Land Grievances
Get in line. Young Maori. Get in line.
Death Death March legally signed
before young Maori intensely pined.
Killed was ancient ancestral spirit
cleaving Celtic Isle mist lost lands.
Butchered guttered tie affixed lost
birthright mystic Celtic legendary lands.
Blood washed uprooted cast out are clans
purged from beloved Celtic ancestral lands.
Umbilical cord was cut brutally severed
with stealing steal tongue beastly fire.
For more sheep landlord pasture profit
Scottish smashed in are cottages homes.
Flocks free bleating beasts tended roam
rule ruined outcast vacated ghost villages.
Starvation claims sickening women children
destitute dying in London’s stinking slums.
Scottish men die dye red ranging regiments
across stolen globe with British firing guns.
Scottish bag-pipes screaming brave Scotsmen heard
wounds silhouette bleeding sunset blood-red suns.
In Ireland peasants dye starvation stained
with green mouths on bitter famine food.
Eating grass inland coastal eating seaweed
bounty stock free for rash starved Irish peasants.
British blight plague infests deflowered land
bloated corpses manure pastures Irish rued.
Providential not pestilent genocide inflicting Ireland;
English lords taxing life breath to death never sued.
Sweeping rubble rabble forth dark memories purge
upon ship passage exiles permanently migration move.
Homeland is lost family plot burial land
countless wakes memories survivors ban.
Get in line. Young Maori. Get in line.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Related quotes
Storm In A Tea Cup
That Art’s Council tea-room in there.
It has got sandwiches for ten dollars!
And fancy cups of foreign coffee for five!
Dressing up cheap common food to put on airs!
Dats lots a Pakeha swilling din dere.
Da got ta play tat mana man sittin ere.
Ant no brows faces in dat sea-oh-white.
Maori no spill de money cept pay night.
Nor are my mates crowding among rich clowns.
We sup service where frugality wears a crown.
Money paid where sobriety is precisely value set.
Value guaranteed in balance procured service let.
Dat bad man. Dat bad man. Dat bad man.
E took dat. E took dat. E took dat.
For de fire water. For de musket. For de glass bead.
For de blanket. Eee sold it. Eee sold it. Eee sold it.
So what were the injustices of the real Land Wars?
Scots cast off land their ancestors bleed crops grew.
Houses flattened homeless refugees no pity given knew?
English Lords were never fair or kind? Too dispossessed you?
Cast out like sheep. Fatherless families. London’s gutters flock.
So new pastures new lords. Filled with sheep in swarming stock.
Scots men. British armies greedily recruited. Grabbed their lot.
Irish up front in genocide queue. A potato failure famine!
Not a lack of food! English ate all else as rated rent!
Eight million Irish and only one million starvation spent?
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Our Fathers Gave Us Celtic
Our ancestors came from Ireland
Who brought their pride and their faith,
They gathered as one at Celtic park
To express their cultural identity.
Our father’s gave us Celtic
And the songs we sing today,
Our Irish heritage we celebrate
When watching the Bhoys in green play.
The Celtic jersey was worn by icons
Who played with heart and soul,
Diehards for the Celtic cause,
Entertainers, who brought us goals.
We stood through miserable Scottish weather
Suffering the defeat of a Rangers game,
But our spirits stayed strong as we chanted loud
In praise of Celtic’s name.
But it is football, faith and passion
To Parkhead we make our way,
As we sit were our father’s once stood
To see football played the Glasgow Celtic way.
Feb’22nd 2005
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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Irish Potato Blight
Dying with green mouths
starving eating green grass.
Famine scavenge food coastal equalled
subsistence cursed evermore sea food.
Starvation was annihilation
of many Irish who never fled.
English took livestock for taxes unpaid
left starving tenant farmers for dead.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Within Parkhead’s Dream
Green for glory
And the team we love
Regained the league
And the Scottish Cup.
Pubs in Glasgow
Sang Celtic’s name
The passionate fan
Igniting Celtic’s flame.
Our colours bold
The hoops of green
Were memories are gold
Of our father’s team.
With the loss of Larsson
We’ll carry on
Supporting the Celtic
In story and song.
We’ll stand with pride
Within Parkhead’s dream
Were the ghost of legends
Support the bhoys in green.
June’8th 2004
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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The Birth of Celtic
In eighteen hundred and eighty-eight
Brother Walfrid walked along the Gallowgate,
Were immigrants of Ireland walked the streets,
No food in their stomachs, no shoes on their feet.
