David Rooney |
PADRAIG HENRY PEARSE (also known as Pádraic or Patrick)
was an Irish teacher, barrister, poet,
writer, nationalist, republican political activist and
revolutionary who was one of the leaders of the Easter Rising in
1916. Following his execution along with fifteen others, he came to be seen
by many as the embodiment of the rebellion.
Padraig with Willie, Mary & Briget |
Padraig became a director of the Gaelic League(founded 1893
for the preservation of the Irish language) and edited (1903–09) its weekly
newspaper, An Claidheamh Soluis (“The Sword of Light”). To further
promote the Irish
language as a weapon against British domination, he published
tales from old Irish manuscripts and a collection (1914) of his own poems in
the modern Irish idiom.
He founded St. Enda’s College (1908), near Dublin , as a bilingual institution with its
teaching based on Irish traditions and culture.
On the
formation of the Irish
Volunteers (November 1913) as a counterforce against the Ulster
Volunteers (militant supporters of the Anglo-Irish union), Padraig became a member
of their provisional committee, and he contributed poems and articles to their
newspaper, The Irish Volunteer.
In July
1914 he was made a member of the supreme council of the Irish Republican
Brotherhood (IRB). After the Irish Volunteers split (September 1914), he became
a leader of the more extreme nationalist section, which opposed any support for
Great Britain
in World War I.
He came to believe that the blood of martyrs would
be required to liberate Ireland,
and on that theme he delivered a famous oration in August 1915
at the burial of Jeremiah O’Donovan, known as O’Donovan Rossa, a veteran of Sinn Féin.
When Eoin MacNeill,
the Chief of Staff of the Volunteers, learned what was being planned without
the promised arms from Germany ,
he countermanded the orders via newspaper, causing the IRB to issue a last-minute
order to go through with the plan the following day, greatly limiting the
numbers who turned out for the rising.
When
the Easter Rising eventually began on Easter
Monday, 24 April 1916, it was Pearse who read the Proclamation of the Irish Republic from
outside the General Post Office, the headquarters of
the Rising. After six days of fighting,
heavy civilian casualties and great destruction of property, Pearse issued the
order to surrender.
Padraig and
fourteen other leaders, including his brother Willie, were court-martialed and executed by firing squad. He was
36 years old at the time of his death.
Sir John Maxwell, the General Officer
commanding the British forces in Ireland, sent a telegram to H.H. Asquith,
then Prime Minister, advising him not to return the bodies of the Pearse
brothers to their family, saying, "Irish sentimentality will turn these
graves into martyrs' shrines to which annual processions will be made, which
would cause constant irritation in this country. Maxwell also suppressed a
letter from Pearse to his mother, and two poems dated 1 May 1916. He
submitted copies of them also to Prime Minister Asquith, saying that some of
the content was "objectionable"
Lisa Ryan artist- Ireland |
Bean Sléibhe Ag Caoineadh A Mhac
(A Woman Of The Mountain Keens Her
Son)
Grief
on the death, it has blackened my heart:
lt has snatched my love and left me desolate,
Without friend or companion under the roof of my house
But this sorrow in the midst of me, and I keening.
As I walked the mountain in the evening
The birds spoke to me sorrowfully,
The sweet snipe spoke and the voiceful curlew
Relating to me that my darling was dead.
I called to you and your voice I heard not,
I called again and I got no answer,
I kissed your mouth, and O God how cold it was!
Ah, cold is your bed in the, lonely churchyard.
O green-sodded grave in which my child is,
Little narrow grave, since you are his bed,
My blessing on you, and thousands of blessings
On the green sods that are over my treasure.
Grief on the death, it cannot be denied,
It lays low, green and withered together,-
And O gentle little son, what tortures me is
That your fair body should be making clay!
lt has snatched my love and left me desolate,
Without friend or companion under the roof of my house
But this sorrow in the midst of me, and I keening.
As I walked the mountain in the evening
The birds spoke to me sorrowfully,
The sweet snipe spoke and the voiceful curlew
Relating to me that my darling was dead.
I called to you and your voice I heard not,
I called again and I got no answer,
I kissed your mouth, and O God how cold it was!
Ah, cold is your bed in the, lonely churchyard.
O green-sodded grave in which my child is,
Little narrow grave, since you are his bed,
My blessing on you, and thousands of blessings
On the green sods that are over my treasure.
Grief on the death, it cannot be denied,
It lays low, green and withered together,-
And O gentle little son, what tortures me is
That your fair body should be making clay!
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