Quote:

"the whole problem with the world is that fools and fanatics are so sure, and wise people always have doubts."

B. Russell

Note:

Yes. It is our birthdays.

Thank you for all the telegrams and letters of congratulation. We shall have a rollicking good evening. Thank you and yours once again.

Dugal, The Queen's Own Irregulars, The Imperious Zouaves, The Fearsome Fencibles, Minders and Watchers.

Brennan On The Moor

'Tis of a brave young highwayman
This story I will tell
His name was Willie Brennan
And in Ireland he did dwell
It was on the Kilwood Mountain
He commenced his wild career
And many a wealthy nobleman
Before him shook with fear

Chorus:
It was Brennan on the moor
Brennan on the moor
Bold, brave and undaunted
Was young Brennan on the moor

One day upon the highway
As young Willie he went down
He met the mayor of Cashiell
A mile outside of town
The mayor he knew his features
And he said, Young man, said he
Your name is Willie Brennan
You must come along with me

Now Brennan's wife had gone to town
Provisions for to buy
And when she saw her Willie
She commenced to weep and cry
Said, Hand to me that tenpenny
As soon as Willie spoke
She handed him a blunderbuss
From underneath her cloak

Now with this loaded blunderbuss
The truth I will unfold
He made the mayor to tremble
And he robbed him of his gold
One hundred pounds was offered
For his apprehension there
So he, with horse and saddle
To the mountains did repair

Now Brennan being an outlaw
Upon the mountains high
With cavalry and infantry
To take him they did try
He laughed at them with scorn
Until at last 'twas said
By a false-hearted woman
He was cruelly betrayed.

Clare's Dragoons

When, on Ramillies' bloody field,
The baffled French were forced to yield,
The victor Saxon backward reeled
Before the charge of Clare's dragoons.
The flags we conquered in that fray,
Look lone in Ypres' choir, they say,
We'll win them company today,
Or bravely die like CIare's dragoons.

Viva la, for Ireland's wrong!
Viva la, for Ireland's right!
Viva la, in battle throng,
For a Spanish steed and sabre bright!

Another Clare is here to lead,
The worthy son of such a breed
The French expect some famous deed,
When Clare leads on his bold dragoons.
Our colonel comes from Brian's race,
His wounds are in his breast and face,
The bearna baoghil is still his place,
The foremost of his bold dragoon,

Viva la, the new brigade!
Viva la, the old one too!
Viva la, the rose shall fade
And the shamrock shine forever new!

Oh! comrades, think how Ireland pines,
Her exiled lords, her rifled shrines,
Her dearest hope, the ordered lines,
And bursting charge of Clare's dragoons.
Then fling your green flag to the sky,
Be "Limerick!" your battle-cry,,
And charge, till blood floats fetlock-high
Around the track of Clare's dragoons.

Viva la, the new brigade!
Viva la, the old one too!
Viva la, the rose shall fade
And the shamrock shine forever new!

Jack Duggan


    Come along my hearties,
    We'll roam the mountains high,
    Together we will plunder,
    Together we will ride.
    We'll scar over valleys,
    And gallop for the plains,
    And scorn to live in
    slavery, bound down by iron chains.

    It's of a wild Colonial Boy,
    Jack Doolan was his name,
    Of poor but honest parents,
    He was born in Castlemaine.
    He was his father's only son,
    His mother's pride and joy,
    And so dearly did his parents love
    The wild Colonial Boy.

    When scarcely sixteen years of age,
    He left his father's home,
    And through Australia's sunny shores
    A bushranger did roam.
    He'd rob the largest squatters,
    Their stock he would destroy,
    A terror to Australia was
    The wild Colonial Boy.

    In sixty-one this daring youth
    Commenced his wild career,
    With a heart that knew no danger,
    No stranger did he fear.
    He bailed up the Beechworth roll mail-coach,
    And robbed Judge MacEvoy,
    Who trembled and gave up his gold to
    The wild Colonial Boy.

    He bade the judge "Good morning,"
    And told him to beware,
    That he'd never rob a poor man
    Who wafted on the square,
    Three mounted troopers came in sight,
    Kelly, Davis and Fitzroy,
    Who thought that they would capture him,
    The wild Colonial Boy.

    "Surrender now, Jack Doolan,
    You see we're three to one.
    Surrender in the queen's high name,
    You daring highwayman."
    Jack drew a pistol from his belt,
    And waved it like a toy,
    "I'll fight, but not surrender,"
    Cried the wild Colonial Boy.

    He fired at Trooper Kelly,
    And brought him to the ground,
    And in return from Davis,
    He received a mortal wound.
    All shattered through the jaws he lay,
    Still firing at Fitzroy,
    And that's the way they captured him –
    The wild Colonial Boy.

Quote:

When the flag is unfurled, all reason is in the trumpet.
 

Ukrainian proverb

For My Friend Mister Emmet T.

Bold Robert Emmet

   The struggle is over, the boys are defeated,
   Old Ireland's surrounded with sadness and gloom,
   We were defeated and shamefuIIy treated,
   And I, Robert Emmet, awaiting my doom.

   Hung, drawn and quartered, sure that was my sentence,
   But soon I will show them no coward am I.
   My crime is the love of the land I was born in,
   A hero I lived and a hero I'll die.

