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# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 14/Letter: Pope to Swift - 30

MR. POPE TO DR. SWIFT.
MARCH 23, 1736-7.
THOUGH you were never to write to me, yet what you desired in your last, that I would write often to you, would be a very easy task: for every day I talk with you, and of you, in my heart; and I need only set down what that is thinking of. The nearer I find myself verging to that period of life which is to be labour and sorrow, the more I prop myself upon those few supports that are left ​me. People in this state are like props indeed, they cannot stand alone, but two or more of them can stand, leaning and bearing upon one another. I wish you and I might pass this part of life together. My only necessary care is at an end. I am now my own master too much; my house is too large; my gardens furnish too much wood and provision for my use. My servants are sensible and tender of me, they have intermarried, and are become rather low friends than servants: and to all those that I see here with pleasure, they take a pleasure in being useful. I conclude this is your case too in your domestick life, and I sometimes think of your old housekeeper as my nurse; though I tremble at the sea, which only divides us. As your fears are not so great as mine, and I firmly hope your strength still much greater, is it utterly impossible, it might once more be some pleasure to you to see England? My sole motive in proposing France to meet in, was the narrowness of the passage by sea from hence, the physicians having told me the weakness of my breast, &c. is such, as a seasickness might endanger my life. Though one or two of our friends are gone, since you saw your native country, there remain a few more who will last so till death; and who I cannot but hope have an attractive power to draw you back to a country, which cannot quite be sunk or enslaved, while such spirits remain. And let me tell you, there are a few more of the same spirit, who would awaken all your old ideas, and revive your hopes of her future recovery and virtue. These look up to you with reverence, and would be animated by the sight of him, at whose soul they have taken fire, in his writings, and derived from thence ​as much love of their species, as is consistent with a contempt for the knaves of it.
I could never be weary, except at the eyes, of writing to you; but my real reason (and a strong one it is) for doing it so seldom, is fear; fear of a very great and experienced evil, that of my letters being kept by the partiality of friends, and passing into the hands, and malice of enemies; who publish them with all their imperfections on their head, so that I write not on the common terms of honest men.
Would to God you would come over with lord Orrery, whose care of you in the voyage I could so certainly depend on; and bring with you your old housekeeper and two or three servants. I have room for all, a heart for all, and (think what you will) a fortune for all. We could, were we together, contrive to make our last days easy, and leave some sort of monument, what friends two wits could be in spite of all the fools in the world. Adieu.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 14/Letter: Pope to Swift - 22

MR. POPE TO DR. SWIFT.
SEPT. 1, 1733.
I HAVE every day wished to write to you, to say a thousand things; and yet I think I should not have writ to you now, if I was not sick of writing any thing, sick of myself, and (what is worse) sick of my friends too. The world is become too busy for me; every body is so concerned for the publick, that all private enjoyments are lost, or disrelished, I write more to show you I am tired of this life, than to tell you any thing relating to it. I live as I did, I think as I did, I love you as I did: but all these are to no purpose: the world will not live, think, or love, as I do. I am troubled for, and vexed at, all my friends by turns. Here are some whom you love, and who love you; yet they receive no proofs of that affection from you, and they give none of it to you. There is a great gulf between. In earnest, I would go a thousand miles by land to see you, but the sea I dread. My ailments are such, that I really believe a seasickness, (considering the oppression of colical pains, and the great weakness of my breast) would kill me: and if I did not die of that, I must of the excessive eating and drinking of your hospitable town, and the excessive flattery of your most poetical country. I hate to be crammed either way. Let your hungry poets, and your rhyming peers digest it, I cannot. I like much better to be abused and half starved, than to be so overpraised and overfed. Drown Ireland! ​for having caught you, and for having kept you: I only reserve a little charity for her for knowing your value, and esteeming you: you are the only patriot I know, who is not hated for serving his country. The man who drew your character and printed it here was not much in the wrong in many things he said of you: yet he was a very impertinent fellow, for saying them in words quite different from those you had yourself employed before on the same subject: for surely to alter your words is to prejudice them: and I have been told, that a man himself can hardly say the same thing twice over with equal happiness: nature is so much a better thing than artifice.
I have written nothing this year: it is no affectation to tell you, my mother's loss has turned my frame of thinking. The habit of a whole life is a stronger thing than all the reason in the world. I know I ought to be easy, and to be free: but I am dejected, I am confined: my whole amusement is in reviewing my past life, not in laying plans for my future. I wish you cared as little for popular applause as I; as little for any nation in contradistinction to others, as I; and then I fancy, you that are not afraid of the sea, you that are a stronger man at sixty than ever I was at twenty, would come and see several people who are (at last) like the primitive christians, of one soul and of one mind. The day is come, which I have often wished, but never thought to see; when every mortal that I esteem is of the same sentiment in politicks and in religion.
Adieu. All you love, are yours, but all are busy, except (dear sir) your sincere friend.
# The Three Feathers

