Raftery's poems; songs of life, love and liberty

Foreword

To all who believe that "Right, Justice and Liberty" is the inalienable heritage of all peoples; To all those who despise hypocrisy and double dealing in individuals as well as in Nations; To every true lover of and believer in, the ideals and fundamental principles upon which genuine democratic republicanism is based, I dedicate this volume of my simple rhyming. And, if, but one in the vast number of my fellowmen who has heretofore allowed others to do his thinking for him, will only awaken to the fact, and that through the perusal of this volume, that the Creator of the universe endowed all mankmd with, as Lord Lytton put it, "Such jewels as the exploring mind brings from the caves of knowledge," namely, brains to use as they shuold be used by all men for the uplifting and betterment of all mankind, then I have not lived my life in vain.

The Author.

Note. — All of the poems herein with dates attached were published at the time specified in Irish and Irish-American weekly newspapers and magazines.

Copyright 1922

By

RAFTERY PUBLISHING CO.,

Chicago.

I

to

IRELANDS HALL OF FAME.

Call the roll— their names are legion,

Glory's page can hold them all, rho, they come from every region,

Cloister, cottage, castle, hall.

Theirs the deeds that history s pages

Hold as annals we should frame, To enlighten future ages

In the Irish hall of fame.

Call the roll— let chief and peasant

In one grand assemblage meet, We who glory in the present

Will their deeds of valor greet.

Let the shades of the O'Connor

Bear their grand and kingly name, To a place of fitting honor,

In the Irish hall of fame.

Call the roll-the cloud is rising

Through the darkness comes the dawn Bringing smiles of hope, apprising-

Erin's night of gloom has gone Let her honored shield be brightened

And emblazon there each name In a scroll of gold enlightened

By the glory of their fame.

Brian Born, Clontarf has crowned thee Kingly sire, without a peer;

Malachy, the gold collar round thee Proves a hero's prize you wear.

Owen Roe. Benburb, the glorious.

Great O'Neill of red hand name,

Puts Tyrone's proud sons victorious In the Irish hall of fame.

Call the roll— let the O'Donnell,

Princely chieftain, shout Abu, To the clansmen of Tyr Connell,

Valiant Irishmen and true. .

Shane the proud, Red Hugh the mighl>.

Grand in history stands each name.

Erin bows to them not lightly,

In her glorious hall of fame.

Call the roll— let thane and clansman,

Chieftain brave and warrior bold, They whose fierce, defiant slogan

Answered foe in days of old.

Fall in line and take their places,

While loved Erin writes each name Unto their allotted spaces

Proud O'Briens, chiefs of Thomond

Glorious stood thy name of old, Ere the coward traitor sold it

For the cursed Saxon's gold.

Title wore thee free from fetters,

Bright thou then kept freedom's flame, And 'twill glow in shining letters

In the Irish hall of fame.

O'Rourke of Breffni, we forget not

Mighty deeds of valiant men; Come, O'Malley, come, McDermott,

From each Connaught vale and glen; Loved thee well our holy Ireland,

With a love that ne'er knew shame, Well you'll answer for your sireland

In the Irish hall of fame.

Desmond's bravest round will cling; Come, you brave, who'd ne'er dissemble,

And O'Toole's proud standard bring, Erin's valiant chiefs undaunted

Will like gems from out the frame Tell a nation's tale unvaunted

In our Irish hall of fame.

We've O'Byrnes and O'Loughlins;

We've O'Duffy and O'Dowd, And the master mind, O'Clery,

Who of those would not feel proud?

MacPallin, MacLaig, MacCullinan,

Finn MacCumhaill, every name Adds each one a ray of lustre

To the Irish hall of fame.

Tho' the tyrant's foot has trampled o'er

For centuries agone The clay of those great men of yore,

Their memory still lives on; And 'twill burst forth grand and glorious

In a wreath of heavenly flame, When a nation stands victorious

'Fore the Irish hall of fame.

Call the roll — the blush of dawning

O'er our Emerald Isle is shed, In the light of freedom's morning

We cannot forget the dead.

The dead whose lives were given

To uphold a nation's name.

In deathless lines let them be riven

In the Irish hall of fame.

Call the roll— 'tis Patrick Sarsfield

Leads the brave of Garryowen.

