Easter 1916

I HAVE met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse;

This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road.
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?

For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse -
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

W B Yates

Tipperary Days


Oh, weren't they the fine boys! You never saw the beat of them,
    Singing all together with their throats bronze-bare;
Fighting-fit and mirth-mad, music in the feet of them,
    Swinging on to glory and the wrath out there.
Laughing by and chaffing by, frolic in the smiles of them,
    On the road, the white road, all the afternoon;
Strangers in a strange land, miles and miles and miles of them,
    Battle-bound and heart-high, and singing this tune:

    It's a long way to Tipperary,
        It's a long way to go;
    It's a long way to Tipperary,
        And the sweetest girl I know.
    Good-bye, Piccadilly,
        Farewell, Lester Square:
    It's a long, long way to Tipperary,
        But my heart's right there.

"Come, Yvonne and Juliette! Come, Mimi, and cheer for them!
    Throw them flowers and kisses as they pass you by.
Aren't they the lovely lads! Haven't you a tear for them
    Going out so gallantly to dare and die?
What is it they're singing so? Some high hymn of Motherland?
    Some immortal chanson of their Faith and King?
`Marseillaise' or `Brabanc,on', anthem of that other land,
    Dears, let us remember it, that song they sing:

    "C'est un chemin long `to Tepararee',
    C'est un chemin long, c'est vrai;
    C'est un chemin long `to Tepararee',
    Et la belle fille qu'je connais.
    Bonjour, Peekadeely!
    Au revoir, Lestaire Squaire!
    C'est un chemin long `to Tepararee',
    Mais mon coeur `ees zaire'."

The gallant old "Contemptibles"! There isn't much remains of them,
    So full of fun and fitness, and a-singing in their pride;
For some are cold as clabber and the corby picks the brains of them,
    And some are back in Blighty, and a-wishing they had died.
And yet it seems but yesterday, that great, glad sight of them,
    Swinging on to battle as the sky grew black and black;
But oh their glee and glory, and the great, grim fight of them! --
    Just whistle Tipperary and it all comes back:

    It's a long way to Tipperary
        (Which means "'ome" anywhere);
    It's a long way to Tipperary
        (And the things wot make you care).
    Good-bye, Piccadilly
        ('Ow I 'opes my folks is well);
    It's a long, long way to Tipperary --
        ('R! Ain't War just 'ell?)


R Service

Patriot Game 

Come all ye young rebels, and list while I sing,
For the love of one's country is a terrible thing.
It banishes fear with the speed of a flame,
And it makes us all part of the patriot game. 

My name is O'Hanlon, and I've just turned sixteen.
My home is in Monaghan, and where I was weaned
I learned all my life cruel England's to blame,
So now I am part of the patriot game. 

This Ireland of ours has too long been half free.
Six counties lie under John Bull's tyranny.
But still De Valera is greatly to blame
For shirking his part in the Patriot game. 

They told me how Connolly was shot in his chair,
His wounds from the fighting all bloody and bare.
His fine body twisted, all battered and lame
They soon made me part of the patriot game. 

It's nearly two years since I wandered away
With the local battalion of the bold IRA,
For I read of our heroes, and wanted the same
To play out my part in the patriot game. 

I don't mind a bit if I shoot down police
They are lackeys for war never guardians of peace
And yet at deserters I'm never let aim
The rebels who sold out the patriot game
And now as I lie here, my body all holes
I think of those traitors who bargained in souls
And I wish that my rifle had given the same
To those Quislings who sold out the patriot game.

Dominic Behan

The Boys Of Mullachbawn


On a Monday morning early
As my wand'ring steps did lead me,
Down by a farmer's station,
Of meadow and green lawn,
I heard great lamentation
That the wee birds they were makin'
Sayin' "We'll have no more engagements
With the boys of Mullaghbawn."

Squire Jackson was un equalled
For honour or for reason,
He never turned a traitor
Or betrayed the rights of man,
But now we are endangered
By a vile deceiving stranger
Who has ordered deportation
For the Boys of Mullachbawn.

