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 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 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 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!
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":
I
In Dublin's fair city there's sorrow to-day
For the flower of her manhood who fell in the fray;
Her youths and her maidens, her joy and her pride
Have gone down in battle, in war's raging tide.
II
They came forth to fight for a cause that was grand,
When freedom and liberty called to their land;
In the ardor of youth, in the spring of the year,
They came without falter, they fought without fear.
III
Near the noon of that day on that April morn,
Their tramp shook the street where young Emmet was born;
They waved high their banner, white, orange and green,
And it waved over freemen, the men of '16!
IV
And high o'er the Liffey it waved in the wind,
Over hearts that were brave and the noblest of minds;
And they fought as of old, and they held the old town
Till their banner, unsullied, in darkness went down.
V
In that Easter Week, dear old Dublin was freed,
By the blood of her sons from Swords to the Sea,
Oh, proudly again does she raise her old head
When the nations lament and salute her bold dead!
VI
O Irish Republic! O dream of our dreams!
Resplendent in vision thy bright beauty gleams!
Though fallen and crushed 'neath thy enemy's heel,
Thy glory and beauty shine burnished like steel!
VII
Not in vain was their death who for Ireland died,
And their deeds in our hearts in gold are inscribed;
The freeing of Ireland to us is their trust,
And we can if we will it, we can if we must!
VIII
In Dublin's fair city there's sorrow to-day,
For the flower of her manhood who fell in the fray;
But in hearts that are true there is nothing of gloom,
And Erin regenerate shall rise from the tomb!
The rising inspired not only verse, but music. One of the most popular
songs in Ireland to-day is "Easter Week"; the words by Francis Grenade,
the music by Joseph Mary Crofts:
Long, long the years thy chains have bound thee, Eire,
Bitter the tears that sparkled in thy eyes,
Sudden the cry of freedom thrills the city,
Brave hearts beat high, thy children round thee rise;
'Mid shot and shell, where flaming cannon thunder,
From out that hell we hear their battle-cry:
"Sinn Fein Amain!" Thy sons salute thee, Eire!
See! Freedom's dawn is flushing in the skies!
Dark Rosaleen, thy trampled flag, we swear it,
Shall lift its sheen triumphant in the sun!
Thy galling chain, our gallant sword shall save her,
Ended thy pain and weeping, dearest one!
In plaintive strains our hearts shall mourn our heroes,
Till once again thy banner waveth free,
Close to thy breast, then guard them, gentle Eire,
There shall they rest till time shall cease to be!
If any proof were needed of the unbroken spirit of our men after the
rising, there could be none better than in the gay and challenging tone
of many of the songs written and sung at the internment camp at
Frongoch, Wales. The British guards were particularly irritated by one
in which every verse ended with the line:
"Sinn Feiners, Pro-Germans, alive, alive O!"
But there was another that the guards not only tolerated but took to
singing themselves, much to the amusement of our men. The reason they
sang it was because the air was catchy and they had no means of knowing
that the "N. D. U." is the North Dublin Union or workhouse. It was
written by Jack McDonagh, brother of Thomas McDonagh, the poet, who
signed the proclamation of the republic and was shot for it. Here is the
chorus:
Come along and join the British Army,
Show that you're not afraid,
Put your name upon the roll of honor,
In the Dublin "Pal's Brigade"!
They'll send you out to France or Flanders,
To show that you're true blue,
But when the war is o'er,
They won't need you any more,
So they'll shut you in the N.D.U.!
FOOTNOTE:
[1] Pronounced "barnabweel," which means, "gap of danger."
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's Doing My Bit For Ireland, by Margaret Skinnider