Ye Concerts who plan for the welfare of Manand compose his occasional quarrels,Whom we properly deem to be teachers supremein the sphere of Political Morals,May you win the renown that your efforts should crownand reward your assiduous laboursIn arranging the cares and embarrassed affairsthat afflict your unfortunate neighbours!
Should a potentate go for his national foe,and, as soon as he's thoroughly licked him,Should he dare to demand a concession of landfrom his prostrate and paralyzed victim,It is then you arise and his arm you arrestwhen his harvest is ripe for the reaping,And a people oppressed may in confidence restwhen it's safe in Diplomacy's keeping.
It is you who protest in a horrified toneat a hint of Integrity's danger,And the victor is shown that a Concert aloneis of Law and of Fate the arranger:With a warlike display of your fleets in arrayand of Maxims (both empty and loaded)You establish it plain that his notions of gainare immoral and also exploded!
Let the blasphemous cry that it's done with an eyeto your ultimate personal profit,That your chivalrous task is but worn as a masktill occasion allows you to doff it,Let the caviller say that the victim to-dayis preserved from a final disaster,And is saved from the Japs that to-morrow perhapshe may furnish a meal for their master:
Yet I cannot believe that what Concerts achieveis by reasons ulterior dictated,I am perfectly sure that their motives are pure(by themselves it is frequently stated);By themselves we are taught that they never in thoughtcould the Good with the Selfish commingle—What they do is designed for the good of mankindwith an eye that is simple and single!
For whomever—e.g., let us say the Chinee—you have freed from the fear of invasion,Should he presently seem in a posture to bewhich is open to Moral Persuasion,—How you take him in hand, a philanthropist band!how you toil to improve his condition,With a noble disdain of the trouble and painof a wholly unselfish Partition!
For it grieves you, of course, when—ignoring the forcewhich the doctrine of Mine and of Thine has—E'en Integrity's self you must lay on the shelf(I allude, not to Europe's but China's)!Let detractors contend that your means and your endare the end and the means of the vulture—Such an altruist plan must betoken the manwho is bent on diffusion of culture.
Be it yours to assuage for inadequate wageour unseemly contentions and quarrels,Be it yours to maintain your respectable reignin the sphere of Political Morals;And, relying no more on the shedding of goreor the rule of torpedoes and sabres,Make beneficent plots for dividing in lotsthe domains of your paralyzed neighbours!
Come hither, Terence Mulligan, and sit upon the floor,And list a tale of woe that's worse than all you heard before:Of all the wrongs the Saxon's done since Erin's shores he trodThe blackest harm he's wrought us now—sure Doolan's put in quod!
It was the Saxon minister, he said unto himself,I'll never have a moment's peace till Doolan's on the shelf—So bid them make a warrant out and send it by the mail,To put that daring patriot in dark Kilmainham gaol.
The minions of authority, that document they wrote,And Mr Buckshot took the thing upon the Dublin boat:Och! sorra much he feared the waves, incessantly that roar,For deeper flows the sea of blood he shed on Ireland's shore!
But the hero slept unconscious still—tis kilt he was with work,Haranguing of the multitudes in Waterford and Cork,—Till Buckshot and the polis came and rang the front door bellDisturbing of his slumbers sweet in Morrison's Hotel.
Then out and spake brave Morrison—"Get up, yer sowl, and run!"(O bright shall shine on History's page the name of Morrison!)"To see the light of Erin quenched I never could endure:Slip on your boots—I'll let yez out upon the kitchen doore!"
But proudly flashed the patriot's eye and he sternly answered—"No!I'll never turn a craven back upon my country's foe:Doolan aboo, for Liberty! . . . and anyhow" (says he)"The Government's locked the kitchen-door and taken away the key."
They seized him and they fettered him, those minions of the Law,('Twas Pat the Boots was looking on, and told me what he saw)—But sorra step that Uncrowned King would leave the place, untilA ten per cent reduction he had got upon his bill.
Had I been there with odds to aid—say twenty men to one—It stirs my heart to think upon the deeds I might have done!I wouldn't then be telling you the melancholy taleHow Ireland's pride imprisoned lies in dark Kilmainham gaol.
Yet weep not, Erin, for thy son! 'tis he that's doing well,For Ireland's thousands feed him there within his dungeon cell,—And if by chance he eats too much and his health begins to fail,The Government then will let him out from black Kilmainham gaol!