Come, thou murdered Father Sheehy,

Come, Fitzgerald and Wolfe Tone, Brave young Emmett. gallant Dwyer,

O, how brilliant will each name Shine until the day of judgment

In the Irish hall of fame.

Father Quigley, Fathers Murphy,

Brothers John and Henry Sheares, Philpot Curran, bright your pleading

Shines through all the maze of years. Emmet, Esmonde and McNevin,

Fanned thou fire of freedom's flame.

Great and grand will be the roll call

In our Irish hall of fame.

Grace O'Malley, answer queenly

To the call of Granuaile, From the skies. 0, lion of Judea,

Trumpet forth the name McHale.

With Dean Swift from out "the frame, Will like priceless gems shine radiant

In the Irish hall of fame.

Long the list of names, 0, Ireland!

Daughters, sons, all tried and true, Who in love gave all to sireland.

High their hearts e'er beat for you.

Gentle writers of The Nation,

"Eva" crowned in freedom's flame.

With "Speranza" and "May Downing",

Shine in Erin's hall of fame.

Ingram. Kickham, sons of song.

Hearts of oak that beat within thee.

To loved Erin did belong.

What a wealth of love and feeling

Wound thee 'round hpr hallowed name How 'twill thrill the millions kneeling

'Fore the Irish hal of fame.

Isaac Butt, the loved Parnell, Leal did you and your colleagues

Work for suifering Erin well.

From the long list true and steady

Shines the light of Davitt's name, Erin's loyal souls stand ready

To fill her proud hall of fame.

Call the roll — let dauntless Fenian,

True "United Irishmen", Who in heart and soul were freemen,

Spirit rallying, stand again, While the traitor, knave and cowarQ,

Trembling hang their heads in shame When a nation's flag waves proudly

O'er the Irish hall of fame.

Would that pen of mine had power,

Would that brain of mine could pen.

Erin's past until this hour,

That her scattered children then Glorying in her grand traditions,

Rallied 'round her ancient name, And in bright undying letters.

Rear the Irish hall of fame.

Call the roll — the names are legion,

History's page holds one and all, Tho' they hail from every region.

Cottage, abbey, castle, hall.

Theirs the deeds that Mother Erin

Loves to paint in heavenly flame, Freedom's banner proud uprearing

In our Irish hall of fame.

SWEET COUNTY OF MAYO.

0, this little plant of shamrock green

I'll keep where e'er I go.

I plucked it by a silvery stream

In the County of Mayo.

And tho to day I'm far away

From thee, my native land,

I'll not forget those happy days

By the River Robe so grand.

0, the alien land is dear to me.

But who on earth can blame

If in my heart so tenderly

I cherish one sweet name.

And thy praises sure ever I'll sing

In accents soft and low,

God bless the friends I left behind

In sweet County of Mayo.

INNISFAIL.

There's a little Isle, oh, many a mile

Away on the ocean's crest.

'Tis Innisfail. all hail, all hail.

Fair Isle of the brave and blest.

And we love each hill, and rippling rill.

Each sun-kissed lake and vale,

And shelving strand, in that favored land,

The home of tho sturdy Gael.

A POEM.

Dedicated to All Men of Irish Blood on July 4th.

Unfurl old Erin's banner, Fling its green folds to the breeze, In this, the greater Ireland, Our country o'er the seas.

Let us show the cursed Briton How we glory in the pride Of the countless line of heroes Who for freedom's cause have died.

They now would share the honors of the brave ones who are gone; They now would fawn upon us With, Hoi Brother Jonathan.

0' but how they loved the heroes Who the sword did proudly draw To save the fair Columbia From the British lion's maw!

Men of Erin! Men of Erin!

You may well feel proud that day, For the Irish troops fought bravely In grim battle's fierce array.

And in may a well fought battle field. On mountain, vale or glen.

Did the red coats cry with terror, ^^ "There's that damn green flag again .

Well might they be terror-stricken, When they found themselves before Men who had a debt to settle Of a hundred years or more.

Well they knew those Irish exiles Were not there for empty spoil.

But blood for loved ones murdered On our sacred Irish soil.

Wear the glorious Stars and Stripes, then. With the green entwined in one.

In memory of the Irish brave Who fought with Washington.

Then bear yourselves right proudly.

And hold your heads on high.

In this, our adopted country, On the fourth day of July.

