was the national organisation going on in Ireland for the time being we two—­Alfred Crilly and myself—­always did our best to have its counterpart in Liverpool.  Indeed it became the case that for many years our people there invariably looked to us to take the initiative in every national movement.  Whenever A.M.  Sullivan came over to our demonstrations it did not need our assurance to convince him that every pulsation of the national heart in Ireland was as warmly and as strongly felt on this side of the Channel as though we still formed part of our mother island.  Indeed, the evidence of his own eyes, the enthusiasm he saw when he came amongst us, caused him to declare at a vast gathering in the Amphitheatre that he felt as if he were not out of Ireland at all, but on a piece cut from the “old sod” itself.

I felt proud when two young men of my training, John McArdle, who had been with me on the “Catholic Times”; and afterwards Daniel Crilly, on the “United Irishman,” were appointed to the literary staff of the “Nation,” for which they were well fitted, seeing that, with their brilliant gifts, they had, from their earliest days, been imbued with the doctrines of that newspaper.

T.D., like his brother, often came to Liverpool, and used to be equally delighted with the enthusiastic receptions he got from his fellow-countrymen.  On one occasion he said to me he was at a loss how to show his appreciation.  I told him how to do this.  “Write us a song,” I said.  He did so; and with that admirable tact which is so characteristic of him he chose for his theme—­“Erin’s Sons in England,” a song which, written to the air of “The Shamrock,” has, for many years, been sung at our Irish festivals in Great Britain.  As a personal favour to myself he wrote it for one of the penny books of my “Irish Library”.

I need make no apology for introducing T.D.  Sullivan’s song here.  It will be seen that he sings our praise with no uncertain note; and, in return, I may say on their behalf that he had no warmer admirers than among the Irish of England.

    ERIN’S SONS IN ENGLAND.

   Air—­“Oh, the Shamrock.”

On every shore, the wide world o’er,
The newest and the oldest,
The sons are found of Erin’s ground
Among the best and boldest. 
But soul and will are turning still
To Ireland o’er the ocean,
And well I know where aye they glow
With most intense devotion.

CHORUS:—­Over here in England,
Up and down through England,
Fond and true and fearless too,
Are Erin’s sons in England.

Where toil is hard, in mill and yard,
Their hands are strong to bear it;
Where genius bright would wing its flight,
The mind is theirs to dare it;
But high or low, in joy or woe,
With any fate before them,
The sweetest bliss they know, is this—­
To aid the land that bore them.

  CHORUS:—­Over here in England, &c.