Mother Ireland

Ireland, my Ireland,

To a new world, I must depart,

Today, I travel from your bosom

And it breaks my grieving heart.

I lay by my mother’s graveside

Were a litany of saints, I did pray,

I heard the voice of St.Patrick speak,

Calling for St.Brendan to take me away.

The famine has killed your children,

Left your land barren and diseased,

Now the coffins ships depart from your shore,

Sailing the waters of the Irish Sea.

For I travel over to Scotland

To were St.Columba preached from his soul.

My love for Ireland will never fade

As I travel the miles to Glasgow.

I will return, before my days are gone,

When Our Lord has ploughed the land,

And I will be buried were my mother sleeps,

Led to heaven by St.Brigid’s hand.

Daniel McDonagh  Oct’2006

An Gorta Mór

Forced the Irish nation

To flee their homeland

Of death and starvation.

Forced to immigrate to America,

To New York, Baltimore & Boston

Were the wind-borne potatoe blight

Had been born.

Some crossed the Irish Sea

To the city of Glasgow

To seek refuge in a city

That the Church of Scotland controlled.

They lived within the poverty,

The abuse and oppression,

Obstacles that lay in their path

By the Protestant population.

Glasgow was not the Promised Land

For the Irish Catholic community,

They fought the prejudice and bigotry,

They encountered each day.

The Irish Diaspora cried out to Our Lord

To provide them with a saviour,

For their faith and heritage

Was to be preserved by Brother Walfrid

Daniel McDonagh 2007

Diaspora

No Irish, no Catholics,

No jobs, no trade,

No priest, no church,

No sanctuary to pray.

Send them all back

Send them back home,

Ship them back to Ireland,

Send them to were they belong.

Let them live with poverty

Let them live with the squalor,

Let these migrants starve

Let them die and suffer.

Keep Scotland protestant

No Irish, Catholic faith.

Daniel McDonagh 2006

Our grandmothers and grandfathers

Left their hearts back in Ireland,

Leaving behind them, the famine,

The death and starvation.

They crossed the sea on coffin ships

And stepped onto Scotland’s shore,

In their Gaelic tongue, they said a prayer,

For Ireland, they would see no more.

They sought refuge and they settled

Within Glasgow’s Irish community,

Making their home in the Garngad and Calton,

In the Gorbals and the district of Paisley.

Despised and loathed by the native Scots

For their heritage, culture and faith,

How our ancestors resisted the sectarian taunts,

That we still face today.

And since the day Brother Walfrid formed

Glasgow’s Irish team,

Ireland’s immigrants have traveled forth

To watch the Bhoys in green.

Celtic Park became a shrine,

The Holy Ground in song and verse,

Were our ancestors watched Neil McCallum

Score Celtic’s first goal against the ‘Gers.

But how the Irish were never accepted

And faced the verbal abuse and mockery,

As Victorian Scotland classed them Papist’,

Contagious, diseased and dirty.

Detested for their Catholic faith

That they brought to a Presbyterian land;

‘No Irish Need Apply’ was a common warning

For the poor, job seeking Irishman.

The jobs they sought and the jobs they found

Were in the mining pits or digging of canals,

To prevent their families from ‘Taking the Soup’

From the Protestant kitchen tables.

The labor was hard as they toiled the land,

Working for a minimum wage,

But when Saturday arrived, they were rich like Kings

When watching the Celtic play.

Through the years, through our mothers and fathers

We still hold onto our Irish roots,

The anti-Catholic taunts, the bigotry we have encountered

For wearing our green and white hoops.

And we will fly with pride, the flag of Ireland,

No matter what the Scottish media will say,

For our ancestors strength lies within our souls

Each and every day.

Daniel McDonagh 2006

Our spiritual home is Ireland

Were our fore-father’s had to abandon,

As the Irish Diaspora fled in droves

To escape poverty and the famine.

To the west coast of Scotland, they poorly arrived,

With hopes of finding a new paradise,

They were openly received with ignorance and hate,

Shown no help from the governing State.

But, Brother Walfrid, he opened his arms

And welcomed the displaced, into his heart,

The sons and daughters of a famished Erin,

Who found their heritage on the pitch at Celtic Park.

Daniel McDonagh

Glasgow’s Irish Team

My crime was being Irish

When I stepped onto Scotland’s shore,

My accent was mocked and ridiculed,

My culture and faith, arrogantly ignored.

I was an outcast on foreign soil,

Presbyterian pulpits condemned me to hell,

Jobs were few and I was victimized

For I could not read, write or spell.

Scotland was not the New World

That took me by the hand,

But offered poverty and starvation

That I had left back home in Ireland.

The grace of God shone in a man

Who enriched us with his dream,

As Brother Walfrid brought hope to the Irish,

With Celtic, Glasgow’s Irish team.

Daniel McDonagh 2006

When Brother Walfrid came to Glasgow

And settled in the old east end,

He would build a team for the diocese

That sheltered Irish immigrants,

The players of Maley, McCallum and Kelly

Proudly wore the Celtic Cross,

The Glasgow Celtic name would flourish

As the sons of Erin would rejoice.