* related portals: Brothers Grimm.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Commons category, Wikidata item.
English-language translations of Die drei Federn include:
* "The Three Feathers", translated by Margaret Raine Hunt, in Grimm's Household Tales, Volume 1 (1884)
* "The Three Feathers", translated by Margaret Raine Hunt, illustrated by Arthur Rackham, in Little Brother and Little Sister (1917)
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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# The Tribes of Burma/Was

The Was
The Was, including the Tai Loi, the En, the Hsen Hsum and other sub-tribes are a Trans-Salween hill-folk who, while clearly related to the Palaungs and the Yins, differ outwardly very considerably from them. The wild Was, of whom very little is known—their head-hunting propensities having secured them for the time being almost complete isolation—are all spirit worshippers and most of the tame Was are also non-Buddhists. A large proportion of the Was proper (also known as Las or Lawas) live in the Trans-Salween and to a small extent also in the Cis-Salween Northern Shan States, but no idea of their strength can be given, as the great bulk of them were left altogether alone when the 1901 Census was taken. In the enumerated areas there were 5,964 Was proper, 15,660 Tai Loi, 1,351 Hsen Hsurn, 1,096 Pyin, 931 En and 70 Hkala, all sub-tribes of the main tribe. All but 1,200 or so of these were counted in the Southern Shan States, for the most part in Kengtung. Taken altogether the Was can hardly be less than 50,000 in number. Some of this total—though how many it is practically impossible to say—live across the border in Chinese territory. The main authorities regarding ​the Was are quoted in the note at page 95 below. The fullest account of the wild Was yet published is contained in the Upper Burma Gazetteer. The Northern Was are at a very low stage of civilization and their dress is of the scantiest, whereas the women of many of the tame Was further south cover themselves very fully.
# The Tribes of Burma/front matter

LIST OF AGENTS FOR THE SALE OF GOVERNMENT PUBLICATIONS.
IN INDIA;
THACKER, SPINIK & Co., Calcutta, W. NEWMAN & Co., Calcutta, THACKER & Co., Bombay. HIGGINBOTHAM & Co, Madras. PROPRIETOR, HANTHAWADDY PRESS, Rangoon. SUPERINTENDENT, AMERICAN BAPTIST MISSION PRESS, Rangoon.
IN ENGLAND :
E. A. ARNOLD, 41 and 43, Maddox Street, Bond Street, W. London. HENRY S. KING & Co., 65, Cornhill, E.C., London. CONSTABLE & Co., 10, Orange Street, Leicester Square, W.C. KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRÜBNER & Co., 43, Gerrard Street, Soho, London, W. BERNARD QUARITCH, 11, Grafton Street, New Bond Street, W, P. S. KING & SON, 2 & 4, Great Smith Street, Westminster, London, W.S. GRINDLAY & Co., 54, Parliament Street, S.W. T. FISHER UNWIN, 1, Adelphi Terrace, London, W.C. B. H. BLACKWELL, 50 & 51, Broad Street, Oxford. DEIGHTON BELL & Co., Cambridge. MESSRS W THACKER & Co., 2, Creed Lane, London, EC. MESSRS LUZAC & Co., 46, Great Russell Street, London, W.C.
ON THE CONTINENT:
R. FRIEDLANDER & SOHN, 11, Carlstrasse, Berlin, Germany. OTTO HARRASSOWITZ, Leipzig, Germany. KARL W. HIERSEMANN, Leipzig, Germany. ERNEST LEROUX. 28, Rue Bonaparte, Paris, France. MARTINUS NIJHOFF, The Hague, Holland. RUDOLF HAUPT, 1, Dorrientrasse, Leipzig, Germany.
# The Tricolour

