Irish Historical Archive

How happy the little birds That rise up on high And make music together On a single bough! Not so with me And my hundred thousand loves: Far apart on us Rises every day. Whiter she than the lily, Than beauty more fair, Sweeter voiced than the violin, More lightsome than the sun; Yet beyond all that Her nobleness, her mind,— And O God Who art in Heaven, Relieve my pain! How Happy the Little Birds - Pádraig Mac Piarais (Patrick Pearse)

It is not the will of the majority which ultimately prevails; that which ultimately prevails is the ideal of the noblest of each generation. Happy indeed that race and generation in which the ideal of the noblest and the will of the majority unite. In this hour of her trial Ireland cannot afford to sacrifice any one of the things the world has accepted as peculiarly Irish. She must hold to her highest thoughts, and cleave to her noblest sentiments. Her sons and daughters must hold life itself as of little value when weighed against the preservation of even the least important work of her separate individuality as a nation. The National Festival (March 1916) - Séamas Ó Conghaile (James Connolly)

Treading the paths of the Gospel, singing psalms every Hour; an end of talking and long stories; constant bending of the knees. My Creator to visit me, my Lord, my King, my spirit to seek Him in the eternal kingdom where He is. Let this be the end of vice in the precincts of churches, a lovely little cell among many graves, and I alone there. Alone in my little hut, all alone so, alone I came into the world, alone I shall go from it. If being alone I have done wrong at all, through the pride of this world, hear my wail as I lament all alone, O God! The Hermit - A Celtic Miscellany (1972)

Thus, in both of its aspects the Week will see a notable re-assertion of the continuity, the vitality, the indomitable persistence and insistence of Irish nationality. Here is a thing that refuses to be crushed. You may stamp it under foot; it springs up again. You may enclose it within prison bars; it walks abroad free. You may hurt, and bruise, and maim it; you cannot kill it. Essence of the soil of Ireland, coeval with her hills and her streams, this mysterious spirit is one of the rarest and most beautiful things in the world, one of the tenderest and most delicate; yet one of the fiercest and most passionate, and assuredly one of the strongest and most enduring. The Stubborn Gael (1907) - Pádraig Mac Piarais (Patrick Pearse)

SHED we no tear for you, Terence MacSwiney ! God set the seal of His love on your brow; Gave you to Ireland—a saint and a soldier— Who can be fitter to plead for her now ? Joy for the valiant, heroic heart of you! Joy for the soul of you, whiter than snow ! Joy for the Cause that has claimed your allegiance ! Your death is its challenge to friend and to foe ! Raise we no caoine for you, Terence MacSwiney ! High is our pride in your name and your deed ; Humble our prayer to the great God of Battles, That we, too, be strong in the dark hour of need. Joy for your love and your faith and your courage, Glowing and glad to the last anguished breath ! Thanks be to God for you, Terence MacSwiney ! Thanks be to God for your life and your death ! Terence McSwiney (1920) - Brian Ó hUigínn (Brian O'Higgins)

Nearly 4,000 Irishmen advanced up the incline towards the British column. Bagpipers of the Irish Brigade played the Jacobite tune, ‘The White Cockade’ (both the bagpipes and ‘The White Cockade’ were banned in Ireland). Victory now depended on the Irish and one can imagine how French hearts were lifted as they heard the skirl of the píob mhór or war pipes of the Irish Brigade resonate through the Belgian valley. The ordinary British soldier was well aware of the fearsome reputation of the Irish Brigade and of their wish to settle old scores. One can only imagine the terror when the fatigued British foot and guard regiments saw the red-coated Wild Geese advancing with fixed bayonets towards them, some shouting in Irish ‘Cuimhnígí ar Luimneach’, ‘Remember Limerick!’ The Battle of Fontenoy (1745) - The Irish Brigades Abroad (2013)

"Different from such is the great informing soul of a large body of our lyric poetry, of our oratory, and of much of the rest of our literature-" the cause that never dies," the ideal held always by the Gaelic race that once dominated Europe-now held by the heir and successor of that race here, the Irish. The calamities of our history have given a voice to that cause. The constancy of our race has given pride to that voice." Literature in Ireland (1916) - Tomás Mac Donnchadha (Thomas MacDonagh)

It is a mistake to call the Nationalism of any period a policy; it is a tradition, a belief, an ideal, an end, but in no sense the means which a policy is most certainly. It has always existed; it shall always exist as long as Ireland rises above the waves of the Atlantic; its means are merely determined by the circumstances of each generation – but it is, beyond everything else, a denial of the right of any foreign State to rule this country – except by force – and continued assertion of the popular belief in the continuity of this country’s individuality. "Advanced" Nationalism (1900) - Liam Ó Ruanaidh (William Rooney)

