Irish Historical Archive

WE BELIEVE IN THE BOYS OF IRELAND. We believe that nothing can withstand the power of faith, sincerity, and self-sacrifice, and we know that it rests with us to build up such an army of noble, sincere, and heroic Irishmen that no tyranny can hold enslaved. We believe, too, that the boys of Ireland to-day are made of as good and as brave stuff as the boys of Ireland in the past, and so we appeal to them confidently to join us. The younger a boy is when he dedicates his life to his country, the more he will have to give her. There is so much for him to learn, too, that he will find that there is no time to be wasted if he wishes to train himself morally and physically to work for the Independence of Ireland. Manifesto to the Boys of Ireland (1912) - Fianna Éireann

Ethnea. The deed was a dark one, a deed full of woe, Your brother Dedannan to slay; And hard and relentless the heart of your foe, The bright-faced Ildana, that forced you to go, This eric of vengeance to pay! The Brothers. Oh, cease, sister Ethnea, cease thy sad wail; Why yield to this terror and gloom? Long, long shall the poets remember the tale, For our courage and valour and swords shall prevail, Or win us a glorious tomb! Ethnea. Then search ye, my brothers, go search land and sea; Go search ye the isles of the East.— Alas, that the cruel Ildana's decree Has banished my three gentle brothers from me, On this fearful and perilous quest! The Fate of the Children of Tuireann - Old Celtic Romances, P.W. Joyce (1920)

Is there any other example in history of a people thus maintaining a fine system of schools, without either wealthy patrons or State aid? – schools in which cottiers (as a dozen quotations from foreign observers prove) enjoyed culture of the level of the polite world? “The People of Ireland,” wrote one observer in the Penal days, “are I may, universally educated…. I do not know any part of Ireland so wild, that its inhabitants are not anxious, nay, eagerly anxious, for the education of their children.” It was the passion for learning that made the schools possible, inspired the teachers, and bore such notable fruits in the people. The Hedge Schools of Ireland (1935) - Aodh de Blácam

And yet Belgium as a nation is, so to speak, but a creation of yesterday – an artificial product of the schemes of statesmen. Whereas, the frontiers of Ireland, the ineffaceable marks of the separate existence of Ireland, are as old as Europe itself, the handiwork of the Almighty, not of politicians. And as the marks of Ireland’s separate nationality were not made by politicians so they cannot be unmade by them. As the separate individual is to the family, so the separate nation is to humanity. The perfect family is that which best draws out the inner powers of the individual, the most perfect world is that in which the separate existence of nations is held most sacred. There can be no perfect Europe in which Ireland is denied even the least of its national rights; there can be no worthy Ireland whose children brook tamely such denial. If such denial has been accepted by soulless slaves of politicians then it must be repudiated by Irish men and women whose souls are still their own. James Connolly (1916)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hheQeu-JcHg The English thieves who reaved our land, Could never make us blush for shame, They severed not our strong right hand, We were still one in race and name. But now their wiles would sweep away, The land of Seán and Hugh and Eóghan, The land where many a hard-fought fray, Brought quakings to the Saxon throne. But by Tír Chonaill's holy fanes, By every field in green Tír Eoghain, We swear to break the Saxon chains, To win and guard and hold our own. An Ulster War Song - Brian Ó hUigínn (Brian O'Higgins)

The high poets are gone and I mourn for the world's waning, the sons of those learned masters emptied of sharp response. I mourn for their fading books, reams of no earnest stupidity, lost - unjustly abandoned - begotten by drinkers of wisdom. After those poets, for whom art and knowledge were wealth, alas to have lived to see this fate befall us: their books in corners greying into nothing and their sons without one syllable of their secret treasure The High Poets Are Gone - Dáibhí Ó Bruadair

One touch of Commerce, said they, makes the whole world kin. Over the countries of this world-shop, all will shake hands and be friends for ever; and then who shall stay our progress? By omnipotent capital and co-operation, shall we not then move mountains, and march upward and onward till we scale the very heavens and become as gods? Alas! these combinations of men to vanquish nature and resist their inexorable destiny, have not sped well hitherto. Anacharsis Cloots, orator of the human race, had his grand palaver of all nations, (Oratory, not Commerce being then and there accounted the omnipotent,) all mankind swore everlasting brotherhood on the altar of Liberty, and almost immediately after began the most extensive mutual cutting of mankind’s throats that had ever yet been seen on earth. Progress in the Nineteenth Century (1854) - John Mitchel

Message to the Irish People, 3 May, 1916 I and my fellow-signatories believe we have struck the first successful blow for Freedom. The next blow, which we have no doubt Ireland will strike, will win through. In this belief we die happy. THOMAS J. CLARKE, Kilmainham Jail, 3 May, 1916.