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The Tricolour."
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This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* The Tricolour (1922), a collection of poetry by Dora Sigerson Shorter
* "The Tricolour", a poem within that collection
# The Tricolour, Poems of the Irish Revolution/A Catholic to His Ulster Brother

A CATHOLIC TO HIS ULSTER BROTHER
Is there no bond of blood to you, my brother? We two have called her ours, the ancient Mother, And here we hope to rest from Life's temptation Building of souls our patriotic Nation.
Can we not stand amongst the purple heather To find that God we both revere together? Beneath this sky can come no bigot preaching To fling our lofty dreams to lowly teaching.
William or James, need we still hate each other For their dead sakes, my Irish-hearted brother? Can we not pray without fear of dissension “God save our land” with but the same intention?
If we from Derry walls were flung defeated, And you from Limerick town in speed retreated, One God is ours no matter what religion, One land we love and shall not have division.
Shall we divide? Ah, better take the token Of Ireland's luck and leave the shamrock broken Of one green leaf, when four brought joy upon it, As Ulster lost—from Munster, Leinster, Connacht.
But Ulster lost with each green sod still crying For those dear dead who left us dreams undying Of Ireland's needs, O'Neill whose heart took fire And joined the sacred flames of Hugh Maguire.
Shall we not cry “Lamh Dearg abu” and glory In Cromwell's fall, in reading Clonmel's story, Or by the “Yellow Ford” who cheered most loudly As hand from hand we passed the same flag proudly?
Yea, we have gone with joyous hearts to follow Men of your thought by mountain, hill and hollow, Died for them, lived again, loved down the ages To bless them yet upon historic pages.
Emmet and Tone! Ah, half our pride uprooted, We were but dead if we such names refuted, Our well-beloved, dear brothers of our Sireland, We call with them “For God and Holy Ireland.”
And do we mourn our Owen Roe less sadly, Or hold Lord Edward's claim more loved or gladly, Because of “popish” ways of Owen's praying, Or Edward went to other altars straying?
Do we forget or could our fond faith slacken A patriot's glow in owning Joy MacCracken, Who Belfast-born has helped the island's story And shed from Antrim's hills a sunrise glory.
Mitchel or Meagher! Ah, hear the dear names falling On no deaf ears, we welcome to you calling, “O dead long gone, O dead of recent slaying, From your chill hands we take the banner, praying.”
Where this dear land forbids us to forsake her, Join with the one sweet voice to the same Maker, “Our hate is one, our love is one the other, Lead on! or follow, O my Irish brother.”
# The Tricolour, Poems of the Irish Revolution