‘You should remember that this country is Ireland, not England, and that you are Ireland’s sons and daughters owing devotion and duty to the motherland. In the great struggle that is coming, and which may come in our own time, we must all make up our minds to be on one side or the other. No man can serve two masters. We cannot serve Ireland and serve against her. We must now decide on which side we are to be… The near future is to decide whether this ancient nation is to perish after such a long and glorious struggle, or whether we are to rear for her a race of men and women that will stand, when the time to do so comes, for right against might, for truth against falsehood, for Ireland against the world.’ Lecture To Carrick-on-Suir Branch of the Gaelic League (1911) - Pádraig Mac Piarais

But, above all, beware of the Whigs. The Tory is an open enemy – a determined opponent; as long as Tories are in power, your antagonists stand confessed; the Whigs, on the contrary, with equal hatred, join duplicity and cowardice. In your contests with British factions the difference between Tory and Whig is, that with the Tory you have a fair stand-up fight, while the Whig lures you into an ambuscade, and, when he has got you at his mercy, calls in the Tory to help him to give you a thrashing. Beware of the Whigs (1846) - John Mitchel

Seoinini will say that what is good enough for almost half the world should be more than good enough for an insignificant island so small and helpless as to be almost completely dependent on its wealthy and powerful neighbour. Our future, they say, is bound up with the future of England, and English culture and civilisation are not things to be ashamed of. Why should we want to go back to the culture of the mud cabin, to the jigs and reels, and wailing traditional songs of peasant Ireland, when we can share in the art and culture that have made England respected all over the earth? The indifferent and unthinking are satisfied with these shallow opinions of slavishness and ignorance, and they drift along on the tide of Anglicisation without a thought for the nobility of their country's past, without a single hope or resolve for the return of her glory and her nationhood. In their case the invader's long-sought objective seems to have been achieved. Wolfe Tone Annual (1944) - Brian Ó hUigínn (Brian O'Higgins)

"Delightful is the land beyond all dreams, Fairer than aught thine eyes have ever seen. There all the year the fruit is on the tree, And all the year the bloom is on the flower. "There with wild honey drip the forest trees; The stores of wine and mead shall never fail. Nor pain nor sickness knows the dweller there, Death and decay come near him never more. "The feast shall cloy not, nor the chase shall tire, Nor music cease for ever through the hall; The gold and jewels of the Land of Youth Outshine all splendours ever dreamed by man. "Thou shalt have horses of the fairy breed, Thou shalt have hounds that can outrun the wind; A hundred chiefs shall follow thee in war, A hundred maidens sing thee to thy sleep. "A crown of sovranty thy brow shall wear, And by thy side a magic blade shall hang. Thou shalt be lord of all the Land of Youth, And lord of Niam of the Head of Gold." Oisín in the Land of Youth - The High Deeds of Finn Mac Cumhail (1910)

THE art of writing, the art of painting, the art of drawing, the art of planning and designing, the art of composing, the art of singing, the art of acting, the art of music, the art of speaking-all these different members of the National Family should work hand in hand with enthusiasm and spirit at the mighty task of building up our shattered Nationhood, of making our country fit to take the place to which her past entitles her among the self-respecting nations of the world. Can any person say with conviction and truth that such essential, unified, intelligent, joyous effort is going on in Ireland, or that any serious attempt has been made in our time to set it going? Materialistic, purse-proud people, suffering unconsciously from the inevitable effects of success beyond their hopes in business, will look down their noses most contemptuously at the idea of such effort and ask what is the exact value of it in pounds, shillings and pence." Wolfe Tone Annual (1944) - Brian Ó hUigínn (Brian O'Higgins)

No pup am I to play about the feet of ladies fair, But where the hounds of war are loosed you’ll find me ever there; No mongrel whelp to watch the fire or crouch beside the hearth, I stand beside the fords, I scare the champion from his path. My bark is not the yelp of curs cowed to the heels by fear, But the deep bay of winded hounds chasing the leaping deer; No swathes of wool shall bind my wounds, no cushioned couch have I, Amidst the carnage of the slain I and my kind shall lie. No silky coat of well-combed hair, smooth ‘neath the children’s hand, But a fierce mastiff, gaunt and grim, when strife invades the land; Where fords are weak, where forts blaze red, where trumpets sound for war, The ‘Hound of Ulster’ stands at guard, or drives the foe afar. Cú Chulainn - The Boys' Cú Chulainn, Eleanor Hull (1904)

