Publisher's Synopsis
Excerpt from The Poetical Works of Thomas Macdonagh
T is strange to look back to the time when I first knew Thomas macdonagh. What with the present great war in Europe, and our own small war in Ireland, that time has so faded and retreated that one recalls it with difficulty and regards it with something of astonishment yet it is only six years ago. Was there that peace, that gentleness, that good-humour And was the macdonagh of April, 1916, the same man with whom I walked and talked and quar relled in 1910? One could quarrel with Mac Donagh, but not for more than three minutes at a time, and if he were ruffled the mere touch of a hand or the wind of a pleasant word appeased him instantly. I have seldom known a man in whom the instinct for friendship was so true, nor one who was so prepared to use himself in the service of a friend. He was intensely egotistic in his speech; so, it seems to me, were all the young Irishmen of that date; but in his actions he was utterly unselfish.
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