THE TRICOLOUR
Dora Sigerson
FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY ROBINSON, DUBLIN
* THE TRICOLOUR
* POEMS OF THE
* IRISH REVOLUTION
* BY
* DORA SIGERSON SHORTER
* MAUNSEL AND ROBERTS, LIMITED
* DUBLIN1922
Copyright in the United States of America
by Mitchel Kennerley, New York, 1919
EDITOR'S NOTE
The publication of this book is a sacred obligation to one who broke her heart over Ireland. Dora Sigerson in her last few weeks of life, knowing full well that she was dying, designed every detail of this little volume—the dedication to the tricolour, and the order in which the poems were to be printed.
Any profit that may arise from the sale of the book will be devoted, as are all the copyrights of the author, to a monument which she herself sculptured with a view to its erection over the graves of the “Sixteen Dead Men” when circumstances place their ashes in Glasnevin.
The editor is indebted to the courtesy of Constable and Co., of London, for permission to reprint eight poems from “The Sad Years,” by Dora Sigerson.
CONTENTS
PAGE
A Monument to Padraic Pearse and his Comrades, shot in Easter Week.
DESIGNED AND SCULPTURED BY DORA SIGERSON
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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# The Tricolour, Poems of the Irish Revolution/In the Years of Sarsfield

IN THE YEARS OF SARSFIELD
I wish I were over the Curlew Mountains, Marching to Sligo by valley and fen; I wish I were back in the years of Sarsfield, Tramping the rough roads with him and his men.
I wish that I stood upon Yellow Island, Watching the camp that the Williamites made; I wish that my good gun was pressed to my shoulder And that my caubeen held the white cockade.
I wish I were out with “galloping Hogan,” Happy a guide for my hero to be, Encamped for the night on the Keeper Mountain, Ready to guard with the brave rapparee.
I wish I had been in the woods of Cullen In the dark night when the battle began; I wish I had heard at the wan moon's rising “Sarsfield the word, and Sarsfield the man.”
I wish I were young at the siege of Limerick, Holding the breach there and glad in the fight; Ah, could I but see him, King William of Orange, With his troops defeated ready for flight.
Had I but stood on the bridge of Athlone, there Flinging the plank and beam into the wave, Keeping the broken arch, as the last hero stood Fighting the fight of death, one of the brave.
I wish I had fought in the flood of the Shannon With the grim Dutchmen, to conquer or drown, Left without shot or shell by the false Maxwell, Into the deep had that traitor gone down.
I wish I had fought in the battle of Aughrim By the black bog on the side of the hill, Seeing there Ginkel's men fall to disquietude, Failing with Sarsfield meant living still.
I wish I had flown with the Wild Geese across the sea, Knelt on red Landen's plain, facing the foe; Holding the dear head of Sarsfield on my heart, Knowing from his brave blood heroes would grow.
Ah, had I sailed to far France out of Galway, There on the deck with spy Maxwell to be, Bishop or Luttrell never had stayed me From “tossing the Scotsman right into the sea.”
* ↑ One Brigadier Maxwell, in the Campaign of 1691.
* ↑ Macaulay's History of England, Ch. XVII
# The Tribes of Burma/Taungthus

The Taungthus
As noted above, the Taungthus are a tribe of Karens probably more closely connected with the Pwo branch than with the Bghai, though they are found in their greatest strength in the Bghai country in the southern half of the Southern Shan States. They have been dealt with separately from the other Karens in this work merely because, like the Kamis and Mros of the western hills, they were studied on the spot and described long before the annexation of Upper Burma brought a full knowledge of the Karens as a whole. Taungthu merely means in Burmese a hill man or, even more frequently, a husbandman, and it should be borne in mind that occasionally persons referred to by Burmans as Taungthus ​are merely hill-folk. The real Taungthus, who call themselves Pa-o, are never found west of the Sittang or the Samon. They are scattered down all the eastern hills as far as Thaton near the mouth of the Salween, where is a large colony of them, but, like the Palaungs, they predominate in and have a representative in the Chief of one of the Shan States, Hsatung. There is clearly a connection between Hsatung and Thaton, though whether the Shan State took its name from the town of Thaton, or whether Thaton was called after the State has not yet been determined. There were 168,301 Taungthus enumerated as such in 1901, of whom over 122,000 were counted in the Southern Shan States and the bulk of the balance in Thaton. They are the most numerous and about the most widely distributed hill tribe in the Southern Shan States. The Taungthu men dress like Shans. The women wear a dark smock and skirt. In the Shan States the arms are frequently covered with sleeves decorated with coloured patch work, and leggings are worn. In the warmer climate of Thaton leggings are dispensed with. The head-dress consists of a turban of dark cloth ornamented with tassels and kept in position by silver hair spikes. For bibliographical note, see page 104.
# The Tricolour, Poems of the Irish Revolution/Conscription

