I have been re-reading Donald Meek’s excellent The Quest for Celtic Christianity, a review of which can be found on the blog here. He points out that modern ‘Celtic Christians’, in their desire to recast the early medieval Irish (and Scottish and Welsh) church in their own image, leads some of its exponents to:

…make light of, or completely avoid, those aspects of early medieval Catholic doctrine and practice which are characteristic of real Celtic Christianity. Protestant writers who wish to claim ‘Celtic Christianity’ as their model make little or no mention of the mass, the practice of penance or the widespread belief in the efficacy of relics.

Donald Meek, The Quest for Celtic Christianity, (Edinburgh, 2000), p.95.

I had this in mind while reading the poem below on the Day of Judgement, which the editor thought may date to the tenth century. The impossibly upbeat modern “Celtic church” has little time for sin, judgement and hell, yet here we have a Middle Irish reflection on these very themes. I am sure that modern ‘Celtic Christians’ would applaud the notion that the poor and humble will be exalted whilst arrogant clerics and other authority figures get their comeuppance. Sadly, our ancestors were not on message about gender equality, for ‘lewd unwomanly women’ face the wrath of heaven’s King too. Yet for all that this poem presents the realities of medieval notions of hell – complete with black demons, fire and suffering – it is balanced by a litany of petitions for deliverance. The final stanza is particularly comforting, expressing the hope that we may be wheat in the divine granary and triumph ‘in the rout of Doom’:

A Poem on the Day of Judgement

1. Doom! Not slight will be its uproar when the world will burn; it were meet, O Christ with grades [of angels], that Adam’s seed should dread it.
2. Obdurate is the human race, harder than stones are their hearts when they heed not the many vast pains.
3. When the earth will vomit forth the hosts of Adam’s vast seed, when one blaze will fill both heaven and earth.
4. When the host of hell, the tribes of earth, the multitude of saints, the nine grades of angels will meet in one gathering when each question will be solved.
5. When the Judge will pronounce righteous true judgements, awarding heaven to the chosen, increase of punishment to the evil folk.
6. The humble, lowly, devout folk with purity of heart, the despised wretches will be in the ranks of heaven’s King.
7. The red-mouthed brehons, the lewd, the sinful, the satirists, the contentious, arrogant clerics will find neither honour nor welcome.
8. The envious, the parricides, the wicked impious chiefs, the lewd unwomanly women will find death and extinction.
9. Bitter and harsh will be their repentance, they will shed tears over cheeks, the lying, the impious, the folk of every enduring sin.
10. It will be a shame, it will be a reproach to the host of the wicked, as you shall see, when all will behold the sin of each one of them.
11. After being for a long space of time in the scorching fire of Doom, they will be cast by the King of the Sun into a place of torture at last.
12. Sorry will be the outcry they will make, dreadful will be their wailings, as they part from holy angels, as they go with black demons.
13. Woe to the soul which heeds not the din of the mighty Day of Doom; worse seventy-seven times to dwell in hard avenging hell.
14. Its bitter cold, its great burning, its hunger, its dreadful thirst, its crushing, its heavy revenge, its horror, its stifling smoke, its slaying.
15. Its many fearful monsters, its groaning, its wild woeful lament, its fiery rotten sea, its vile devilish faces.
16. Woe to him who hath come into this world, woe to our body, woe to our souls to each one who is destined to dwell for ever in ruthless hell.
17. Of Thy fondness, O fond Father, of Thy gentleness, O King of Heaven, cast me not into the bitter prison in which there are many groans.
18. For the sake of each noble intercession in heaven and on earth, when Thou wilt . . . with me, deal gently with my soul!
19. For the sake of Thy cross, of Thy passion, of Thy Kingship, O Prince, come valiantly to my aid in all the sufferings of my soul.
20. For the sake of each noble intercession in heaven and on earth, I pray Thee, O Christ of my heart, that the Kingdom of Heaven may be for my soul.
21. For the sake of Thy cross, of Thy passion, protect me against all iniquity, lest, O Heavenly King, the temptations of demons or men destroy me.
22. For the sake of Thy cross, of Thy passion, come forthwith to my aid; before I go from the yellow world take from me every unrighteousness.
23. Of Thy vast mercy protect me at all times, put into my soul Thy great love, that it may be overflowing with love for Thee.
24. That I may be wheat in Thy granary on the day when the chaff is burned, that I may carry off victory and triumph yonder in the rout of Doom.