(1890)
Oh, wanst I was a tinant, an' I wisht I was one stilt,With my cow an' pig an' praties, an' my cabin on the hill!'Twas plinty then I had to drink an' plinty too to ate,And the childer had employment on the Ponsonby estate.
It was in Tipperary town, as down the street I went,I met with Mr Blarnigan, that sits in Parliament:'Tis he that has the eloquence! An' "Pay no rint," says he,"For that's the way you'll get your land, an' set the country free."
I'd paid my rint—sure, 'twas rejuiced—before the rows began,An' the agent that was in it was a dacent kind of man;But parties kem by moonlight now, and tould me I must not,And if I paid it any more they'd surely have me shot.
The agent said he'd take the half of all the rint I owed,Because he'd be unwilling for to put me on the road:I said, "I thank your honour, and in glory may you be!But that is not the way," says I, "to set ould Ireland free."
They kem an' put me out of that, and left me there forlorn,Beside the empty ruins of the house where I was born:I'm indepindent now myself, and have no work to do,Until the day when Ireland is indepindent too.
"A day will come," says Blarnigan, "when tyranny's o'erthrown—Just hould the rint a year or so, and all the land's your own!"Well, 'tis not for the likes of me to question what they say,But it's starved we'll be before we see that great and glorious day!
This fighting against tyranny's a splendid kind of thrade,For thim that goes to London for't, and gets their tickets paid!I'm loafing on the road myself, an' sorra know I knowWhat way I'll live the winter through, an' where on earth I'll go.
Oh, wanst I was a tinant, an' I wisht I was one still,With my cow an' pig an' praties, an' my cabin on the hill!Now it's to New York City that I'll have to cross the sea,And all because I held my rint to set the counthry free.
Ye shanties so airy of New Tipperary,With walls and with floors of the national mud,Where the home of the freeman mocks Tyranny's demon,And the landlord and agent are nipped in the bud!
No Saxon may venture those precincts to enter,He is barred from their portals by Liberty's ban,And we boycott each other, each patriot brother,And safely deride the Emergency Man.
Though the comfort exterior, perhaps, is inferiorTo the homes you have left, on a casual view—With its excellent moral no person can quarrel,Morality's always the weapon for you.
'Tis a duty you owe to your country's condition,For her, to relinquish your homes and your pelf:Were I placed (as I'm not) in a similar position,I have no doubt at all I should do so myself.
It is dastards alone who are ready to grovel,And make themselves footballs for landlords to kick,It is better by far to be free in a hovelThan to owe for your rent in a palace of brick!
When the Saxon invader has rows with his tenants,It's absurd to assert that it'snihil ad remTo inflict on yourselves a gratuitous penance,For it irritates him and encourages them.
And it's always a mark of the National Party—Which their logical shrewdness distinctively shows—That each member is ready, with cheerfulness hearty,When his face he would punish, to cut off his nose.
So we still turn our backs on the gifts of the Saxon—Yes, Freedom itself, if they give it, contemn:We would willingly have it from Parnell and Davitt,But we'd sooner be slaves than accept it from them!
We statesmen of Erin, Archbishops, M.P.'s,and Leaders of National Thought,Pray explain to your friends that I'm anxiousto please, if I do not succeed as I ought!When I sympathize quite with their notions of right,it is hard, as I'm sure you'll agree,That an agent should come with a dynamite bomb,which perhaps was intended for me!
My views on the tenants evicted for debtare identical wholly with yours,And the fact that they're not in possessionas yet no statesman more deeply deplores:I approve of explosives—they're often a linkwhich our union may serve to complete—But they're dangerous too, as I venture to think,when employed in a populous street.
I planned the Commission; I packed it with menopposed to the payment of rent;No landlord had ever evicted again if theyonly had done what I meant:It "adjourned," as I know, in a fortnight or so,and it did not do much while it sat,But I was not to blame if we failed in our aim—for I could not anticipate that.
'Tis a shame, I agree, that I cannot set freeall persons who kill the police;That patriots leal who in dynamite dealI can only in sections release:But I think you must see that a statesman like mehas a character moral at stake,And must simulate doubt as to letting them out,for my Saxon constituents' sake.