Cups and trophies and League titles

Would make their way to Paradise,

As Willie Maley nurtured the talents

Who played on the pitch beneath Parkhead’s sky,

Alec McNair and big Dan Doyle

And a Bhoy from Croy called Jimmy Quinn,

Would play on the pitch in a Celtic strip

And hear the sons of Erin celebrate a win.

From the Garngad, came James McGrory

Who gave to the Bhoys, his heart and soul,

And granddad, he would dance on the terracing

At the sight of every McGrory goal,

And Patsy Gallagher and Charlie Tully

Would terrorize defenders down the wing,

Their skills and courage in the green & white

Would make the sons of Erin sing.

And big Jock Stein, as player and manager

Led the Celts to silverware,

He saw the growth of Johnstone and Murdoch

As victory songs rang in the air,

Football was his pride and passion

That he taught to all his players,

And the Celtic shirt, the players would treasure

That each should be so proud to wear.

The faithful who embrace the Celtic

Take their place at Celtic Park,

They have watched McNeill, McStay and Larsson

Play for Celtic from their hearts,

Devoted to the name of Celtic

They proudly wear their emerald green,

They will travel far from every corner

To sing the songs of Brother Walfrid‘s team.

Celtic scarves and Ireland’s flag

Are on display at Celtic Park,

As every fan, will stand behind,

The men who play for Celtic.

Daniel McDonagh 2005

My great-granddad came from Sligo

And in Glasgow, he found his dream,

Side by side with his fellow compatriots,

He embraced the Bhoys in green.

He traveled with the Brake Clubs

To watch the Glasgow Celtic play

And his Irish heart would swell with pride

When goals were scored from McGrory.

He would talk emotionally of the Celtic

When he would take his young son’s hand,

As they walked the miles to Celtic Park

He would sing for dear old Ireland.

For the green & white he would stand and cheer

As Celtic & Ireland reigned in his heart,

For this Sligo man had all his prayers answered

When watching the Bhoys win at Celtic Park.

Daniel McDonagh 2005

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?

Daniel McDonagh 2005

Our Lord and Saint Patrick

Gather all and listen

To a story that is going round,

Of how Our Lord and St .Patrick

Walked into Glasgow town.

They first stopped at the Croy Tavern

For a glass or two of ale,

As they strolled into old Glasgow

Crossing o'er the Campsie hills.

They sang all day and sang all night

Travelling on their way,

Visiting the blessed Garngad

Before heading up to the Gallowgate.

Our Lord, he stopped at Millburn Street

To see were James McGrory was born.

As both he and St. Patrick prayed to the memory

Of Garngad's Irish son

They made their way to High street

And on down to Glasgow cross,

Passing were the 'Smashing of the Van'

In 1921 had occurred.

They heard hymns of the Glasgow Celtic

Emanating from the Tolbooth bar,

Were Our Lord and St. Patrick

Entered the lounge, for a couple of jars.

They both blessed every Glaswegian

Who was wearing the green and white,

While passing the Barra's that stood empty

On a rainy Wednesday night.

While travelling up to Parkhead

Sharing a bottle of Buckfast wine,

They would be sure to tell Artur Boruc,

That blessing yourself is not a crime

Once inside Paradise,

They took their seats in the Jock Stein Stand,

And sitting behind them were the martyrs;

James Connolly, Che & Bobby Sands.

Rebel songs they loudly sang,

Songs that Parkhead no longer hears,

As Our Lord, he whispered to St. Patrick,

I wish wee Johnny Doyle was here.

Daniel McDonagh 2008

Garngad's Irish Bhoy

There was great excitement,

Filled with pleasure and joy,

Songs were sung in harmony

Of Garngad’s Irish Bhoy.

Children ran through the street

Relating the news, expanding the story.

How Celtic won again at Parkhead,

From goal after goal from James McGrory.

A football pitch would be outlined

On a cobblestone street,

Were the sons of Irish immigrants

Played with the poorest of shoes on their feet.

They played until darkness fell,

Or when the rain tore at their souls.

But they told their mothers, told their fathers,

How they scored a James McGrory goal

Daniel McDonagh 2008

James McGrory

From the garden of God

From Ireland’s 33rd county

From the Garngad to Celtic

Came James Edward McGrory.

Daniel McDonagh 2004

On the Royston Road we sang,

Celebrated through the night,

And with the spirit of Mick McLaughlin

We toasted Celtic’s win up at Tannadice.

The old Garngad praised the name of Celtic

And of every man who wore the green,

For the news had came through from Pittodrie

That the Rangers had lost to Aberdeen.

By the steps of Saint Roch’s chapel

The spirits of Mick McLaughlin and Jimmy McGrory

Watched with joy at how the Glasgow Irish

Reveled in Celtic’s championship victory.

The garden of God, Ireland’s 33rd county,

Drank dry every Garngad pub,

And in harmony the Glasgow Irish sang

Of Brother Walfrid’s, Celtic Football Club.

Daniel McDonagh 2008