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 police official 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 and telling 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.
[Illustration: THE PASS OUT OF IRELAND FOR WHICH THE AUTHOR, AT GREAT
RISK, APPLIED IN PERSON AT DUBLIN CASTLE
Please pass Margaret Skinnider
Between Dublin & England
Via
North Wall [or Kingstown][struck through]
[Illustration: Stamp: ASSISTANT PROVOST MARSHAL DUBLIN 2/6/16]
[name unclear] Major
Asst. 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 given her 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. I _was_ given 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 a cross 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 by the 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 the _Aud_ had 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.
XIV
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
years instead of five days, only one man had been executed. After _our_
rising 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 by
Skeffington'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 on the 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 obey their 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 that they 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.
SONGS SUNG BY THE IRISH
BEFORE AND AFTER THE EASTER RISING
Here is one of my favorite songs as a child:
O'DONNELL ABOO
I
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!
II
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!"
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!"
IV
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 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.
II
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.
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.
IV
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 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 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 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 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
I
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.
II
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.
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
I
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.
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.
II
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.
CHORUS
For the English are losing the war, me boys,
And they want _us_ all killed before, me boys,
The great German nation has sworn their damnation,
And we'll echo the curse with a will, 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.
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 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!
Ha, ha, ha!
All they love is England's glory,
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!
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 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!
Ha, ha, ha!
On their gracious civilizers,
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!
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!
Another song, written to discourage recruiting for the English army in
Ireland, goes thus:
EIGHT MILLIONS OF ENGLISH MEN
I
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.
II
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 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."
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 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
I
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!
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!
II
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
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
IV
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 night
We'll chant the 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 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:
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 again
To crush the old transgressor!