For their sentiments move in the narrowest groove—be thankful you are not like them!Mere murder's an act which they seldom approve,and are even inclined to condemn:When the patriot blows up his friends or his foes,those prejudiced Saxons among,It is reckoned a flaw in his notion of law,and he is not unfrequently hung.
Then explain to your friends that their means and their endsI wholly and fully approve,Though at times what I feel I am forced to conceal,and to partly dissemble my love,And the Saxon, I hope, may develop the scopeof his narrow and obsolete view—He will alter in time his conception of crime,on a longer acquaintance with You.
I have always regarded with wonder and aweThe conception of Justice embodied in Law:For it dealt in a highly remarkable wayWith Cornelius Molloy and with Peter O'Shea.
Now, Peter O'Shea was by nature a serf,And he paid (when he could) for his land and his turf:But Cornelius, his friend, was a broth of a boy—The Sassenach's scourge was Cornelius Molloy.
Cornelius adopted the Plan of Campaign,And he tried to tempt Peter, but tempted in vain."'Twas the masther, not thim, I conthracted to pay:'Tis a quare kind of business," said Peter O'Shea.
But the Plan of Campaign, as its authors confess,Was not, on the whole, a decided success:And the blackguardly minion whom tyrants employEvicted at last great Cornelius Molloy.
The Saxon oppressor, still potent for harm,Gave Peter a lease of Cornelius' farm:Which Peter accepted with virtuous joy—For he lived quite adjacent to Mr Molloy.
Cornelius was angry (and faith he'd a right),So he came with a party to Peter's by night,And they shot through the door, with intention to slayThat traitor and land-grabber, Peter O'Shea.
Poor Peter was pained, but he scorned to show fear:"Sure the law will protect me so long as I'm here:'Tis an iligant holding and little to pay;Och! 'twas only wid shnipe-shot!" said Pether O'Shea.
But the Liberal Party observed with dismayThe outrageous proceedings of Peter O'Shea;And Mr O'Kelly, our pride and our joy,Made a law for restoring Cornelius Molloy.
Cornelius came back to his former abode,And Peter was houseless, and starved on the road:For Justice, whose methods O'Kelly can tell,Gave Corneliushisholding and Peter's as well.
It is this which inspires us with feelings of aweFor the standards of Justice embodied in Law:And tenants, the law when inclined to obey,Will be cheered by the instance of Peter O'Shea.
Must we then cease to exist as a party,Sink to the items that once we have been,All for the scruples of Justin M'Carthy,All for Committee-Room No. 15?
This is the end of a decade of labour,Blood that we might have—conceivably—shed,Daily incitements to boycott your neighbour,Daily allusions to ounces of lead!
Is it for this that the champion whose speechesFear not to mention the year '98Sleeps on a plank and is robbed of his breeches,Loses some pounds of his natural weight?
These, it would seem, are that patriot's wages—Only to hear that the battle is o'er,Only to blot from our history's pagesMemories of Mitchelstown, tales of Gweedore!
All the great days of the row and the ruction,Days on the hillside and nights in the House,When by persistent and careful obstructionSaxons were kept from their yachts and their grouse:
All was a dream unsubstantial and airy—Tenants are cravens, and landlords are paid:Lone and deserted is New Tipperary,Lodgings to let in O'Brien Arcade!
Some are for Redmond and some for M'Carthy,All are the items that once they have been:This is the end of the National Party,All for Committee-Room No. 15.
Oh, the Irish M.P.s they are bound for the seas,to the country of Cleveland and Blaine,And I hear for a fact, their portmanteaus are packedand we never shall see them again,And Hibernia thrills through her valleys and hillswith a passionate cry of farewell,While the manager weeps as they're paying their bills,in the "Westminster Palace hotel!
Though he lived all the while in the highest of styleand was fed at his country's expense,Yet he felt (did the Celt) that in Meshech he dwelt,and resided in Kedar its tents,And he yearned in his heart to be playing a partin a higher and holier sphere—For his soul was alight with a zeal for the Rightthat we cannot appreciate here.
Oh, the story is long of the villainous wronghe endured from the Sassenach reign,How he languished for weeks, minus freedom (and breeks),for supporting the Plan of Campaign;How, when statesmen arose, to diminish his woes,and the tide of oppression to stem,We ejected the friends who promoted his ends,and refused to be guided by them.