You are longing for the summer, For the richness and the glory Of the hedgerows, tall and hoary, Shading many a pleasant lane; With their wealth of fragrant blossom, Where the tiny birds are tripping, Where the silver drops are dripping After kindly Irish rain: You are longing for the bogland where the slanting sunbeams lie, For the perfume of the clover in the meadows—so am I. You are longing for the summer, For the river’s sweet carolling, For the shining wavelets rolling O’er its bosom in the sun; For the peaceful, holy evening, When the bells, far-off, are pealing, And the shades are slowly stealing O’er the meadows, one by one: You are longing for the twilight, when the birdeens homeward fly, For the glamour of the silent summer gloaming-—so am I. Longing for the Summer, Songs of Glen na Mona (1929) - Brian Ó hUigínn (Brian O'Higgins)

How often, alas! has the cause of Ireland been betrayed by the selfish passions and reckless impulses of men who with disciplined minds and guarded hearts would have willingly died for her? Men who would have endured rack and gibbet rather than betray Ireland for material gain have sold her interests for the less tangible but no less real selfishness of their own minds. Men whom sensual passions could not have sacrificed her to the mental passions of pride and envy, of obstinacy and hatred. Individuality in such an evil sense we must suppress. But there is an individuality which shows itself in power of judgment, power of initiation and execution, power of co-operation and organisation; the individuality which is ready to accept personal responsibility and to utilise its own resources, which pours out what it has of good rather than wait for a suction-pump to extract it. Such an individuality in its people is one of the greatest assets of a nation. The Individual (1906) - Pádraig Mac Piarais

How great the tale, that there should be, In God's Son's heart, a place for me! That on a sinner's lips like mine, The cross of Jesus Christ should shine! Christ Jesus, bend me to Thy will, My feet to urge, my griefs to still; That even my flesh and blood may be A temple sanctified to Thee. No rest, no calm, my soul may win, Because my body craves to sin, Till Thou, dear Lord, Thyself impart Peace to my head, light to my heart. May consecration come from far, Soft shining like the evening star! My toilsome path make plain to me, Until I come to rest in Thee. Consecration, Murdoch O'Daly - The Poem-Book of the Gael (1913)

With the launching of the Volunteer Movement, we the Irish people not only reassume our manhood, but once again voice our claim to stand among the nations of the world in the full tradition of the Christian civilisation. For a hundred and fourteen years we have suffered the degradation consequent on our close dependence on the most degraded nation of Europe. Perhaps, indeed, “Nation” is too proud a name to apply to a people who had lost the traditions that have raised all Christian communities to the dignity of civilised nationhood – the tradition of arms, the tradition of honour, and the tradition of Faith. Civilised Nationhood - Joseph Plunkett (1914)

Naked I saw thee, O beauty of beauty! And I blinded my eyes For fear I should flinch. I heard thy music, O sweetness of sweetness! And I shut my ears For fear I should fail. I kissed thy lips, O sweetness of sweetness! And I hardened my heart For fear of my ruin. I blinded my eyes, And my ears I shut, I hardened my heart And my love I quenched. I turned my back On the dream I had shaped, And to this road before me My face I turned. I set my face To the road here before me, To the work that I see, To the death that I shall meet. Ideal - Pádraig Mac Piarais (Patrick Henry Pearse)

Right noble and valiant defenders of your country and liberty, let us consider with what nations and for what causes we are now about to wage battle. That enemy of his country, that tyrant of his people, and foe of all men, who was formerly driven out of the land, is now returned with the support of foreign troops, and bent on the general ruin of the state. Envious of his country’s welfare, he has brought in a foreign race, that, by the aid of a fierce and detested nation, he may be able to inflict upon us the mischief to which his own strength was unequal. Himself an enemy, he has called in our greatest national enemy; a people who have long aimed at being lords over him as well as over all of us, and give out that the dominion of our land justly belongs to them, and is even destined to them by ancient prophecies. Speech by Ruaidrí Ua Conchobair to the Men of Ireland - The Conquest of Ireland, Giraldus Cambrensis (1189)