These souls of the famished Irish nation
Had made their home in Glasgow’s east end,
Ridiculed & provoked by the Protestant majority
Who could not accept the Irish faith & identity.
In Scotland’s east coast, Edinburgh, the capital,
Had saw the rise in the game of football,
Where a team, Hibernian, played under Ireland’s harp,
And brought victory with them onto the park.
And Brother Walfrid, a Marist priest,
Saw poverty prosper in his parish,
He suggested a savior to the Irish nationalist
Who had never seen a ball been kicked on a pitch.
A team would be organized; a stadium would be built,
Players would be sourced who had courage & skill,
And the income generated from watching the team,
Would feed the tables of Irish families & children.
Players were asked, some where even stolen,
From teams like Cowlairs and Renton,
Land was rented that was barren and unkept;
History was about the wake the giant that slept.
Glasgow’s Irish saw Brother Walfrid’s dream come true
As an organized football team now grew,
A Celtic cross was stitched to a white jersey,
As preparations were made for a “friendly”.
Glasgow Rangers, the visitors, took to the field,
Already a threat to the Scottish game,
But the dominance faded for the team in blue,
As the Irish team of Celtic won by a score of 5-2
The birth of Celtic, was Brother Walfrid’s dream,
As history has favoured the bhoys in green,
From the legacy of Jock Stein, to the resurgence of Martin O’Neill,
The passion & commitment can be found on Celtic’s football field.
July'22nd 2003
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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With a Celtic Scarf around My Neck
Hail Hail to all the Celtic fans
I see you are in good voice
Let us stand within McConnell's pub
And sing and drink to the Bhoys
For we were born and it's in our blood
To follow the bhoys in green
For the Glasgow Celtic are the finest team
The world has ever seen.
It was many years ago when our fore-fathers
Left their native home
As they said goodbye to Donegal,
To Limerick and Tyrone
They fled the English landlords
And the famine that scoured their land
They crossed the sea to Glasgow town
With Ireland’s cross in their hand.
To Jock Stein and the Lisbon Lions
Our fathers would raise a cheer,
As they sat within their local pubs
With a whiskey and a beer,
And the tears would flow when a ballad was sung
Of Cardenden’s finest son
As the pub stood quiet to the memory
Of Celtic’s young Johnny Thomson.
We were Christened at the Chapel
With a Celtic scarf around our necks,
Remembering all the miles, we had traveled
As we would wander to old Parkhead,
Up the Gallowgate, we would make our way
Taking our dear old father’s hand
As he told us, we should walk with pride
To be a faithful Celtic fan.
And today we make the same pilgrimage
As we have done for many years,
Standing or sitting at Paradise
Letting the world hear our Celtic cheers,
Let no man take away our faith
In the bhoys in the green & white strip,
For we live our days in the Celtic way
Supporting our heroes on Parkhead’s pitch.
Nov’11th 2005
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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The Man in Green
Well, you wonder why
I always wear the green,
The colours of the world’s
Finest football team,
You will never see me wear the colours
Of royal or navy blue,
As I’m a Celtic supporter,
Faithful through and through.
I wear the green for my ancestors,
Who came from Ireland, long ago,
Who left Erin’s shores and settled
In the town of Glasgow,
I wear it for the Irish Diaspora,
Who fled the famine and the crown,
I wear from Brother Walfrid
Who sheltered the poor in the east end of town.
I wear the emerald green
In memory of my father,
Garngad born,
A faithful Celtic supporter,
He walked the path to heaven,
Over ten years ago,
As he stands with Our Lord
Wearing his green, white and gold.
I wear the green for the Celtic legends,
Who have left our lives,
Knowing that they entered heaven
With Our Lord on their side,
I wear it for Willie Maley, Jock Stein
And young John Thomson,
I wear it for Bobby Murdoch, Johnny Doyle
And wee Jimmy Johnstone.
I wear the colours of Celtic,
Each and every day,
I pray for the bhoys of Parkhead each night,
And to God, I do say,
Why do all the Orangemen,
All hate the sight of green?
For green’s the finest colour
That the world has ever seen.
March’29th 2006
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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Donal Campbell
DONAL' CAMPBELL
-Donal' Bane-
sailed away across the
ocean
With the tartans of Clan
Gordon, to the Indies'
distant shore,
But on Dargai's lonely hill-
side, Donal' Campbell
met the foeman,
And the glen of Athol
Moray will never see him more!
