** This poem is historical, not political. All facts have been documented in historical records **

Scotland has the thistle - Mother England has the rose.
Ireland has the shamrock which, of course, the whole world knows
But there is yet another symbol deep in Irish Lore
By which the Emerald Isle was known so many years before.

Penal laws against the Church wreaked havoc on the land.
Harsh tariffs forced the starving countryside to make its stand.
They banded into warring groups - the symbol that they chose
In Irish is the Roisin Dubh - in English.....the Black Rose.

In the Young Irish disorders, back in 1848
Nine Irishmen were treasonous and brought before the gate.
All members of the Roisin Dubh, their fate was quickly known
And they were given one last chance for their crimes to atone.

Their leader, Thomas Meagher, said "This is our first offence
And we were caught because we lack enough experience.
If you will set us free, be sure the lesson has been taught
And, in the future, I assure you we will not get caught!"

Indignant judges sentenced them to be hung until dead
Then drawn and quartered. Through the world the verdict quickly sped.
Strong public outcry forced Victoria to stay her hand
And send them to Austrailia, then a wild and hostile land.

Twenty-six years afterwards, news came across the sea,
Astounded Queen Victoria so bad she dropped her tea.
The elected Prime Minister of Australia that the people chose
Was Charles Duffy, one of the nine of the infamous Black Rose!

On Queen's demand, the records of the nine men were uncovered
And, when compiled, this is what Victoria discovered...

Charles Duffy
Prime Minister of Australia

Thomas Francis Meagher
Governor of Montana

Terrence McManus
Brigadier General, United States Army

Patrick Donahue
Brigadier General, United States Army

Richard O'Gorman
Governor General of Newfoundland

Morris Lyene
Attorney General of Australia

Michael Ireland
Succeeded Morris Lyene as Attorney General

Thomas D'Arcy McGee
Member of Parliament, Montreal
Minister of Agriculture
President of Council Dominion of Canada

John Mitchell
Prominent New York Politician
Father of John Purroy Mitchell,
Mayor of New York


So gather 'round the campfire, Lads. We'll raise a cup or two
On chilly Irish evenings when the moon is in full hue
For those brave lads who chose to stand and fight dear Ireland's foes
And we shall ne'er forget the Roisin Dubh....our own Black Rose.


The song, the Roisin Dubh, is reputed to have originated in the camps of Red Hugh O'Donnell, a seventeenth century chieftan at odds with Elizabethian rule. The Irish words have often been translated, the most famous of all being James Clarence Mangan's "Dark Rosaleen".


O MY Dark Rosaleen,
Do not sigh, do not weep!
The priests are on the ocean green,
They march along the deep.
There’s wine from the royal Pope,
Upon the ocean green;
And Spanish ale shall give you hope,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!

Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,
Shall give you health, and help, and hope,
My Dark Rosaleen!
Over hills, and thro’ dales,
Have I roam’d for your sake;
All yesterday I sail’d with sails
On river and on lake.
The Erne, at its highest flood,
I dash’d across unseen,
For there was lightning in my blood,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
O, there was lightning in my blood,
Red lightning lighten’d thro’ my blood.
My Dark Rosaleen!
All day long, in unrest,
To and fro, do I move.
The very soul within my breast
Is wasted for you, love!
The heart in my bosom faints
To think of you, my Queen,
My life of life, my saint of saints,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!

To hear your sweet and sad complaints,
My life, my love, my saint of saints,
My Dark Rosaleen!
Woe and pain, pain and woe,
Are my lot, night and noon,
To see your bright face clouded so,
Like to the mournful moon.
But yet will I rear your throne
Again in golden sheen;
Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
’Tis you shall have the golden throne,
’Tis you shall reign, and reign alone,
My Dark Rosaleen!

Over dews, over sands,
Will I fly, for your weal:
Your holy delicate white hands
Shall girdle me with steel.
At home, in your emerald bowers,
From morning’s dawn till e’en,
You’ll pray for me, my flower of flowers,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My fond Rosaleen!

You’ll think of me through daylight hours,
My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,
My Dark Rosaleen!
I could scale the blue air,
I could plough the high hills,
O, I could kneel all night in prayer,
To heal your many ills!
And one beamy smile from you
Would float like light between
My toils and me, my own, my true,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My fond Rosaleen!

Would give me life and soul anew,
A second life, a soul anew,
My Dark Rosaleen!
O, the Erne shall run red,
With redundance of blood,
The earth shall rock beneath our tread,
And flames wrap hill and wood,
And gun-peal and slogan-cry
Wake many a glen serene,
Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!

The Judgement Hour must first be nigh,
Ere you can fade, ere you can die,
My Dark Rosaleen!


James Clarence Mangan  1803-1849