Thomas Davis, Selections from his Prose and Poetry Part 41

A Nation freed by foreign aid Is but a corpse by wanton science Convulsed like life, then flung to fade-- The life itself is Self-Reliance!

III.

Oh! see your quailing tyrant run To courteous lies, and Roman agents, His terror, lest Dungannon's sun Should rise again with riper radiance.

Oh! hark the Freeman's welcome cheer, And hark your brother sufferers sobbing Oh! mark the universe grow clear, Oh! mark your spirit's royal throbbing-- 'Tis Freedom's G.o.d that sends such signs, As pledges of his blest alliance; He gives bright hopes to brave designs, And lends his bolts to Self-Reliance!

IV.

Then, flung alone, or hand in hand, In mirthful hour, or spirit solemn; In lowly toil, or high command, In social hall, or charging column: In tempting wealth, and trying woe, In struggling with a mob's dictation; In bearing back a foreign foe, In training up a troubled nation: Still hold to Truth, abound in Love, Refusing every base compliance-- Your Praise within, your Prize above, And live and die in SELF-RELIANCE!

THE BURIAL.[82]

Why rings the knell of the funeral bell from a hundred village shrines?

Through broad Fingall, where hasten all those long and ordered lines?

With tear and sigh they're pa.s.sing by--the matron and the maid-- Has a hero died--is a nation's pride in that cold coffin laid?

With frown and curse, behind the hea.r.s.e, dark men go tramping on-- Has a tyrant died, that they cannot hide their wrath till the rites are done?

THE CHANT.

"_Ululu! ululu!_ high on the wind, There's a home for the slave where no fetters can bind.

Woe, woe to his slayers!"--comes wildly along, With the trampling of feet and the funeral song.

And now more clear It swells on the ear; Breathe low, and listen, 'tis solemn to hear.

"_Ululu! ululu!_ wail for the dead.

Green grow the gra.s.s of Fingall on his head; And spring-flowers blossom, 'ere elsewhere appearing, And shamrocks grow thick on the Martyr for Erin.

_Ululu! ululu!_ soft fall the dew On the feet and the head of the martyred and true."

For awhile they tread In silence dread-- Then muttering and moaning go the crowd, Surging and swaying like mountain cloud, And again the wail comes fearfully loud.

THE CHANT.

"_Ululu! ululu!_ kind was his heart!

Walk slower, walk slower, too soon we shall part.

The faithful and pious, the Priest of the Lord, His pilgrimage over, he has his reward.

By the bed of the sick lowly kneeling, To G.o.d with the raised cross appealing-- He seems still to kneel, and he seems still to pray, And the sins of the dying seem pa.s.sing away.

"In the prisoner's cell, and the cabin so dreary, Our constant consoler, he never grew weary; But he's gone to his rest, And he's now with the bless'd, Where tyrant and traitor no longer molest-- _Ululu! ululu!_ wail for the dead!

_Ululu! ululu!_ here is his bed!"

Short was the ritual, simple the prayer, Deep was the silence, and every head bare; The Priest alone standing, they knelt all around, Myriads on myriads, like rocks on the ground.

Kneeling and motionless--"Dust unto dust.

He died as becometh the faithful and just-- Placing in G.o.d his reliance and trust."

Kneeling and motionless--"ashes to ashes"-- Hollow the clay on the coffin-lid dashes; Kneeling and motionless, wildly they pray, But they pray in their souls, for no gesture have they; Stern and standing--oh! look on them now.

Like trees to one tempest the mult.i.tude bow; Like the swell of the ocean is rising their vow:

THE VOW.

"We have bent and borne, though we saw him torn from his home by the tyrant's crew-- And we bent and bore, when he came once more, though suffering had pierced him through: And now he is laid beyond our aid, because to Ireland true-- A martyred man--the tyrant's ban, the pious patriot slew.

"And shall we bear and bend for ever, And shall no time our bondage sever And shall we kneel, but battle never, "For our own soil?

"And shall our tyrants safely reign On thrones built up of slaves and slain, And nought to us and ours remain "But chains and toil?

"No! round this grave our oath we plight, To watch, and labour, and unite, Till banded be the nation's might-- "Its spirit steeled, "And then, collecting all our force, We'll cross oppression in its course, And die--or all our rights enforce, "On battle field."

Like an ebbing sea that will come again, Slowly retired that host of men; Methinks they'll keep some other day The oath they swore on the martyr's clay.

--------------------------------------------------------------- [82] Written on the funeral of the Rev. P. J. Tyrrell, P.P., of Lusk; one of those indicted with O'Connell in the Government prosecution of 1843.

WE MUST NOT FAIL.

I.

We must not fail, we must not fail, However fraud or force a.s.sail; By honour, pride, and policy, By Heaven itself!--we must be free.

II.

Time had already thinned our chain, Time would have dulled our sense of pain; By service long, and suppliance vile, We might have won our owner's smile.

III.

We spurned the thought, our prison burst, And dared the despot to the worst; Renewed the strife of centuries, And flung our banner to the breeze.

IV.

We called the ends of earth to view The gallant deeds we swore to do; They knew us wronged, they knew us brave, And all we asked they freely gave.

V.

We took the starving peasant's mite To aid in winning back his right, We took the priceless trust of youth; Their freedom must redeem our truth.

VI.