J.G. O’Keefe, ‘A Poem on the Day of Judgement’, Ériu Vol 3 (1907), 29-33.

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I have come across many items in the Victorian religious press written on the theme of Ireland and the Rosary, but the piece below, published in Australia’s Catholic Freeman’s Journal, struck me as unusual in a number of ways. ‘The Rosary of Ireland’ applies the traditional division of Joyous, Sorrowful and Glorious Mysteries to the history of this country and employs many of the popular tropes of the National Revival. Ireland of the joyous mysteries is romantically portrayed as an island set in a silver sea, filled with fair maidens and valiant warriors, which embraces Saint Patrick and its Christian destiny. The mystic isle is then transformed into the insula sanctorum, home of Patrick, Columba and Brendan and the ‘countless thousands more’ who contribute to the golden age of the saints. It is interesting to see a mention of the angel Victor, described in a footnote as ‘the Guardian Angel of Ireland’. The sorrowful mysteries employ familiar tropes of the Penal era – the Mass Rock, the struggle to maintain faith and nationhood and exile – but it was not until I reached the glorious mysteries that I realized I was not reading something written in the nineteenth century at all. For the glorious mysteries relate to the achievement of Irish independence, and it was only at that point that I noted that The Rosary of Ireland had been published in 1938, one year after the promulgation of the Irish Constitution, article one of which declared that:

The Irish nation hereby affirms its inalienable, indefeasible,and sovereign right to choose its own form of Government, to determineits relations with other nations, and to develop its life, political,economic and cultural, in accordance with its own genius and traditions.

It is clear that our writer, M. Eugenie Hill, acknowledged the part played by the literary revival in Ireland taking her place among the nations. She makes more than one reference to ‘Inisfail’, a poetic name for Ireland, but perhaps more specifically a reference to the work of Aubrey de Vere (1814-1902):

Published in 1862, Inisfail is the longest single poem by an Irish writer in English, a distinction which ought to grant it at least a portion of the critical attention which it currently lacks. Subtitled A Lyrical Chronicle of Ireland, it is composed of a sequence of one hundred and thirty-two lyric poems, each of which is a meditation upon an aspect of suffering and salvation. The sequence as a whole is structured around an historical narrative frame proposing continuities in Irish history from the time of the Cromwellian invasions to the end of the Penal Laws, with references to the events of the 1840s.

Chris Morash, “The Little Black Rose Revisited: Church, Empire and National Destiny in the Writings of Aubrey de Vere.” The Canadian Journal of Irish Studies 20, no. 2 (1994): 45–52.

De Vere’s poems were frequently quoted by Victorian writers on the saints and the early medieval Irish church and it was in Inisfail that he wrote of ‘the little black rose that would be red at last’, which the writer of The Rosary of Ireland links with the brilliant Easter sun. Is this a reference to the Easter Rising of 1916 and perhaps by extension to the poet revolutionary, Joseph Mary Plunkett (1887-1916) and his poem I See His Blood upon the Rose? The Rosary of Ireland ends with another Irish revolutionary, Robert Emmett (1778-1803) and a reference to his speech from the dock where he declared ‘when my country takes her place among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written.’

So I think that these literary allusions distinguish The Rosary of Ireland  from the many other offerings found in the popular religious press on the theme of Ireland’s relationship to the rosary. It was interesting too to see the survival of the ethos of the Victorian ‘Celtic Revival’ in a work published in the 1930s and I only wish I knew more of its author:

THE ROSARY OF  IRELAND.