O! the wailing of the women, O! the storm of
bitter sorrow
Sweeping like the wintry torrent thro' Athol
Moray's glen
When the black word reached the clansmen,
that young Donal' Bane had fallen
In the red glare of the battle, with the gallant
Gordon men!
Far from home and native sheiling, with the
sun of India o'er him
Blazing down its cruel hatred on the white-
faced men below
Stood young Donal' with his comrades, like the
hound of ghostly Fingal
Eager, waiting for the summons to leap up
against the foe-
Hark! at last! the pipes are pealing out the
welcome Caber Feidh
And wild the red blood rushes thro' every
Highland vein
They breathe the breath of battle, the children
of the Gael,
And fiercely up the hillside, they charge and
charge again-
And the grey eye of the Highlands, now is
dark as blackest midnight,
The history of their fathers is written on each
face,
Of border creach and foray, of never yieldong
conflict
Of all the memories shrouding a stern uncon-
quered race!
And up the hillside, up the mountain, while
the war-pipes shrilly clamour
Bayonet thrusting, broadsword cleaving, the
Northern soldiers fought
Till the sun of India saw them victors o' er the
dusky foeman,
For who can stay the Celtic hand when Celtic
blood is hot?
But the corse of many a clansman from the far-
off Scottish Highlands
'Mid the rocks of savage Dargai is lying cold
and still
With the death-dew on its forehead, and young
Donal' Campbell 's tartan
Bears a deeper stain of purple than the heather
of the hill!
Mourn him! Mourn him thro' the mountains,
wail him women of Clan Campbell!
Let the Coronach be sounded tii it reach the
Indian shore
For your beautiful has fallen in the foremost
of the battle
And the glen of Athol Moray will never see
him more!
poem by William Henry Drummond
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Ireland Shall Rebel
WHILE tyrants rule the land,
Beneath the Irish skies;
While e’er the iron hand
Upon our people lies;
While sons are driven forth
In other lands to dwell,
Still in the South and North
Old Ireland will rebel!
Rebel, rebel!
Old Ireland will rebel!
While fanlike from below,
And pale against the skies,
That light of shame—the glow
Of burning homes—shall rise;
While hot indignant tears
From Irish hearts shall swell:—
Be it a thousand years,
Old Ireland will rebel!
Rebel, rebel!
Old Ireland will rebel!
Until the tyrant’s rod
Shall broken be in twain,
And on the dear old sod
Blest freedom treads again;
Or till our masters learn
To rule our country well,
The fires of hate shall burn!—
Old Ireland will rebel!
Rebel, rebel!
Old Ireland will rebel!
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Ballad of Brother Walfrid
My name is Andrew Kerins,
born and bred in Ballymote
I left my home at an early age
and traveled to Scotland in a trawler boat
Would I ever again see Ireland,
as the famine had stolen her strength
Would Scotland welcome the Diaspora,
of Irish men & women
My calling of becoming a Marist Priest
led me to the Glasgow parish of St.Mary's
Where the immigrant Irish, poor and starved,
made home in the east end of the city
My heart cried out when I saw theses lost souls,
living in poverty and in squalor
As Protestant Scotland would not accept,
their accent, dress or culture.
I prayed day and night to Our Lord,
for the welfare of St.Patrick's flock,
As jobs were few and far between
as they were ridiculed, harassed and mocked,
From all over Ireland, they came to Glasgow,
to escape the potatoe blight
Some had wished they had went to America,
to live in the comfort of the stars and stripes
I saw the hunger on the faces of children
when they sat for Sunday Mass,
My dream was to feed them once a day,
that became my spiritual task.
Along with the St Vincent de Paul Society,
we would reach out to these starving souls,
The Poor Children's 'Penny Dinner' Table was formed,
for the undernourished children of Glasgow.
The Donegal dialect and the Kerry brogue,
I heard within my confessional,
As Ireland’s lonely sons and daughters
spoke of broken hearts and promises,
I sought to feed their hunger
and bring hope to their shattered dreams
I fought to bring them comfort,
to silence their children’s screams.
At St.Mary’s hall in the Calton,
in February of 1887
I joined the victory celebrations
for a football team called Hibernian,
They were the pride of every Irishman
from Scotland’s east and west coast,
Were we sang songs of dear old Ireland,
to Hibernian, some gave a toast.
Like a vision of God before me,
inspiration came to me I a dream
Were the old east end of Glasgow,
would like Edinburgh, have an Irish team,
No more would Irish families live in poverty
or see their children sick,
For a football team would play for charity
and that team I would call Celtic.