As those heroes crossed the ocean
I'm told the ship in motion
Did stand in wild commotion
As if the seas ran dry,
The trout and salmon gaping
As the cuckoo left her station
Sayin', "Farewell to lovely Erin
And the hills of Mullaghbawn.

To end my lamentation
We are all in consternation
For the want of education
I here must end my song;
None cares for recreation
Since without consideration
We are sent for transportation
From the hills of Mullachbawn.

The Boys of Wexford


In comes the captain's daughter, the captain of the Yeos,
Saying; ""Brave United Irish men, We'll ne'er again be foes.
A thousand pounds I'll bring, If you will fly from home with me,
And dress myself in man's attire, and fight for liberty.""

cho: We are the boys of Wexford, who fought with heart and hand,
To burst in twain the galling chain, and free our native land.

"I want no gold, my maiden fair, to fly from home with thee;
Your shining eyes will be my prize - more dear than gold to me.
I want no gold to nerve my arm, to do a true man's part,
To free my native land I'd gladly give the red drops of my heart."

And when we left our cabins, boys, we left with right good will,
To see our friends and neighbours that were at Vinegar Hill!
A young man from our Irish ranks, a cannon he let go;
He slapt it into Lord Mountjoy - a tyrant he laid low!

We bravely fought and conquered at Ross and Wexford town;
Three Bullet Gate for years to come will speak for our renown;
Through Walpole's horse and Walpole's foot on Tubberneering's day,
Depending on the long, bright pike, we cut our gory way.

And Oulart's name shall be their shame, who still we ne'er did fear,
For every man could do his part like Forth and Shelmalier!
And if for want of leaders, we lost at Vinegar Hill,
We're ready for another fight, and love our country still! 


Robert Dwyer Joyce

Amhrán na bhFiann -THE IRISH NATIONAL ANTHEM

Sinne Fianna Fáil
Atá Fá gheall ag Éirinn
Buidhean dár sluagh tar rúinn do ráinig chughainn
Fámhoídh bheírh saor
Sean-tír ár sinnsear feasta
Ní fágfar fá'n tíorán ná fa'n tráil
Anocht a theigeamh sa bhearna baoghail
Le gean ar Gaedhí chun báis nó saoghail
Le gunna sgréach: Fá lamhach na piléar
Seo Libh canaidh amhrán na bhFiann

Seo dhibh a cháirde duan oglaidh
Caithréimeach, bríoghmhar, ceolmhar
Ár dteinte cnámh go buacach táid
'S an spéir go min réaltógach
Is fionmhar faobhrach sinn chun gleo
'S go tiúnmhar glé roimh tigheacht do'n ló
Fa ciúnas chaoimh na h-oidhche ar seol
Seo libh, canaídh amhrán na bhFiann

Cois banta réidhe, ar árdaibh sléibhe
Ba bhuadhach ár rinnsear romhainn
Ag lámhach go tréan fá'n sár- bhrat séin
Tá thuas sa ghaoith go seolta
Ba dhúthchas riamh d'ár gcine cháidh
Gan iompáil riar ó imirt áir
'Siubhal mar iad i gcoinnibh rámhaid
Seo libh, canaidh amhrán na bhFiann

A buidhean nach fann d'fuil Ghaoidheal is Gall
Sinn breacadh lae na saoirse
Tá sgéimhle 's sgannradh í gcroidhthibh namhad
Roimh ranngaibh laochra ár dtíre
Ár dteinte is tréith gan spréach anois
Sin luinne ghlé san spéir anoir
'S an bíodhbha i raon na bpiléar agaibh
Seo libh, canaidh amhrán na bhFiann

English translation - A Soldier's Song

We'll sing a song, a soldier's song
With cheering rousing chorus
As round our blazing fires we throng
The starry heavens o'er us
Impatient for the coming fight
And as we wait the morning's light
Here in the silence of the night
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 sire land
Shall shelter the despot or the slave
Tonight we man the gap of danger
In Erin's cause, come woe or weal
'Mid cannons' roar and rifles peal
We'll chant a soldier's song

In valley green, on 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 march, the foe to face
We'll chant a soldier's song

