Thomas Osborne Davis

Thomas Osborne Davis was an Irish writer, poet, and politician who is best known as the chief organizer of the Young Ireland movement. He was born on October 14, 1814, in Mallow, County Cork, Ireland, and played a significant role in promoting Irish nationalism. Davis was a prolific writer who contributed greatly to Irish literature and national identity. He passed away at a young age of 30 due to scarlet fever on September 16, 1845.

October 14, 1814

September 16, 1845

English

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A Nation Once Again.

I.

When boyhood's fire was in my blood
I read of ancient freemen
For Greece and Rome who bravely stood,
THREE HUNDRED MEN AND THREE MEN.^[1]
And then I prayed I yet might see
Our fetters rent in twain,
And Ireland, long a province, be
A NATION ONCE AGAIN.


II.

And, from that time, through wildest woe,
That hope has shone, a far light;
Nor could love's brightest summer glow
Outshine that solemn starlight:
It seemed to watch above my head
In forum, field and fane;
Its angel voice sang round my bed,
"A NATION ONCE AGAIN."


III.

It whispered, too, that "freedom's ark
And service high and holy,
Would be profaned by feelings dark
And passions vain or lowly:
For freedom comes from Go...

Thomas Osborne Davis

A Song For The Irish Militia.

I.

The tribune's tongue and poet's pen
May sow the seed in prostrate men;
But 'tis the soldier's sword alone
Can reap the crop so bravely sown!
No more I'll sing nor idly pine,
But train my soul to lead a line--
A soldier's life's the life for me--
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!


II.

No foe would fear your thunder words,
If 'twere not for your lightning swords--
If tyrants yield when millions pray,
'Tis less they link in war array;
Nor peace itself is safe, but when
The sword is sheathed by fighting men--
A soldier's life's the life for me--
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!


III.

The rifle brown and sabre bright
Can freely speak and nobly write--
What prophets preached the truth so we...

Thomas Osborne Davis

Blind Mary.

Air--Blind Mary.


I.

There flows from her spirit such love and delight,
That the face of Blind Mary is radiant with light--
As the gleam from a homestead through darkness will show
Or the moon glimmer soft through the fast falling snow.


II.

Yet there's a keen sorrow comes o'er her at times,
As an Indian might feel in our northerly climes!
And she talks of the sunset, like parting of friends,
And the starlight, as love, that not changes nor ends.


III.

Ah! grieve not, sweet maiden, for star or for sun,
For the mountains that tower or the rivers that run--
For beauty and grandeur, and glory, and light,
Are seen by the spirit, and not by the sight.


IV.

In vain for the thoughtless ar...

Thomas Osborne Davis

Celts And Saxons.[1]

I.

We hate the Saxon and the Dane,
We hate the Norman men--
We cursed their greed for blood and gain,
We curse them now again.
Yet start not, Irish-born man!
If you're to Ireland true,
We heed not blood, nor creed, nor clan--
We have no curse for you.


II.

We have no curse for you or yours,
But Friendship's ready grasp,
And Faith to stand by you and yours
Unto our latest gasp--
To stand by you against all foes,
Howe'er, or whence they come,
With traitor arts, or bribes, or blows,
From England, France, or Rome.


III.

What matter that at different shrines
We pray unto one God?
What matter that at different times
Your fathers won this sod?
In fortune and in name we're bound
By stronge...

Thomas Osborne Davis

Clare's Dragoons.

Air--Viva la.


I.

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 to-day,
Or bravely die like Clare's Dragoons.


CHORUS.

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


II.

The brave old lord died near the fight,
But, for each drop he lost that night,
A Saxon cavalier shall bite
The dust before Lord Clare's Dragoons.
For never, when our spurs were set,
And never, when our sabres met,
...

Thomas Osborne Davis

Fontenoy.

I.

Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English column failed,
And twice the lines of Saint Antoine the Dutch in vain assailed;
For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery,
And well they swept the English ranks and Dutch auxiliary.
As vainly, through De Barri's wood, the British soldiers burst,
The French artillery drove them back, diminished, and dispersed.
The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye,
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try,
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride!
And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at eventide.


II.

Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread;
Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head;
Steady they step a-do...

Thomas Osborne Davis

Lament For The Death Of Eoghan Ruadh O'Neill.[1]

I.

"Did they dare, did they dare, to slay Eoghan Ruadh O'Neill?"
"Yes, they slew with poison him they feared to meet with steel."
"May God wither up their hearts! May their blood cease to flow!
May they walk in living death, who poisoned Eoghan Ruadh!"