For months, we toiled the barren land
that sat upon Janefield Street
And built a stadium for football
were the Irish would gather and meet,
I saw smiles appear on the faces of children,
who carried Ireland in their heart,
For they could not wait to welcome the Bhoys,
Who would one day grace Celtic Park.
Daniel McDonagh – Apr’27th 2006
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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When I was younger, I was in love with everything about the British Isles, from British folklore to Celtic music. That was always where my passions were as a young girl, and so I studied folklore as a college student in England and Ireland.
quote by Terri Windling
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Song For The Irish Militia
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!
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!
The rifle brown and sabre bright
Can freely speak and nobly write
What prophets preached the truth so well
As HOFER, BRIAN, BRUCE, and TELL?
God guard the creed these heroes taught-
That blood-bought Freedom's cheaply bought
A soldier's life's the life for me
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
Then, welcome be the bivouac,
The hardy stand, and fierce attack,
Where pikes will tame their carbineers,
And rifles thin their bay'neteers,
And every field the island through
Will show 'what Irishmen can do! '
A soldier's life's the life for me
A soldier's death so Ireland's free!
Yet, 'tis not strength and 'tis not steel
Alone can make the English reel;
But wisdom, working day by day,
Till comes the time for passion's sway
The patient dint and powder shock,
Can blast an empire like a rock.
A soldier's life's the life for me
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
The tribune's tongue and poet's pen
May sow the seed in slavish men;
But 'tis the soldier's sword alone
Can reap the harvest when 'tis grown.
No more I'll sing, no more I'll 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.
poem by Thomas Davis
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Amhán Na bhFiann
Ireland’s National Anthem
Has been branded a sectarian song,
As it’s sang on Parkhead’s terracing
By Celtic’s faithful sons,
Can we celebrate at Celtic Park
The heritage of our ancestors?
Or are we to be silenced by the critics
For heralding our Irish culture?
2005
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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A Song For The Irish Militia
AIR--_The Peacock._
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 well
As HOFER, BRIAN, BRUCE, and TELL?
God guard the creed these heroes taught--
That blood-bought Freedom's cheaply bought
A soldier's life's the life for me--
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
IV.
Then, welcome be the bivouac,
The hardy stand, and fierce attack,
Where pikes will tame their carbineers,
And rifles thin their bay'neteers,
And every field the island through
Will show 'what Irishmen can do!'
A soldier's life's the life for me--
A soldier's death so Ireland's free!
V.
Yet, 'tis not strength and 'tis not steel
Alone can make the English reel;
But wisdom, working day by day,
Till comes the time for passion's sway--
The patient dint and powder shock,
Can blast an empire like a rock.
A soldier's life's the life for me--
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
VI.
The tribune's tongue and poet's pen
May sow the seed in slavish men;
But 'tis the soldier's sword alone
Can reap the harvest when 'tis grown.
No more I'll sing, no more I'll 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.
poem by Thomas Osborne Davis
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Coimeád an Creideamh
Green flags are unfurled and fill Glasgow's sky
Banners of Celtic held up high
Keep the faith, with pride, Walk on
Fill your heart with a Celtic song.
Pull on that green & white jersey
Reared on the Celtic way
A battlecry will sound from our soul
From the mouths of men, young and old.
As we stand watching, God's chosen team
With our children wearing the proud green,
Through victory & defeat we will gather strong
As Paradise will hear our hymns & songs.
Jan’9th 2006
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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Time crimes
She drove as I fiddled with the radio.
I was stealing looks at her,
young, fresh, clean.
and oh my god her cleavage was hypnotizing.
Her eyes had the same sorrow as mine.
The wounded,
they know each other when they see each other
instinctively.
Like 2 sick junkies passing each other on the street.
They can just TELL.
You can see the emptiness where something or someone use to be.
Spending time with her was like stealing from death.
It was time taken out of time.
She, young and beautiful,
Once she held my corpse and said
'We are the same, you and I'.
I laughed,
A harsh,
mean, laugh that said
'You're right, we are. But that's none of your business'.
She sat on the grass
legs out stretched,
I would lie my head on her thighs.
She looked down at me and sweetly said
'Do you love me a little? '
A line from a film I had intrduced her to.
I answered with:
'What time is it? '
It was all time out of time.
Time stolen from the jaws of death
The death that nibbles away the hours,
the minutes,
the seconds of our lives so slowly we rarely even notice.
