The Star of the Sea (63 page)

The names of the others of our lost companions, on whose souls we ask the mercy of the Saviour this day:

Michael English, a farmer; Peter Joyce, a farmer; James Halloran, a farmer’s infant child; Rose Flaherty, a seamstress; John O’Lea, a smith’s apprentice; Edward Dunne, smallholder; Michael O’Malley, itinerant labourer; Winnifred Costello, married woman; and Daniel Simon Grady, an elderly man of Galway, who died in steerage early this morning, having intended to go to his children at Boston. The total who died on the voyage is ninety-five.

The compleat register of those who fled the ship last night has not yet been compiled, but their number includes Shaymus Meadowes, Grace Coggen, Francis Whelan, Fintan Mounrance, Thomas Boland, Patk. Balfe, Wilm. Hannon, Josephine Lawless, Bridget Duignan, Mary Farrell, Honor Larkin, and between twenty-five and fifty others – also Pius Mulvey the unfortunate cripple and Mary Duane, nanny of the Merridith family.

The debris clogging the harbour being most severe, both lifeboats were lost some time last night. Most of the bodies were recovered from Gravesend Bay near dawn; but some must be lying on the harbour-bed still. Others may well have drifted back out to open sea. A full report has been made to the Police at New York but little hope if any may be entertained for survivors, the currents in these waters being pitiless strong.

As for myself, I will nevermore to sea. For many years, I had been less than content with this life and torn at by thoughts of what might replace it, knowing only two things for most of those years: that a great sinner am I; but Christ a great Saviour. Now, by His oftentimes terrible grace, I know more.

Upon my return home to Dover I mean to devote the
remainder of my days to some endeavour which will assist the suffering poor of some place, be it Ireland or England or some other nation. What it can be, I know not; but I must do something. The country of the poor can be abandoned no longer.

For I dread what is growing in that country now. I fear we shall reap a venomous crop.

F
ROM

A M
ISCELLANY OF THE
A
NCIENT
S
ONGS OF
I
RELAND

(Boston, 1904)

Preface by Captain Francis O’Neill of the Chicago Police Department. Author of the following text unknown.

NUMBER THREE HUNDRED AND SEVEN
“The Grinding Stones” or “Revenge for Connemara”
(Sung to the air of “Skibbereen”)

Here is another glittering jewel of Ireland’s antique minstrelsy. Like the greater number of those comprising the present anthology, the following was first written down on a vessel
journeying here to the United States of Liberty from that green but mournful land across the ocean where freedom, alas, is yet but a reverie. It was heard by a man by the noble name of John Kennedy of Ballyjamesduff, County Cavan, nearly six decades ago now, on his twentieth birthday; the third of December in the year of 1847. The name of the coffin-ship was the
Star of the Oceans
.

Every true-hearted Irishman will bow his head at utterance of ‘Black 47’, most heinous year of that evil era wherein two millions of our countrymen were martyred by starvation; when the old foe, fearful of Ireland’s steel, murdered with the weapon of the coward instead. Every modest woman and girl of Ireland will storm the gates of Paradise with supplications to Our Blessed Mother. O! darkest epoch. How Satan must have delighted to see the Catholic children of Erin decimated like slaves in their own fair land; banished as the Hebrews by the crimes of cultish Pharaoh.

Some comradely dispute has existed between the editors and the sagacious old greybeards of the Chicago Irish Music Club concerning its true age and provenance; but it is evident to any reasonable man that the ballad hails from the ancient bloody times of resistance, when priest and people stood fast together against alien murder and rapine. Not for the first time and neither the last! if the editors know anything about their countrymen’s mettle. Hatred can be a holy and a cleansing thing. Please the Lord of Heaven it will not be long before the pallid countenance of violated Mother Ireland is restored to former comeliness by the red wine of vengeance.

This fine lament was heard sung on that vessel of martyrs by a patriotic boy of about six years. Mary bless him! It is best given very slowly and without accompaniment of any kind, having careful respect to the decorum of the words, and is therefore not suitable for group singing or rallies.

Come all ye native Galway boys and listen to my song;

It’s of the tyrant Saxon and the cause of Erin’s wrong;

The maker of our troubles, and the breaker of our bones;

To keep him up he keeps us down, and grinds us on the stones.

Their taxes and their terrors, boys, they have us nearly dead;

They drink their cup of bloodshed up, they rob our daily bread;

False princes of perdition black, indifferent to our groans;

How long more should we stand aside and let them steal our homes?

The same true gang, they did us hang, they poisoned Eoghan O’Neill;

And sent their hireling cowards, boys, our Mother-land to steal.

The blood be frozen in their veins, their hearts be withered up!

Who robbed the best, and left the rest, the blackened bitter crop.

Is this the land of Sarsfield, boys, the bower of brave Wolfe Tone?

O heroes loyal of Ireland’s soil, where fell the seeds they’ve sown?

Where are they now, who took the vow, that Erin should be free?

In blood and smoke, they smote the yoke of Saxon slavery.

Then come, true native Connaught men, wherever you may be.

A bright new crop is growing up, the flower of liberty.

We’ll tend it till it harvests, and they’ll ne’er more break our bones;

For we’ll slash them down and lift us up, and smash them on the stones.

Cuchulainn, Maeve, those valiant brave, the holy throng of yore,

Who warred with heathen Albion, boys, flinched not in battle’s roar;

To fight, to die; Saint Patrick high; the Lords of ancient Tara,

As one cry out, from North to South –

“REVENGE FOR CONNEMARA!”