His songs were a little phrase
Of eternal song,
Drowned in the harping of lays
More loud and long.

His deed was a single word,
Called out alone
In a night when no echo stirred
To laughter or moan.

But his songs new souls shall thrill,
The loud harps dumb,
And his deed the echoes fill
When the dawn is come.

Of a Poet Patriot - Tomás Anéislis Mac Donnchadha (Thomas Stanislaus MacDonagh)

No craven dirge of sorrow
Our hearts will sing to-day,
No whinings for the morrow
Or for ages passed away;
But a song of bold rejoicing
That the seed by our martyrs sown
Has sprung to bloom by the lonely tomb
Of our own unconquered Tone !

O, brave young men of Eirinn !
Be steadfast, leal and true,
Be generous in your daring
For the cause of Roisin Dubh;
Be hers in joy and sorrow,
Even though you stand alone
For the stainless Right, 'gainst England's might,
Like our own unconquered Tone !

His fame is in your keeping,
To hold without a stain,
Till freedom's fires are leaping
- From every hill and plain;
Till Ireland's battle slogan
Shall reach to the despot's throne,
And swords aflame shall trace the name
Of our own unconquered Tone !

A Song of Tone - Brian Ó hUigínn (Brian O'Higgins)

"Even Al Smith made reference, although jokingly, to this political shift when he spoke at a 1934 fund-raising dinner to aid the Jews in Germany. "All my life," he said, "I've been hearing about the plight of the poor Jews some place in the world .... As I look around the room tonight, I see the Governor here, Herby Lehman. He's Jewish. Take the Mayor, he's half Jewish. The President of the Board of Aldermen, my old job, Bernie Deutsch, he's Jewish and so is Sam Levy, the Borough President of Manhattan. I'm beginning to wonder if someone shouldn't do something for the poor Irish, here in New York."

Neighbors in Conflict: The Irish, Germans, Jews, and Italians of New York City, 1929-1941 - Ronald H. Bayor (1988)

The ancient institution of professional story-telling held its ground both in Ireland and in Scotland down to a very recent period; and it is questionable if it be even yet quite extinct. Within my own memory, this sort of entertainment was quite usual among the farming classes of the south of Ireland. The family and workmen, and any neighbours that chose to drop in, would sit round the kitchen fire after the day's work—or perhaps gather in a barn on a summer or autumn evening—to listen to some local shanachie reciting one of his innumerable Gaelic tales.

Old Celtic Romances - P.W. Joyce (1920)