Laying there,
in the grass,
in the park,
we were co-conspiritors
stealing time from time
stealing it from death itself.
Stealing time from each other.
Such a fine line,
it occurs to me as I write this
between 'stealing' and 'wasting' sometimes.
-----30----------
poem by Brevet Wilson
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An Arabic Woman & The English Countryside
I am neither a Celtic,
Who lived in ancient Britain,
Nor am I an Arian,
Or a Normandy whose ancestors
Ruled England for a while,
And the blood in my veins
Do not go back
To the Germanic tribes
Who invaded England,
And mingled with the Celtic
In the savage old time.
Nor am I an Immigrant of any kind,
I do not belong
Either to the patient Indian men,
Nor to the Pakistani
Whose fathers helped in
Paving roads for the underground
That connects the lanes of London,
I did not study or lived there
Except in the summer time.
Yet loving the English meadows
Larks and nightingales
And the other birds
That marvellously garnish
springs, rivers,
Woods and lakes,
Birds that happily fly
In its semi blue sky,
Runs like blood
In my Arabic
Passionate veins;
I am an Arab who adores
And can't live without sunshine;
Whose skin is tinted by the golden
Heat of the glorious sun
Just like the sand of the spreading
Desert of the Holy land,
Who lived under the clear sky
With its glaring moon
And twinkling stars,
I adore the sunset
By the seaside
I love the crystal clear waves
Of the Red Sea
And its true blue shade,
I am madly in love with the smell
Of Makkah’s rain when
It quenches the thirst
Of the dry soil,
Yet Wonder I
Am I in love with England,
And Why?
Why do the English hill,
The Irish rivers and springs
The Scottish countryside
Have on my spirit a splendid effect,
Some fools accuse the English
To be snobbish and racists,
But I did not see these qualities
In the majority I knew;
Look closely
At London’s million persons
Demonstration against the latest war,
And the recent Edinburgh March
You can see
What I mean;
Though East and West
Did not communicate well,
Did not go well
From ancient to modern time,
In my heart they are nicely combined
For hearts of true poets
Do not differentiate between mankind.
poem by Nadia Abduljabbar
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Celtic Ray
When lewellyn comes around
And he goes through market town
Youll be on the celtic ray
Are you ready?
When mcmannus comes around
On his early morning rounds
Crying hey...
Youll be on the celtic ray
Ireland, scotland, england and wales
I can hear the mothers voices calling
Children, children, children
When the coal brick man comes round
On a cold november day
Youll be on the celtic ray
Are you ready? are you ready?
Ireland, scotland, england and wales
I can hear the mothers voices calling
Children, children, children
Listen to me! I want to go home.
Listen to me! I want to go home.
Ive been away from the ray too long
Ive been away from the ray too long
All over ireland, scotland, england and wales
I can hear the mothers voices calling
Children, children, come home children
Children, come home on the celtic ray
In the early morning well go walking
Where the light comes shining through
On the celtic ray
Come home children
Come home on the celtic ray
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Small legendery joke
Maori fella walks into a dairy and asks for a tin of cat food. Indian dairy owner says 'Oh no - I am hearing about you Maori fellows and how you put cat food into pastry and call it meat pie. Please bring cat into shop for me to see and you can have cat food'. Maori fella says 'oh man, I don't even know where the cat is right now - probably chasing birds.' Indian dairy owner says 'No cat, no cat food'.
Maori fella sulks away from shop. Same guy comes in a week later and asks for a tin of dog food for his dog. Indian dairy owner gives him the same run down, 'No dog - no doggy food'. Maori fella is really upset and storms off. He comes back a couple of days later with a big plastic bag and slams it on the counter. The dairy owner says 'Oh what is this being please' and opens the bag and is overcome by the foul stench which from the now open bag. Maori fellah says, 'It's a bag of sh*t man, I want some toilet rolls! '
poem by Racina Rodriguez
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Cry Freedom
I live in a world of mist words
cause beauty music therein lives
in ancient Celtic ancestry of mindsong
history runs within fibre of being
across earth runs folklore of centuries
soul aches for emerald siren shores
ancient calling of Celtic blood origins
Roman legions English arrogance's
could never defeat cry freedom within
tyrant defiant knee bends defeated not
injustice world domination defeats not
centuries enduring is cry freedom within
does not blood of warrior bard echo
haunting down resolute centuries
cry freedom defiant Celtic peoples
freedom is heritage birthright echo
poem by Terence George Craddock
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