THE AWAKENING.

Here's to the folly that fired the world with a

Spark of the War God's wrath; Let it revel now to its heart's content in its

Own red blood-stained path.

While the demon of hate with a sinister smile

Is w^orking his evil way Through the so-called paths of Christian love

Where religion claims full sway.

Ah, look at those eyes and the hard-drawn lips

Of the parson who prates of God As the fount of love and forgiveness e'er to all

Children of the sod.

Did the lowly Jesus of Nazareth preach of

Vengeance and blood for blood?

Ah, no, 'twas the gospel of peace and love, or

Else we've misunderstood.

Oh, here's to the wealth red-dyed with blood

In Civilization's name; Let those enjoy it who've played the trumps in

This savage hellish game; Yes, let those enjoy it while they may who have

Added fuel to the fire, 'Til the sky's red dawn beholds the pawn wake up

With a blood desire, Then the culture of Commerce whose iron hand

Has crushed in its lust for greed Will see men Phoenix-like arise, no longer to

Beg and plead, But with giant strength break thro the bonds that for

Ages have crushed men down And place on the brow of the serf down trod

Democracy's noble crown.

Ah, high on the walls of the world is writ the

Preface of destiny, And the letters gleam like fiery stars from

Thraldom bursting free To encircle the earth in chariot drawn bv the Steeds of knowledge unleashed.

Full fed on emotions electrified from the depths

That the serf has reached.

Now He answers Humanity's clarion call to strip

For the mighty fray; And his fulcrum is union forged in the fire

Of Despotism's fell sway; For Nature decrees that man combined for the

Rights of his fellow man Holds not to the schism of "right divine" vested

In any one of the common clan.

home; sweet home.

Back to the vale that my childhood knew, To the friends of my youth so tried and true. Yea back to that to that Island of emerald hue, With her mountains and lakes so grand, Long years have gone by, since I first did roam, From the verdant shores, over the oceans foam, But I'll soon be sailing for Home, Sweet Home, Erin, my native land.

MICHAEL DAVITT.

Died at Bray, County Dublin May 30, 1906— Buried at Straide,

County Mayo.

He sleeps on the breast of the land that he loved,

True son on her bosom reclining.

And green is the sod sheet that covers him o'er.

Fresh with shamrock and daisy entwining.

Oh, there let him rest till the flush of the dawn,

His own loved Erin a-lighting.

Will flash o'er his tomb like a herald at noon

The glad news of a nation's arighting.

Great was the love that ne'er faltered, tho thrall

Of the tyrant's fierce hate sought to batter

The hopes that were raised in his breast at the call

Of his country her shackles to shatter;

And into the vortex he plunged with a will,

No thought of himself ever heeding,

But of her whom a nation, unconquered, but still

At the feet of the tyrant lay bleeding.

Cherished be his name in the hearts of the brave.

His memory till time never ending

Will live while the sun sheds its light o'er his grave,

Heaven's rays with the emerald blending;

And thus will go onward the cause he espoused,

Unchangng with each generation.

Till the rights of his country forever are housed

'Neath the emblem of "Ireland a Nation".

ERIN MAVOURIVEEN.

Erin, acushla, the land we love best,

Ever our thoughts wander back over the foam, Fain would we lay ourselves once more to rest

On the emerald sod round our childhood's loved home, And list to the birds in the foliage singing.

In praise of their Maker 'neath skies ever blue, There where the daisies in sunshine are springing,

Erin, Oh, Erin mavourneen, 'tis you.

THE OPTIMIST.

Taunt me not, thou laughing demon,

With the chances missed and gone, For I see the sunlight gleaming

Through the cloud that's coming on.

See, I cast thy fetters from me,

And defy Dame Fortune's frown, You may glower thus upon me.

But you cannot crush me down.

On a "royal road" I've wandered

Many long and weary years, Ah. the bright, bright hours I've squandered,

And for naught but sighs and tears.

With a fringe of passing pleasure

Just picked up in fast Joytown, Sorrow I've had in full measure,

But there's naught can crush me down.

LINES ADDRESSED TO A BIGOT.

Poor, poor old whited sepulchre, the barnacles of hate Cling tightly to your fossiled hide, ne'er to disintegrate, Because, preserved by blatant rant and base hypocrisy, Shamelessly flowing from pools of cant, fount ,of your Christianity.