The man is thine, O Emer, He has broken from me, O noble wife, No less, the thing that my hand cannot reach, I am fated to desire it. Many men were seeking me Both in shelters and in secret places; My tryst was never made with them, Because I myself was high-minded. Joyless she who gives love to one Who does not heed her love; It were better for her to be destroyed If she be not loved as she loves. With fifty women hast thou come hither, Noble Emer, of the yellow locks, To overthrow Fand, it were not well To kill her in her misery. Three times fifty have I there, —Beautiful, marriageable women,— Together with me in the fort: They will not abandon me. The Lamentation of Fand When She Is About to Leave Cú Chulainn - The Poem-Book of the Gael (1913)

I, for my part, hold that victory lies not in senseless armour, nor in the vain din of cannon, but in living and courageous souls. Remember how often when you were not so well equipped or disciplined you have overcome greater generals and forces, and even Bagenal himself. The English never could compare with the Irish in spirit, courage or steadfastness in battle, and the Irish who will be fighting against you will be dispirited by the consciousness of their crime and schism in fighting against the Catholic faith. This very Catholic faith will stimulate your valour. Here you are to defend Christianity, fatherland, children and wives. Here must well-deserved chastisement be meted out to Bagenal, of all heretics, your bitterest enemy, who assails your properties, who thirsts for your blood, who impugns my honour. Speech At The Battle of Yellow Ford (1598) - Aodh Mór Ó Néill (Hugh O’Neill)

So the foul fiend works: he tires our hearts with fury, and with evil temptation shakes our innermost hearts. Keep Christ in your minds, my men, and let your cry re-echo. Stay stern in your resolve, spurn the lures of the enemy and seek your safety in the weapons of virtue. Keep Christ in your minds, my men, and let your cry re-echo. Firm faith and a blessed zeal will conquer all. The ancient enemy will fail and shatter his arrows. Keep Christ in your minds, my men, and let your cry re-echo. The King of every good, the source, the height of power, gives promise as we strive, gives the prize when we succeed. Keep Christ in your minds, my men, and let your cry re-echo. A Boat Song, St.Columbanus - A New Oxford Book of Irish Verse (1986)

‘The case is simply this, that Irish is the language of Ireland. It is because it is the language of Ireland, and not because it happens to be a rich and beautiful language, a strong and flexible language, a subtle and delicate language, that we would fain preserve it. If it were a sterile and unlovely speech, weak and unadaptable, rigid and colourless, it would equally be our duty to preserve it, for it is ours, it is the speech we have ourselves fashioned from our inner consciousness for the purpose of expressing our thought, and to disown it, for that it were unlovely, would be to disown ourselves.’ The Case for Irish (1905) - Pádraig Mac Piarais (Patrick Henry Pearse)

Look back through the pages of our story-not the false tale given to the world by our one enemy and even still believed by Anglicised Irishmen-and in the darkness of every night of woe you will see some heroic, humble figure holding aloft the lantern of hope, inspiring the leal and unselfish to hold out until comes the first glimmering of the dawn, saying to those who will listen that never yet has our cause gone down in utter defeat, that never yet has Ireland surrendered to her enemy and admitted that the long struggle for the right against the wrong was ended finally and forever. There has been a sentinel watching unwearyingly through every starless night-each one a link in the chain of remembrance and fidelity-and that chain has never once been broken. That is why we have survived as a nation, a wounded nation, a bleeding nation, a pain-filled nation, a heart-sore nation, a mourning nation, but a nation unconquered and unsubdued. Wolfe Tone Annual 1956 - Brian Ó hUigínn (Brian O'Higgins)

The ancient institution of professional story-telling held its ground both in Ireland and in Scotland down to a very recent period; and it is questionable if it be even yet quite extinct. Within my own memory, this sort of entertainment was quite usual among the farming classes of the south of Ireland. The family and workmen, and any neighbours that chose to drop in, would sit round the kitchen fire after the day's work—or perhaps gather in a barn on a summer or autumn evening—to listen to some local shanachie reciting one of his innumerable Gaelic tales. Old Celtic Romances - P.W. Joyce (1920)