Chorus Repeat

Sons of the Gael! Men of the Pale!
The long watched day is breaking
The serried ranks of Inisfail
Shall set the Tyrant quaking
Our camp fires now are burning low
See in the east a silv'ry glow
Out yonder waits the Saxon foe
So chant a soldier's song

Among The Living


I was on the front line of the march down on William street
crowd a cheering, some stones were thrown but otherwise at peace
gas was fired by the army, the marchers sprayed with dye
someone shouted Saracens are coming on Rossville street they road

a hail of shots rang out, crowd taken unawares
there were people lying, creeping, running, screaming everywhere
bullets coming from all directions, under fire when we moved our heads
though we approached the soldiers with our hands up in the air

now the ropes slip gently /neath your back
lowered to a peace that you have gained
among the living dressed in black
i'm left standing over, standing over your grave

running by the rubble barricades just past glenfada park
i was dragged out by my hair on the ground, crawling to your side

a man took his coat off, put it under your sweet head
father Daly whispered last rites, but you were gone
high up on a hill of creegan derry mourned the fall
when i pray to god i ask him what's the meaning of it all.


Tim MacGlashen

Aiden McAnespie


It was on a Sunday Evening
The sun shone in the sky
As he walked on his way to the Gaelic ground
Never thinking he was going to die
As he crossed the checkpoint
The sound of gunfire came
As the news spread through the borders
Aiden McAnespie was slain

(CHORUS)
Oh why did you do it
Have you not the guts to say
You say it was an accident
Or even a a ricochet
But like Rockall or Gibraltar
Your lies are well renowned
You murdered Aiden McAnespie
On his way to the football Ground

For years he was harassed
By the forces of the Crown
As he went to work each morning
Out from his native town
The soldiers swore they'd get him
For reasons no one could say
And sure enough the murdered him
In cold blood that sunny day

(CHORUS)

To say it was an accident
Was the greatest crime of all
To his heart broken family
Was the worst that can befall
A cross that marks that lonely spot
Where Aiden he was shot down
As he walked that Sunday evening
On his way to the Gaelic ground

(CHORUS)

Aidens life has ended
It was time for judgement day
A soldier jumped out from a tower
And the coward he sniped away
Gods curse on you England
For this cruelty that you have done
But god will have the final say
When your day of judgement comes

Cha Till E TuilleCumha MhicCriomain - MacCrimmon's Lament


Dh'iadh ceò nan stùc
Mu eudann Chuilinn,
Is sheinn 'bhean-shìth
A torman mulaid,
Gorm shùilean ciùin 's
An Dùin a sileadh,
O'n thriall thu uainn
'S nach till thu tuille!

Séist:
Cha till, cha till,
Cha till MacCriomain,
An cogadh no sìth
Cha till e tuille,
Le airgiod no nì
Cha till MacCriomain,
Cha till e gu bràth
Gu là na cruinne.

Tha osag nam beann
Gu fann ag imeachd,
Gach sruthan 's gach allt
Gu mall le bruthach,
Tha ealtainn nan speur
Feadh geugan dubhach,
A caoidh gu'n d'fhalbh
'S nach till thu tuille.
Séist:

Tha'n fhairge fa dheòidh
Làn bròin is mulaid,
Tha'm bàta fo sheòl,
Ach dhiult i siubhal;
Tha gàirich nan tonn
Le fuaim neo-shubhach,
Ag ràdh gun d'falbh
'S nach till thu tuille.
Séist:

Cha chluinnear do cheòl
'S an Dùn mu fheasgar,
'S mac-talla nam mùr
Le mùirn 'ga fhreagairt,
Gach fleasgach is òigh
Gun cheòl, gun bheadradh,
O'n thriall thu uainn
'S nach till thu tuille
Séist:

Tr. Lachlan MacBean, 1888

O'er Coolin's face
The night is creeping,
The banshee's wail
Is round us sweeping;
Blue eyes in Duin
Are dim with weeping,
Since thou art gone
And ne'er returnest.

Refrain:
No more, no more,
No more returning,
In peace nor in war
Is he returning;
Till dawns the great Day
Of Doom and burning,
MacCrimmon is home
No more returning.

