To Ireland in the Coming Times

An Irish reader who asks to remain anonymous sent us this email yesterday. It concerns the second Irish referendum on the Lisbon Treaty, which will be held on October 2nd:

Dear Baron and Dymphna,

Please ask all of your readers to pray for us as this referendum approaches.

Our economic fears are being played like a violin. We were always a very poor country in monetary terms, but good in our souls.

Nobody wants to go back to the poverty and emigration of the past, but unfortunately the fear strategies of the EU and the yes-people are likely to succeed.

It took us eight hundred years to get rid of the Brits, and it looks like we will abandon our hard-earned victory just to hand over our country to unknown, unelected, and corrupt bureaucrats.

Many of our people died to make us a nation. Some were good and some bad, but eventually we emerged as a nation of the world. We are about to throw away the sacrifice of these great men and women who lost their lives and fought and died for us. After many hundreds of years of being treated like slaves and serfs in our own country, we will now be voting to put ourselves once more in the same position.

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The forces of Multiculturalism have targeted us, and it looks like we the people will lose.

Keep up the good work and pray for us.

Those of us who are not Irish can do no more than pray.

But our Irish readers, in addition to praying, should remember to bypass the media propaganda blanket and spread the word to family, friends, co-workers, and acquaintances: this vote matters. It is about affirming a traditional Irish identity and remaining autonomous. It demands a rejection of control by distant power-hungry elitists — those unaccountable Brusselcrats who have no interest in the well-being of Ireland, but desire only the further accretion of their own power.

As a postscript, here is the final stanza of “To Ireland in the Coming Times” by William Butler Yeats:

While still I may, I write for you
The love I lived, the dream I knew.
From our birthday, until we die,
Is but the winking of an eye;
And we, our singing and our love,
What measurer Time has lit above,
And all benighted things that go
About my table to and fro,
Are passing on to where may be,
In truth’s consuming ecstasy,
No place for love and dream at all;
For God goes by with white footfall.
I cast my heart into my rhymes,
That you, in the dim coming times,
May know how my heart went with them
After the red-rose-bordered hem.