   (Chorus)
   Bold Robert Emmet, the darling of Ireland,
   Bold Robert Emmet will die with a smile,
   Farewell companions both loyal and daring,
   I'll lay down my life for the Emerald Isle.

   The barque lay at anchor awaiting to bring me
   Over the billows to the land of the free;
   But I must see my sweetheart for I know she will cheer me,
   And with her I will sail far over the sea.


   But I was arrested and cast into prison,
   Tried as a traitor, a rebel, a spy;
   But no man can call me a knave or a coward,
   A hero I lived and a hero I'll die.

   Hark! I the bell's tolling, I well know its meaning,
   My poor heart tells me it is my death knell;
   In come the clergy, the warder is leading,
   I have no friends here to bid me farewell.
   Goodbye, old Ireland, my parents and sweetheart,
   Companions in arms to forget you must try;
   I am proud of the honour, it was only my duty-
   A hero I lived and a hero I'll die.

The Irish Guards

WE'RE not so old in the Army List,
But we're not so young at our trade.
For we had the honour at Fontenoy
Of meeting the Guards' Brigade.
'Twas Lally, Dillon, Bulkeley, Clare,
And Lee that led us then,
And after a hundred and seventy years
We're fighting for France again!
Old Days! The wild geese are flighting,
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish there's bound to be fighting,
And when there's no fighting, it's Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!

The fashion's all for khaki now,
But once through France we went
Full-dressed in scarlet Army cloth,
The English - left at Ghent.
They're fighting on our side today
But, before they changed their clothes,
The half of Europe knew our fame,
As all of Ireland knows!
Old Days! The wild geese are flying,
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish there's memory undying.
And when we forget, it is Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!

From Barry Wood to Gouzeaucourt,
From Boyne to Pilkem Ridge,
The ancient days come back no more
Than water under the bridge.
But the bridge it stands and the water runs
As red as yesterday,
And the Irish move to the sound of the guns
Like salmon to the sea.
Old Days! The wild geese are ranging .
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish their hearts are unchanging,
And when they are changed, it is Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!

We're not so old in the Army List,
But we're not so new in the ring,
For we carried our packs with Marshal Saxe
When Louis was our King.
But Douglas Haig's our Marshal now
And we're King George's men,
And after one hundred and seventy years
We're fighting for France again!
Ah, France! And did we stand by you,
When life was made splendid with gifts and rewards?
Ah, France! And will we deny you
In the hour of your agony, Mother of Swords?
Old Days! The wild geese are flighting,
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish there's loving and fighting,
And when we stop either, it's Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!

The Wild Ride


I HEAR in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses,   
All day, on the road, the hoofs of invisible horses,   
All night, from their stalls, the importunate pawing and neighing.   
 
Let cowards and laggards fall back! But alert to the saddle   
Weatherworn and abreast, go men of our galloping legion,            
With a stirrup-cup each to the lily of women that loves him.   
 
The trail is through dolor and dread, over crags and morasses;   
There are shapes by the way, there are things that appal or entice us:   
What odds? We are Knights of the Grail, we are vowed to the riding.   
 
Thought's self is a vanishing wing, and joy is a cobweb,     
And friendship a flower in the dust, and glory a sunbeam:   
Not here is our prize, nor, alas! after these our pursuing.   
 
A dipping of plumes, a tear, a shake of the bridle,   
A passing salute to this world and her pitiful beauty;   
We hurry with never a word in the track of our fathers.     
 
I hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses,   
All day, on the road, the hoofs of invisible horses,   
All night, from their stalls, the importunate pawing and neighing.   
 
We spur to a land of no name, outracing the storm-wind;   
We leap to the infinite dark like sparks from the anvil.     
Thou leadest, O God! All's well with Thy troopers that follow.   


 Louise Imogen Guiney

The House of Orange

I took back my hand and I showed him the door
No dollar of mine would I part with this day
For fueling the engines of bloody cruel war
In my forefather's land far away.
Who fled the first Famine wearing all that they owned,
Were called 'Navigators', all ragged and torn,
And built the Grand Trunk here, and found a new home
Wherever their children were born.

Their sons have no politics. None call recall
Allegiance from long generations before.
O'this or O'that name just can't mean a thing
Or be cause enough for to war.
And meanwhile my babies are safe in their home,
Unlike their pale cousins who shiver and cry
While kneecappers nail their poor Dads to the floor
And teach them to hate and to die.

It's those cruel beggars who spurn the fair coin.
The peace for their kids they could take at their will.
Since the day old King Billy prevailed at the Boyne,
They've bombed and they've slain and they've killed.
Now they cry out for money and wail at the door
But Home Rule or Republic, 'tis all of it shame;
And a curse for us here who want nothing of war.
We're kindred in nothing but name.

All rights and all wrongs have long since blown away,
For causes are ashes where children lie slain.
Yet the damned U.D.I and the cruel I.R.A.
Will tomorrow go murdering again.
But no penny of mine will I add to the fray.
"Remember the Boyne!" they will cry out in vain,
For I've given my heart to the place I was born
And forgiven the whole House of Orange
King Billy and the whole House of Orange.

Stan Rogers.