For the Tories have won, and the party is gonethat he ruled with his counsel and swayed,And there's no one caresthatfor the suffrage of Pator will stoop to solicit his aid:So the sons of the Gael have determined to sailfor the regions serene of the West,Where a Balfour's police from their bludgeoning cease,and the Patriot weary may rest!
'Tis in Congress he'll find the intelligent mindwhich is able to probe to the rootsThe malignant intrigue that endangers the League,and M'Carthy's and Dillon's disputes,—Which is sure to postpone all affairs of its ownand to list to Tim Healy intentWhen he takes up the tale of Compulsory Sale,or complete abolition of rent.
There'll be wigs on the green (as in No. 15)and the usual trailing of coats,For I happen to know Mr Redmond will go,—by a separate service of boats:—And O'Brien will show, while he jumps on his foeand his blood fratricidally sheds,That the Union of Hearts of necessity startsfrom a general breaking of heads.
The Hibernian M.P.s are afloat on the seas,the debates of the West to control,And the thought of their scheme's a magnificent dreamwhich may calm our disconsolate soul:For if ever the Yanks should return them with thanksand consider their presence a bore,We have plenty of cranks in the Radical ranks,and can always supply them with more!
It was a gallant Irishman, and thus I heard him sing—"To legislate at Westminster's a dull decorous thing:But O in merry Austria's deliberative hall,Bedad, the fun and divilment is simplykolossàl!
"No base procedure rules restrain those wild untutored Czechs,They have no vile formalities the patriot's soul to vex:While we must catch the Speaker's eye before a word is said,In free and happy Austria they blacken it instead.
"Cold water oft on me to throw is Mr Gully's whim,But Dr Abrahamovitch has buckets thrown on him:Quite pleasant and familiar are their dealings with the Chair—We 'pull' sometimes the Speaker's 'leg'—they always pull his hair!
"When, for my own metropolis, I quit this formal scene,And Ireland's native Parliament shall sit in College-green,To keep the fun alive and fresh we'll bring a Czech or two(The Czechs but not the Balances that Mr Gladstone knew):
"We'll have no dictatorial rule—no Peels or Gullys there—But Dr Abrahamovitch shall fill the Speaker's chair:'Tis he shall guide by gentle arts our legislative aims,While Mr Dillon tweaks his nose and Healy calls him names."
It was an Irish patriot, and thus I heard him say—"O set me in Vienna's walls, beneath the Kaiser's sway!For since Home Rule I cannot get, 'tis there that I would be,A-chivying the President, an Austrian M.P.!"
O party, pledged in years agone to change our sad condition,How have you left your task undone and quite resigned your Mission!How changed the time since tongue and pen our feuds combined to smother,And Harcourt walked with Healy then as brother walks with brother!
We from Coercion's darkest gloom saw Erin's star re-risen,You hob-and-nobbed with patriots, whom yourselves had sent to prison:It was our schemes of mutual good such close allies that made us:You spoke as we decreed you should, we voted as you bade us:
'Twas we, when fain you were to fare on Office' loaves and fishes,'Twas we alone who put you there despite your country's wishes:While you, when some our acts would blame, proved noughtcould be absurderThan rent to call a legal claim, or landlord-shooting murder.
Yet why recount our ancient loves which now you turn your backs on?The maxim old it only proves—you ne'er should trust a Saxon:Deceitful still, his promised plan he docks, interprets, hedges,And when he thinks he safely can, he turns and breaks his pledges!
True Celts despise the paltry baits wherewith you try to feed 'em:What! offer your diminished rates to men who pine for Freedom!On County Councils ne'er can thrive a People's aspirations,No local Government can give a place among the Nations!
Begone! to swell the Jingo train and ape the tricks of Tories:Let Rosebery share with Chamberlain his cheap Imperial glories:Let Primrose Leaguers' base applause to Duty's promptings blind you—Desert an outraged nation's cause, and take this curse behind you;—
Expect your doom, ye Liberals! though now you scorn and flout us,Full soon within St Stephen's walls you'll fare but ill without us;No more to us for succour come, for when you most would have it,It will not be forthcoming from yours truly, MICHAEL DAVITT!