When, "from ashes to ashes and from dust to dust"

Is piously uttered o'er your grave.

Dear Mother Earth alas she must

Hold remnant of a knave.

From which by time's unchanging power

The spirit has been set free

To roam an outcast from that hour

Through and for all eternity.

For Peter could not refuge give within the heavenly home To soul that on this earth did live hating the Church of

Rome.

And Satan sure will take the pains Hades gatekeeper to tell. "That peace would reign in my domains, keep bigots out of

hell."

Then as there is no half way house in your belief, wise guy. Your soul must keep right on the roads forever passing bye The gates of Paradise above, the gates of Hades below, Bereft of peace, of hope, of love, a wondering soul hobo.

SWEET IRISH MELODIES.

The songs of his country each hour grows dear,

To the Irishman far from his home, For they seem to bridge time and bring old mem'ries near

As in spirit each dear spot he'll roam, While the music goes on and he hears each old song,

On memory's sweet page he can see.

And the places and friends that forever are gone

Live again in each old melody.

There's the "Last Rose of Summer, Left Blooming Alone",

Now "A Glimpse of Old Ireland" I crave. Then "Believe Me, if All Those Endearing Young Charms",

And "My Spirit Bounds Over the Wave"

To "The Vale of Avoca, Where Bright Waters Meet",

'Tis a sight that's entrancing to see; And the Lakes of "Killarney" I And at my feet,

At the sound of that sweet melody.

Oh, 'tis fine to go back and be once more a boy,

Full of life, free from trouble and care; To roam by the banks of the sweet, silvery Moy,

Hand in hand with a colleen so dear.

And with light heart to go through thy vales, sweet Mayo,

Filled with tenderest memories to me, They live in the songs that I love best and know

My native land's sweet melody.

Ah, the "Connaught Man's Rambles" bring joy to my heart,

I go strolling through old Gastlebar, And the strains of the "Irish Washerwoman" impart

A delight that no trouble can mar.

Then the "Blackberry Blossom", so lithesome and gay,

To its tune I now trip o'er the lea; With the Bard of Armagh I continue my way

Through the dear land of sweet melody.

The "Boys of Kilkenny" each neat, roving blade,

Loving "Mary, the Rose of Tralee", And the Wexford boys, brave, who were never afraid,

Through the mountains of Wicklow I see. That "Limerick is Beautiful" everyone knows,

"Dublin Bay", that sounds sweetly to me, While the Shannon or Liffey majestically flows

Through the garden of sweet melody.

"Though the Last Glimpse of Erin in Sorrow I See",

How Fm longing to be once again Where the old "Shandon Bells" tolled so sweet o'er the Lee,

But I know that the longing's in vain. Still I'll ever go on through that sweet land of song.

And forever in spirit I'll be A-roaming through Erin dear, wafted along

On the sweetest of sweet melody.

H

They sing of the exile that came to the beach,

Oh, "Let Erin Remember the Days"

When scholars sublime in old Tara did teach,

While the harp it rang out in their praise. Then "Gome Back to Erin" you left far behind.

And "Wearing the Green" they'll all be, On "St. Patrick's Day in the Morning" you'll find,

In that dear land of sweet molody.

Now 'tis "Brian Boru's March" and "O'Donnell Abu", And the song of the brave "Minstrel Boy',

The songs that were made for the brave and the true. Sure the wanderer's heart fills with joy;

For in these you can tell, as in "Emmet's Farewell", The great love of thy children for thee, "Oh, Erin Acushla, Mavourneen Asthore", There's naught like they sweet melody.

EILEEN, THE PRIDE OF TAUGHEEN.

I. In fantasy's realms I'm wandering

'Mid fond scenes of long, long ago.

Where the bright silvery Robe is meandering

Through the lowlands of dear old Mayo. Of a rosy cheeked colleen I'm dreaming,

She's as pure as the shamrock is green, And her eyes with fond love-light are gleaming,

'Tis Eileen, the pride of Taugheen.

II

Oh, if by the Robe I could meet her.

And clasping her close to my breast, With a smile and a kiss fondly greet her.

In that fairyland, Ireland's proud West. We'd know naught of trouble or sorrow,

Our loves would be peaceful, serene.

Ever waiting the joys of the morrow,

My Eileen, fair maid of Taugheen.