The Great Appear Great To Us.

All These Mountains Of Irish Dead, All These Corpses Mangled Beyond Recognition, All These Arms, Legs, Eyes, Ears, Fingers, Toes, Hands, All These Shivering Putrefying Bodies And Portions Of Bodies Once Warm Living And Tender Parts Of Irish Men And Youths - All These Horrors In Flanders Or The Gallipoli Peninsula, Are All Items In The Price Ireland Pays For Being Part Of The British Empire.

Ireland, As Distinct From Her People, Is Nothing To Me; And The Man Who Is Bubbling Over With Love And Enthusiasm For "ireland," And Can Yet Pass Unmoved Through Our Streets And Witness All The Wrong And The Suffering, Shame And Degradation Wrought Upon The People Of Ireland-yea, Wrought By Irishmen Upon Irish Men And Women, Without Burning To End It, Is, In My Opinion, A Fraud And A Liar In His Heart, No Matter How He Loves That Combination Of Chemical Elements He Is Pleased To Call Ireland.

We Who Hold His (wolfe Tone) Principles Believe That Any Movement Which Would Successfully Grapple With The Problem Of National Freedom Must Draw Its Inspiration Not From The Mouldering Records Of The Past, But From The Glowing Hopes Of The Living Present, The Vast Possibilities Of The Mighty Future.

However It May Be For Others, For Us Of The Citizen Army There Is But One Ideal - An Ireland Ruled, And Owned, By Irish Men And Women, Sovereign And Independent From The Centre To The Sea, And Flying Its Own Flag Outward Over All The Oceans.

Just As It Is True That A Stream Cannot Rise Above Its Source, So It Is True That A National Literature Cannot Rise Above The Moral Level Of The Social Conditions Of The People From Whom It Derives Its Inspiration.