The angry Gael to sooth you'll fail—the wrongs he lays your door atIt won't redress to pay his cess and nearly all his poor rate:'Tis useless quite to calm his spite by show'ring blessings o'er him,While still he lacks the O's and Macs his fathers had before him!
But now, to close the tale of woes which long had tried our patience,Great MacAleese cements a peace between the warring nations;No more the swords of Saxon hordes are rankling in our vitals,For Erin's shore enjoys once more her ancient styles and titles.
O long ago had things been so ere feud had rent our party,And Parnell those for leader chose while these preferred McCarthy,I doubt not but the Cause had cut a fat superior figure,If, better led, we'd had for head O'Parnell and MacBiggar!
'Twas hard to spot the patriot when parties mingled freely,And Labouchere at times would share the politics of Healy;A symbol new and plain to view from such mistakes will free him—By Mac and O you'll always know a patriot when you see him:
This shibboleth shall bind till death, without respect of faction,In mutual love, all persons of Hibernian extraction:I see them stand, a gallant band, agreed each question vexed on,O'Saunderson in heart at one with Dillon and MacSexton!
And when we've found Home Rule All Round the only panacea,The Welsh perhaps will all be Aps—the Scotchmen Macs as we are—While Englishmen will sorrow then, in shame and degradation,To think they've not the titles got which really make a Nation.
"Here's your fery good health,And tamn ta Whuskey Duty!"
Though Hibernians for long in dissension have dwelt(As a dog that resides with a cat),There's a bond that the Saxon allies to the Celt—They are perfectly solid on that!And if ever their union is marred by a flaw,It is due to the craven who shrinksFrom proclaiming aloud the immutable law,That he ought not to pay for his drinks.
They have differed at times on the theme of Repeal(As I gather from platform and press),And the language they used in their patriot zealWas intended to wound and distress:But at last they are joined by a brotherly love,And his anger the patriot sinks,For his eloquence now is directed to proveThat he ought not to pay for his drinks.
There were times when the payment that landlords demandWas a source of continual woe,When the tenant preferred to adhere to his land,And the agent preferred him to go:When their claims to adjust and the balance to strikeWas a riddle to baffle the Sphinx,—But they're reconciled now, by resolving alikeThat they never will pay for their drinks.
There's an influence soft, which has calmed and assuagedThe contentions of Orange and Green:It has silenced the wars that were formerly wagedIn Committee Room Number Fifteen:For in Cork and Belfast they're united at lastBy the strongest and surest of links,And together they go for the Sassenach foeWho has asked them to pay for their drinks!
There's a gentleman called Doolan with an eloquence would charm yeWhen he talks of shooting landlords and of peaceful themes like that:But I'd like to undesave him on the subject of the Army—Sure the things he says about us are the idlest kind of chat!We are all (says he) seditious, and the most of us is Fenians:(And it's true I am a Fenian when I find meself at home:)But he says we're that devoted to our patriot opinionsThat we would not face the foeman when the marching orders come!
Is it that way, Misther Doolan, that you'd see your country righted?Troth, to many in the Service 'twill be information newThat they'd lave the flag they followed and betraythe faith they plightedTo be comrades and companions of a gentleman like you!Tisn't mutiny and treason will make Ireland e'er a nation:No, we never yet were traitors, though we're rebels now and then!For your country's name to tarnish and disgrace her reputation—Faith! it may be "patriotic," but it isn't fit for men.
Would we shame those valiant Irishmen, the lads of Meath and Mallow,Them that fought with Moore and Beresford through many a hard campaign,Men that dared the Saxon follow, with a roaring "Faugh-a-ballagh,"And that shed their blood like water on the stricken fields of Spain?Would we shame our bold companions and the land, the land that bore us,And the gallant boys that led us, and the rattling days we've seen,When we drove the foe before us with the "Shan Van Voght" in chorus,And we stormed his mountain stronghold to "The Wearing of the Green?"
Though we've cursed the name of England: though in faithand blood we're aliens:Though we're bred to hate the Union as an Irishman should do—Yet we're shoulder still to shoulder in the Englishman's battalions,And the soldier's pride in Erin is the pledge that he'll be true.No! if e'er the day is coming of an Irish host's uniting,When they march to meet the Saxon, with the green above the red,'Mid the ranks of England's foemen 'tisn't we that will be fighting——And it isn't Mr Doolan will be marching at their head!