II.

"Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter words.
From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to measure swords:
But the weapon of the Sacsanach met him on his way,
And he died at Cloch Uachtar,^[2] upon St. Leonard's day.


III.

"Wail, wail ye for the Mighty One! Wail, wail ye for the Dead!
Quench the hearth, and hold the breath--with ashes strew the head.
How tenderly we loved him! How deeply we deplore!
Holy Saviour! but to think we shall never see him mor...

Thomas Osborne Davis

Love And War.

I.

How soft is the moon on Glengariff,
The rocks seem to melt with the light:
Oh! would I were there with dear Fanny,
To tell her that love is as bright;
And nobly the sun of July
O'er the waters of Adragoole shines--
Oh! would that I saw the green banner
Blaze there over conquering lines.


II.

Oh! love is more fair than the moonlight,
And glory more grand than the sun:
And there is no rest for a brave heart,
Till its bride and its laurels are won;
But next to the burst of our banner,
And the smile of dear Fanny, I crave
The moon on the rocks of Glengariff--
The sun upon Adragoole's wave.

Thomas Osborne Davis

My Grave.

Shall they bury me in the deep,
Where wind-forgetting waters sleep?
Shall they dig a grave for me,
Under the green-wood tree?
Or on the wild heath,
Where the wilder breath
Of the storm doth blow?
Oh, no! oh, no!

Shall they bury me in the Palace Tombs,
Or under the shade of Cathedral domes?
Sweet 'twere to lie on Italy's shore;
Yet not there--nor in Greece, though I love it more,
In the wolf or the vulture my grave shall I find?
Shall my ashes career on the world-seeing wind?
Shall they fling my corpse in the battle mound,
Where coffinless thousands lie under the ground?
Just as they fall they are buried so--
Oh, no! oh, no!

No! on an Irish green hill-side,
On an opening lawn--but not too wide;
For I love the drip of the wetted t...

Thomas Osborne Davis

My Land.

I.

She is a rich and rare land;
Oh! she's a fresh and fair land;
She is a dear and rare land--
This native land of mine.


II.

No men than her's are braver--
Her women's hearts ne'er waver;
I'd freely die to save her,
And think my lot divine.


III.

She's not a dull or cold land;
No! she's a warm and bold land;
Oh! she's a true and old land--
This native land of mine.


IV.

Could beauty ever guard her,
And virtue still reward her,
No foe would cross her border--
No friend within it pine!


V.

Oh! she's a fresh and fair land;
Oh! she's a true and rare land;
Yes! she's a rare and fair land--
This native land of mine.

Thomas Osborne Davis

Nationality.

I.

A Nation's voice, a nation's voice--
It is a solemn thing!
It bids the bondage-sick rejoice--
'Tis stronger than a king.
'Tis like the light of many stars,
The sound of many waves,
Which brightly look through prison bars,
And sweetly sound in caves.
Yet is it noblest, godliest known,
When righteous triumph swells its tone.


II.

A nation's flag, a nation's flag--
If wickedly unrolled,
May foes in adverse battle drag
Its every fold from fold.
But in the cause of Liberty,
Guard it 'gainst Earth and Hell;
Guard it till Death or Victory--
Look you, you guard it well!
No saint or king has tomb so proud
As he whose flag becomes his shroud.


III.

A nation's right, a nation's right--
God...

Thomas Osborne Davis

O'Brien Of Ara.[1]

Air--The Piper of Blessington.


I.

Tall are the towers of O'Ceinneidigh^[2]--
Broad are the lands of MacCarrthaigh^[3]--
Desmond feeds five hundred men a-day;
Yet, here's to O'Briain^[4] of Ara!
Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar,^[5]
Down from the top of Camailte,
Clansman and kinsman are coming here
To give him the CEAD MILE FAILTE.


II.

See you the mountains look huge at eve--
So is our chieftain in battle--
Welcome he has for the fugitive,--
Uisce-beatha^[6] fighting, and cattle!
Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar,
Down from the top of Camailte
Gossip and ally are coming here
To give him the CEAD MILE FAILTE.


III.

Horses the...

Thomas Osborne Davis

O'Connell's Statue.

Lines To Hogan.


