Soldiers are we whose lives are pledged to Ireland!

Some have come from a land beyond the wave,

Sworn to be free! No more our ancient sireland

Shall shelter the despot and the slave!

To-night we'll man the bearna booighill,[1]

In Erin's cause come woe or weal,

'Mid cannon's roar or rifle's peal,

We'll chant a soldier's song!

'Mid valleys green and towering crag,Our fathers fought before us,And conquered 'neath the same old flagThat's proudly floating o'er us;We're children of a fighting raceThat never yet has known disgrace,And as we go our foe to face,We'll chant a soldier's song:

'Mid valleys green and towering crag,

Our fathers fought before us,

And conquered 'neath the same old flag

That's proudly floating o'er us;

We're children of a fighting race

That never yet has known disgrace,

And as we go our foe to face,

We'll chant a soldier's song:

CHORUSSons of the Gael, men of the Pale,The long-watched day is breaking!The serried ranks of InnisfailHave set the tyrant quaking!But now our camp-fire's burning low,See in the east a silver glow!Out yonder waits the Saxon foe!Then chant a soldier's song:

CHORUS

Sons of the Gael, men of the Pale,

The long-watched day is breaking!

The serried ranks of Innisfail

Have set the tyrant quaking!

But now our camp-fire's burning low,

See in the east a silver glow!

Out yonder waits the Saxon foe!

Then chant a soldier's song:

CHORUS

The Fianna also had their songs. One of them, written by one of the Fianna boys, goes:

Draw the sword ye Irish men!The sword is mightier than the pen!Fight the good old fight againTo crush the old transgressor!Break the bonds of slavery!O great God, it cannot beThat Gaels could ever bend the kneeTo England, their oppressor!

Draw the sword ye Irish men!The sword is mightier than the pen!Fight the good old fight againTo crush the old transgressor!

Draw the sword ye Irish men!

The sword is mightier than the pen!

Fight the good old fight again

To crush the old transgressor!

Break the bonds of slavery!O great God, it cannot beThat Gaels could ever bend the kneeTo England, their oppressor!

Break the bonds of slavery!

O great God, it cannot be

That Gaels could ever bend the knee

To England, their oppressor!

Almost before it was over, the rising became part of the great patriotic tradition of Ireland, and on all sides new songs were heard celebrating it and those who took leading parts in it. Some of these songs were heavy with a sense of the nation's tragedy. Others—those written by men who had taken part in the rising—were often full of wit, that dauntless Irish spirit that does not forsake men even in defeat and imprisonment. But the most moving, now the most popular of them all, was written by a nun. It is sung to the tune of "Who Fears to Speak of '98?" and begins:

Who fears to speak of Easter Week?Who dares its fate deplore?The red-gold flame of Erin's nameConfronts the world once more!So, Irishmen, remember, then,And raise your heads with pride,For great men, and straight menHave fought for you and died!The spirit wave that came to saveThe peerless Celtic soul,From earthly stain of greed and gainHad caught them in its roll;Had raised them high to do or die,To sound the trumpet call,To true men, though few men,To follow one and all!Upon their shield, a stainless fieldWith virtue blazoned bright,With temperance and purity,With truth and honor, right;And now they stand at God's right hand,Who framed their dauntless clay,Who taught them, and brought themThe honor of to-day!The ancient foe hath boasted,—lo:That Irishmen were tame!They bought our souls with paltry doles,And told the world of slaves;That lie, men, will die, men,In Pearse and Plunkett's graves!

Who fears to speak of Easter Week?

Who dares its fate deplore?

The red-gold flame of Erin's name

Confronts the world once more!

So, Irishmen, remember, then,

And raise your heads with pride,

For great men, and straight men

Have fought for you and died!

The spirit wave that came to saveThe peerless Celtic soul,From earthly stain of greed and gainHad caught them in its roll;Had raised them high to do or die,To sound the trumpet call,To true men, though few men,To follow one and all!

The spirit wave that came to save

The peerless Celtic soul,

From earthly stain of greed and gain

Had caught them in its roll;

Had raised them high to do or die,

To sound the trumpet call,

To true men, though few men,

To follow one and all!

Upon their shield, a stainless fieldWith virtue blazoned bright,With temperance and purity,With truth and honor, right;And now they stand at God's right hand,Who framed their dauntless clay,Who taught them, and brought themThe honor of to-day!

Upon their shield, a stainless field

With virtue blazoned bright,

With temperance and purity,

With truth and honor, right;

And now they stand at God's right hand,

Who framed their dauntless clay,

Who taught them, and brought them

The honor of to-day!

The ancient foe hath boasted,—lo:That Irishmen were tame!They bought our souls with paltry doles,And told the world of slaves;That lie, men, will die, men,In Pearse and Plunkett's graves!

The ancient foe hath boasted,—lo:

That Irishmen were tame!

They bought our souls with paltry doles,

And told the world of slaves;

That lie, men, will die, men,

In Pearse and Plunkett's graves!

Here is a song written by a member of the Irish Republican army while he was confined in Richmond Barracks, Dublin, a month after the rising. It is sung to the tune of "The Mountains of Mourne":

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