CONSCRIPTION
There is a shadow on the head I love, There is a danger lurks thy path upon, It murmurs low as coos the mating dove, It calls in grey and gathered clouds above, For thee, for thee, Kathleen ni-Houlihan.
It hides in seas that beat about thy shores, The wind in passing whispers and is gone, And the brown leaf no summer will restore, Flutters this cry on Winter's russet floor, Danger to thee, Kathleen ni-Houlihan.
God of the seas disperse the gathered gloom, God of the skies smile her sweet path upon, God of the earth this danger swift entomb, Slay the wild beast that creeps to bring her doom. Save her, save her, Kathleen ni-Houlihan!
# The Works of Francis Bacon/Volume 1/Essays/Of Suitors

XLIX. OF SUITORS.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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# The Works of Francis Bacon/Volume 1/Essays/Of Superstition

XVII. OF SUPERSTITION.
It were better to have no opinion of God at all than such an opinion as is unworthy of him; for the one is unbelief, the other is contumely; and certainly superstition is the reproach of the Deity. Plutarch saith well to that purpose: "Surely," saith he, "I had rather a great deal men should say there was no such man at all as Plutarch, than that they should say that there was one Plutarch, that would eat his children as soon as they were born:" as the poets speak of Saturn: and, as the contumely is greater towards God, so the danger is greater towards men. Atheism leaves a man to sense, to philosophy, to natural piety, to laws, to reputation: all which may be guides to an outward moral virtue, though religion were not; but superstition dismounts all these, and erecteth an absolute monarchy in the minds of men: therefore atheism did never perturb states; for it makes men wary of themselves, as looking no further, and we see the times inclined to atheism (as the time of Augustus Cæsar) were civil times: but superstition hath been the confusion of many states, and bringeth in a new "primum mobile," that ravisheth all the spheres of government. The master of superstition is the people, and in all superstition wise men follow fools; and arguments are fitted to practice, in a reversed order. It was gravely said, by some of the prelates in the council of Trent, where the doctrine of the schoolmen bare great sway, that the schoolmen were like astronomers, which did feign eccentrics and epicycles, and such engines of orbs to save phenomena, though they knew there were no such things; and, in like manner, that the schoolmen had framed a number of subtle and intricate axioms and theorems, to save the practice of the church. The causes of superstition are, pleasing and sensual rites and ceremonies; excess of outward and pharisaical holiness; over great reverence of traditions, which cannot but load the church; the stratagems of prelates for their own ambition and lucre; the favouring too much of good intentions, which openeth the gate to conceits and novelties; the taking an aim at divine matters by human, which cannot but breed mixture of imaginations; and, lastly, barbarous times, especially joined with calamities and disasters. Superstition, without a veil, is a deformed thing: for as it addeth deformity to an ape to be so like a man, so the similitude of superstition to religion makes it the more deformed: and, as wholesome meat corrupteth to little worms, so good forms and ​orders corrupt into a number of petty observances. There is a superstition in avoiding superstition, when men think to do best if they go furthest from the superstition formerly received; therefore care would be had that (as it fareth in ill purgings) the good be not taken away with the bad, which commonly is done when the people is the reformer.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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# The Works of Francis Bacon/Volume 1/Essays/Of Wisdom for a Man's Self

XXIII. OF WISDOM FOR A MAN'S SELF.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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