Chisel the likeness of The Chief,
Not in gaiety, nor grief;
Change not by your art to stone,
Ireland's laugh, or Ireland's moan.
Dark her tale, and none can tell
Its fearful chronicle so well.
Her frame is bent--her wounds are deep--
Who, like him, her woes can weep?

He can be gentle as a bride,
While none can rule with kinglier pride;
Calm to hear, and wise to prove,
Yet gay as lark in soaring love.
Well it were, posterity
Should have some image of his glee;
That easy humour, blossoming
Like the thousand flowers of spring!
Glorious the marble which could show
His bursting sympathy for woe:
Could catch the pathos, flowing wild,
Like mother's milk to craving child.

And oh! how princely were the ar...

Thomas Osborne Davis

Oh! The Marriage.

Air--The Swaggering Jig.


I.

Oh! the marriage, the marriage,
With love and mo bhuachaill for me,
The ladies that ride in a carriage
Might envy my marriage to me;
For Eoghan^[1] is straight as a tower,
And tender, and loving, and true;
He told me more love in an hour
Than the Squires of the county could do.
Then, Oh! the marriage, etc.


II.

His hair is a shower of soft gold,
His eye is as clear as the day,
His conscience and vote were unsold
When others were carried away;
His word is as good as an oath,
And freely 'twas given to me;
Oh! sure, 'twill be happy for both
The day of our marriage to see.
Then, Oh! the marriage, etc.


III.

His kinsmen are honest an...

Thomas Osborne Davis

Orange And Green Will Carry The Day.

Air--The Protestant Boys.


I.

Ireland! rejoice, and England! deplore--
Faction and feud are passing away.
'Twas a low voice, but 'tis a loud roar,
"Orange and Green will carry the day."
Orange! Orange!
Green and Orange!
Pitted together in many a fray--
Lions in fight!
And linked in their might,
Orange and Green will carry the day.
Orange! Orange!
Green and Orange!
Wave them together o'er mountain and bay.
Orange and Green!
Our King and our Queen!
"Orange and Green will carry the day!"


II.

Rusty the swords our fathers unsheathed--
William and James are turned to clay--
Long did we till the wrath they bequeathed,

Red was the crop, and bitter the pay!
Freedom fled us!
Knaves m...

Thomas Osborne Davis

Our Own Again.

I.

Let the coward shrink aside,
We'll have our own again;
Let the brawling slave deride--
Here's for our own again!
Let the tyrant bribe and lie,
March, threaten, fortify,
Loose his lawyer and his spy--
Yet we'll have our own again!
Let him soothe in silken tone,
Scold from a foreign throne:
Let him come with bugles blown--
We shall have our own again!
Let us to our purpose bide,
We'll have our own again!
Let the game be fairly tried,
We'll have our own again!


II.

Send the cry throughout the land,
"Who's for our own again?"
Summon all men to our band,--
Why not our own again?
Rich and poor, and old and young,
Sharp sword, and fiery tongue,
Soul and sinew firmly strung--
All to get our own aga...

Thomas Osborne Davis

Self-Reliance.

I.

Though savage force and subtle schemes,
And alien rule, through ages lasting,
Have swept your land like lava streams,
Its wealth and name and nature blasting;
Rot not, therefore, in dull despair,
Nor moan at destiny in far lands!
Face not your foe with bosom bare,
Nor hide your chains in pleasure's garlands.
The wise man arms to combat wrong,
The brave man clears a den of lions,
The true man spurns the Helot's song;
The freeman's friend is Self-Reliance!


II.

Though France that gave your exiles bread,
Your priests a home, your hopes a station,
Or that young land where first was spread
The starry flag of Liberation,--
Should heed your wrongs some future day,
And send you voice or sword to plead 'em,
With helpful lov...

Thomas Osborne Davis

The Battle Eve Of The Brigade.

Air--Contented I am.


I.

The mess-tent is full, and the glasses are set,
And the gallant Count Thomond is president yet;
The veteran stands, like an uplifted lance,
Crying--"Comrades, a health to the monarch of France!"
With bumpers and cheers they have done as he bade,
For King Louis is loved by the Irish Brigade.


II.

"A health to King James," and they bent as they quaffed,
"Here's to George the Elector," and fiercely they laughed,
"Good luck to the girls we wooed long ago,
Where Shannon and Barrow and Blackwater flow;"
"God prosper Old Ireland,"--you'd think them afraid,
So pale grew the chiefs of the Irish Brigade.


III.

"But, surely, that light cannot come from our lamp,
And that noise-...

Thomas Osborne Davis

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