The breeze of the bens
Is gently blowing,
The brooks in the glens
Are softly flowing;
Where boughs
Their darkest shades are throwing,
Birds mourn for thee
Who ne'er returnest.

Refrain

Its dirges of woe
The sea is sighing,
The boat under sail
Unmoved is lying;
The voice of the waves
In sadness dying,
Say, thou art away
And ne'er returnest.

Refrain

We'll see no more
MacCrimmon's returning,
Nor in peace nor in war
Is he returning;
Till dawns the great day
Of woe and burning,
For him, for him
There's no returning.

Refrain

 The Revenge

A Ballad of The Fleet


At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay,
And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away.
‘Spanish ships of war at sea! We have sighted fifty three!'
Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: ‘'fore God I am no coward;
But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear,
And half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick.
We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty three?'

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: ‘I know you are no coward;
You fly them for a moment to fight with them again.
But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore.
I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard,
To those Inquisition dogs and the devil dons of Spain.

So Lord Howard passed away with five ships of war that day,
Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven;
But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land
Very carefully and slow,
Men of Bideford in Devon,
And we laid them on the ballast down below;
For we brought them all aboard,
And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain,
To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord.

He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight,
And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight,
With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow.
‘Shall we fight or shall we fly?
Good Sir Richard, tell us now,
For to fight is but to die!
There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set.'
And Sir Richard said again: ‘We be all good English men,
Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil,
For I never turned my back on Don or devil yet.'

Sir Richard spoke and he laughed, and we roared a hurrah, and so
The little [Revenge] ran on, sheer into the heart of the foe,
With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below;
For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen,
And the little Revenge ran on thro' the long sea-lane between.

Thousands of their soldiers looked down from their decks and laughed,
Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft
Running on and on, till delayed
By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen hundred tons,
And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns,
Took the breath from our sails, and we stayed.

And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a cloud
Whence the thunderbolt will fall
Long and loud,
Four galleons drew away
From the Spanish fleet that day,
And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay,
And the battle-thunder broke from them all.

But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself and went
Having that within her womb that had left her ill content;
And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to hand,
For a dozen times they came with their pikes and their musketeers,
And a dozen time we shook ‘em off as a dog that shakes its ears
When he leaps from the water to the land.

And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer seas,
But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty three.
Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came,
Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame;
Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her shame.
For some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and so could fight us no more -
God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before?

For he said ‘Fight on! Fight on!'
Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck;
And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone,
With a grisly wound to be dressed he had left the deck,
But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead,
And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head,
And he said ‘Fight on! Fight on!'

And the night went down, and the sun smiled out from over the summer sea,
And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay around us all in a ring;
But they dared not touch us again, for thewy feared that we still could sting,
So they watched what the end would be.
And we had not fought them in vain,
But in perilous plight were we,
Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain,
And half of the rest of us maimed for life
In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife.
And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold,
And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it spent;
And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side.
But Sir Richard cried in his English pride:
‘We have fought such a fight for a day and a night
As may never be fought again!
We have won great glory my men!
And a day less or more
At sea or ashore,
We die - does it matter when?
Sink me the ship, Master Gunner - sink her, split her in twain!
Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!'

And the gunner said ‘Ay ay', but the seamen made reply:
‘We have children, we have wives,
And the Lord hath spared our lives.
We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go;
We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow.'
And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe.

And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then,
Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last,
And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace.
But he rose upon their decks and he cried:
‘I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true.
I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do.
With a joyful spirit I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!'
And he fell upon their decks and he died.

And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true,
And had holden the power and the glory of Spain so cheap
That he dared her with one little ship and his English few;
Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew,
But they sank his body with honour down into the deep,
And they manned the Revenge with a swarthier alien crew,
And away she sailed with her loss and longed for her own;
When a wind from the lands they had ruined awoke from sleep,
And the water began to heave and the weather to moan,
And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew,
And a wave like a wave that is raised by an earthquake grew,
Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags,
And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shattered navy of Spain,
And the little Revenge herself went down by the island crags
To be lost evermore in the main.

 Alfred, Lord Tennyson.