The Celtic Tongue

'Tis fading, O 'tis fading ! like leaves upon the trees !
In murmuring tone 'tis dying, like a wail upon the breeze !
'Tis swiftly disappearing, as footprints on the shore.
Where the Barrow, and the Erne, and Loch Swilly's waters roar —
Where the parting sunbeam kisses Loch Corrib in the West,
And Ocean, like a mother, clasps the Shannon to her breast !
The language of old Erin, of her history and name —
Of her monarchs and her heroes — her glory and her fame —
The sacred shrine where rested, through sunshine and through gloom,
The spirit of her martyrs, as their bodies in the tomb.
The time-wrought shell, where murmured, 'mid centuries of wrong,
The secret voice of Freedom in annal and in song —
Is slowly, surely sinking, into silent death at last,
To live but in the memories of those who love the Past.

The olden tongue is sinking like a patriarch to rest,
Whose youth beheld the Tynan on our Irish coasts a guest ;
Ere the Roman or the Saxon, the Norman or the Dane,
Had first set foot in Britain, over trampled heaps of slain ;
Whose manhood saw the Druid rite at forest-tree and rock,
And savage tribes of Britain round the shrines of Zerne-bock ;
And for generations witnessed all the glories of the Gael,
Since our Celtic sires sung war-songs round the sacred fires of Baal ;
The tongues that saw its infancy are ranked among the dead,
And from their graves have risen those now spoken in their stead.
The glories of old Erin, with their liberty have gone,
Yet their halo lingered round her, while the Gaelic speech lived on ;
For 'mid the desert of her woe, a monument more vast
Than all her pillar-towers, it stood — that old Tongue of the Past !

'Tis leaving, and for ever, the soil that gave it birth ;
Soon — very soon, its moving tones shall ne'er be heard on earth ;
O'er the island dimly fading, as a circle o'er the wave,
Receding, as its people lisp the language of the slave,
And with it too seem fading, as sunset into night,
The scattered rays of liberty that lingered in its light,
For ah ! though long, with filial love, it clung to motherland,
And Irishmen were Irish still, in language, heart, and hand ;
To instal its Saxon Rival, proscribed it soon became,
And Irishmen are Irish now in nothing but in name ;
The Saxon chain our rights and tongues alike doth hold in thrall,
Save where amid the Connaught wilds and hills of Donegal —
And by the shores of Munster, like the broad Atlantic blast,
The olden language lingers yet, and binds us to the Past.

Through cold neglect 'tis dying now ; a stranger on our shore !
No Tara's hall re-echoes to its music as of yore —
No Lawrence fires the Celtic clans round leaguered Athaclee —
No Shannon wafts from Limerick's towers their war-song to the sea.
Ah ! magic Tongue, that round us wove its spells so soft and dear !
Ah ! pleasant Tongue, whose murmurs were as music to the ear!
Ah ! glorious Tongue, whose accents could each Celtic heart enthral !
Ah ! rushing Tongue, that sounded like the swollen torrent's fall!
The tongue that in the Senate was lightning flashing bright —
Whose echo in the battle was the thunder in its might !
That Tongue, which once in chieftain's hall poured loud the minstrel lay,
As chieftain, serf, or minstrel old is silent there to-day !
That Tongue whose shout dismayed the foe at Kong and Mullaghmast
Like those who nobly perished there, is numbered with the Past!

The Celtic Tongue is passing, and we stand coldly by,
Without a pang within the heart, a tear within the eye —
Without one pulse for Freedom stirred, one effort made to save
The Language of our Fathers from dark oblivion's grave !
O Erin ! vain your efforts — your prayers for freedom's crown,
Whilst offered in the language of the foe that clove it down ;
Be sure that tyrants ever with an art from darkness sprung,
Would make the conquered nation slaves alike in limb and tongue ;
Russia's great Czar ne'er stood secure o'er Poland's shattered frame,
Until he trampled from her heart the tongue that bore her name.
O Irishmen, be Irish still ! stand for the dear old tongue
Which, as ivy to a ruin, to your native land has clung !
O snatch this relic from the wreck ! the only and the last,
And cherish in your heart of hearts the language of the Past !