Now that intimacy with spiritual things is very characteristic of Irish literature. One finds it in the mystical hymns of the Middle Ages; one finds it in the folk-tales of the Western countrysides; one finds it in many exquisite folk-songs. As Mr. Colum has pointed out, Christ and Mary have been incorporated into the Gaelic clan; and Irish peasant women can keen Christ dead with as real a grief as they keen their own dead. I have many times seen women sob as they repeated or listened to ‘The Keening of Mary.’ The strange intimacy that connects certain places in Ireland with the scenes of Christ’s birth and life and death, and links certain Irish saints and heroes with the joy of the Nativity and the tragedy of the Passion—this is the true Irish mysticism, the mysticism which recognises no real dividing line between the seen and the unseen, and to which the imagined experience is often more vivid than the real experience. Some Aspects of Irish Literature (1912) - Pádraig Mac Piarais (Patrick Pearse)

God with you, heroes of the Gael! Let no cowardice be heard of you: Ye have never earned dishonour In time of battle or of war. By you be fought a gallant fight, O pure-armed joyous company, For the sake of your native soil, Homesteads and lealands of the isle of the Gael. If ye desire to avenge Ireland, O champions valiantly descended, Shun not perilous deed nor wrath Nor many mighty battles. ‘Tis better to watch on the tops of the cold bens, ‘Though short of sleep, yet gladsome, Urging fight against foreign soldiery Who hold your fathers’ land! God With You, Heroes of the Gael - Angus Mac Daighre O'Daly (1580)

It is impossible, however, for the possessor of Irish fully to realise its importance or to grasp its significance without a familiarity with the facts and a knowledge of the course of Irish history. No surer means can be imagined for enshrining the new generation with the idea of the language movement than bringing them into touch with their country’s story. The student who takes up Irish without a knowledge of Irish history loses the true meaning of the language: his study is but a cult; he may cherish the flower but he has torn it from its roots. But the student of Irish history is inevitably and with increasing rapidity carried on to a realisation of the indissoluble bond which unites all our ideas of Ireland as a distinct entity with the existence of a national language. Irish History (1907) - Pádraig Mac Piarais ( Patrick Pearse)

They crushed thee, Éire, and sacked thy altars, And chained thy limbs - in their godless pride - They slew thy people, and razed thy Temples, And mocked thy love for the One Who died. They plundered all; only one fair treasure That the spoiler's hand could not break or steal - 'Twas Faith, unswerving, in God thy Saviour, Thy heart within was its shrine and seal. And still it shines, with a perfect brightness, To guide thy feet o’er the lonely road That winds away thro’ the misty mountains, And will end one day at the Lord’s abode. O guard it, Eire, and part it never. They call thee poor, but thy wealth is great: For "twill win thee welcome, beyond all measure, That day of days at the Golden Gate. Ireland's Faith, Songs of Glen na Mona (1929) - Brian Ó hUigínn (Brian O'Higgins)

In the first place, let us examine the general question of the lawfulness of the movement to overthrow English power in Ireland. We ask, then, what right has England in Ireland, or what right has England to control or interfere in Irish affairs. The answer is that England has no right. The Irish are a distinct race, a separate people, capable of directing and ruling themselves. In the dispositions of God’s Providence this island has come into the lawful possession of the Irish people. It is theirs to have, to hold, and to control, to the exclusion of all others. Lectures on Ethics of the Irish Revolution (1924) - Brian Ó hUigínn (Brian O'Higgins) [President of Sinn Féin, 1931-1933]

I am desolate, Bereft by bitter fate; No cure beneath the skies can save me, No cure on sea or strand, Nor in any human hand— But hers, this paining wound who gave me. I know not night from day, Nor thrush from cuckoo gray, Nor cloud from the sun that shines above thee— Nor freezing cold from heat, Nor friend—if friend I meet— I but know—heart's love!—I love thee. Love that my Life began, Love, that will close life's span, Love that grows ever by love-giving: Love, from the first to last, Love, till all life be passed, Love that loves on after living! This love I gave to thee, For pain love has given me, Love that can fail or falter never— But, spite of earth above, Guards thee, my Flower of love, Thou marvel-maid of life for ever. Love's Despair, Dermot O'Curnan - The Poem-Book of the Gael (1913)