Joyous.

A land of joy and peace, laughter and song,
Famed for her ladies fair, and warriors strong.
Erin the brave, for glorious deeds renowned,
Is still, alas! by Pagan fetters bound.

But lo! a guardian watches o’er the land,
‘Tis Victor, from the shining angel band;
The time is come at last to break the chain.
And for his chosen children, Heaven to gain.

The Angel Victor* speeds like lightning rays,
Bends o’er the sleeping Patrick, softly says,
‘Come, holy youth, the Irish voices call,
Come with the Light of Faith, and lift the pall.’

And now for Erin dawns the wondrous day.
Nearer, and nearer still, with flashing ray,
A dazzling light appears, as from afar,
Glimmering and twinkling like the Morning Star.

‘Who dares enkindle fire’ the Druids cry,
‘Before our sacred fire is lit must die.
Go! quench the light that now on Tara gleams,
Or never shall we dim its shining beams.’

Clothed in his Sacred Vestments, Patrick spoke,
And Erin from the sleep of death awoke,
The Druid idols from her now she spurns,
Then gladly to the Faith of Patrick turns.

Columba, Brendan, countless thousands more
Sail o’er the ocean far from Erin’s shore,
With Cross in hand, and Patrick’s flag unfurled,
Her Missioners go forth, to teach the world.

*Victor is the Guardian Angel of Ireland.

Sorrowful.

But Erin’s star of joy is setting fast,
And bitter sorrow must be hers at last,
Since she has had the joy of happy years,
She now must share her Lord’s deep woe and tears.

Ireland of Sorrow, like your Lord to be
Despised, derided, spat upon, as He,
Pierced to the Soul and garments dyed bright red,
Holding the Cross through centuries of dread.

Deep as the sea, as Mary’s sorrows were,
Dolorous Ireland, in her grief you share,
Faithful till death, and setting death at nought,
Guarding the Priceless Pearl by Patrick brought.

And as a light in darkness shines more bright
The Faith of Ireland shone through darkest night.
Tho’ trodden underfoot by ruthless foes,
More gloriously with deeper lustre glows.

A vivid redness floods the evening sky,
As flames from burning churches mount on high,
And bells give forth a harsh and clarion call,
When lofty towers and noble spires fall.

The shamrock shows a deeply crimson stain,
Where round the Mass Rock Priests and people slain,
And bowed in grief, as Erin’s thousands fell,
Unconquered still, she braves the gates of hell.

Scattered afar the Children of the Gael,
Exiled and banished from their Innisfail,
They plant the Cross of Christ in foreign climes,
And thro’ these exiled ones, the Mass bell chimes.

Glorious.

But Erin’s long and dreadful woe is past.
The sun burst’s rising in the East at last,
And spite of centuries of pain and loss,
She stands Victorious beneath the Cross.

Hail! valiant Eire, bravest of the brave.
Her exiled Children call across the wave,
The ‘small black rose’ *puts on its crimson bloom,
The brilliant Easter sun dispels the gloom.

Then silvery clear ring out the joyous bells,
Victory and peace their happy message tells,
Erin among the nations takes her place,
A noble nation and a noble race.

Hail glorious Eire, let us joy with you;
To God and Patrick may you e’er be true
Thro’ all the ages that are still to be
May you maintain your spotless purity.

The sin of heresy will ne’er defile
The peerless Faith you hold, dear Emerald isle,
You who for centuries have been appointed
The Cradle and the School of God’s Anointed.

The glorious band of patriots we hail
Who gave their lives for you, sweet Innisfail,
Your freedom won, and now in letters gold,
May gentle Emmet’s epitaph be told.

*’The Little Black Rose,’ by Aubrey de Vere.

M. EUGENIE HILL.

Catholic Freeman’s Journal Thursday 19 May 1938, page 37

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