RECENT PRIZE WINNERS

The speeches in this section have been used in declamation contests for the past fifteen years with great success. They are the utterances of modern orators, many of whom are still living.

RECENT PRIZE WINNERS

ADDRESS ON IRISH-AMERICAN DAY

BY

ROBERT L. TAYLOR

Delivered by Governor Taylor at the Tennessee Centennial,
Sept. 21, 1897. See page 8.

If I were a sculptor, I would chisel from the marble my ideal of a hero. I would make it the figure of an Irishman, sacrificing his hopes and his life on the altar of his country, and I would carve on its pedestal the name of Emmet.

If I were a painter, I would make the canvas eloquent with the deeds of the bravest people who ever lived, whose proud spirit no power can ever conquer, and whose loyalty and devotion to the home of free government, no tyrant can ever crush; and I would write under the picture, "Ireland."

If I were a poet, I would melt the world to tears with the pathos of my song. I would touch the heart of humanity with the mournful threnody of Ireland's wrongs and Erin's woes.

Tortured in dungeons and murdered on scaffolds, robbed of the fruits of their sweat and toil, driven like the leaves of autumn before the keen winter winds, these sturdy sons and daughters of Erin have been scattered over the face of the earth, homeless only in the land

of their nativity, but princes and lords in every other land where merit is the measure of the man.

Where is the battlefield that has not been glorified by Irish courage and baptized with Irish blood? And where is the free country whose councils have not been strengthened by Irish brains and whose wealth has not been increased by Irish brawn?

Wherever the flag of war flutters the spirit of Irish chivalry is there, panting for the battle and eager for the charge. Whether it be Wellington leading the allied armies at Waterloo, or Ney following the eagles of France; whether it be Sam Houston crushing the armies of Santa Anna at San Jacinto, or Davy Crockett courting death at the Alamo; whether it be Andrew Jackson at New Orleans, or Stonewall Jackson at Chancellorsville; whether it be Phil Sheridan in the saddle riding like a god of war in the thickest of the fight, or Pat Cleburne leading a foe, it is the same intrepid, unconquerable spirit of sublime courage which flows like a stream of inspiration from the heart of old Ireland to fire the souls of the world's greatest leaders and to burn forever on the altars of liberty.

Wherever the banner of peace is unfurled over the progressive English-speaking nations of the earth, this same irresistible Celtic blood has ever been present, shaping the destinies of empires and republics.

It warmed the heart of Edmund Burke, whose brain was a mighty loom which wove tapestries of glory for England and for mankind. It inspired the souls of Swift and Sheridan, whose dreams will linger in English literature forever, like the fragrance of roses that are faded and gone. It lighted up the brain of Oliver Gold

smith, who broke out in songs sweeter than the song of the nightingale. It kindled the soul of Tom Moore into flame, and, like an angel of light from the realms of dreams, he swept the burning strings of Erin's harp, and-lo!-the whole world thrilled with its melody. The body of Tom Moore was dust long ago, but his spirit lives in his songs and breathes hope in every Irish heart and happiness in ever Irish home. If I were asked why our Southern people are so impulsive, I should answer: It is not so much the effect of the climate as it is the predominance of Irish blood in our veins. It was this that fired the Irish heart of Patrick Henry to preach secession from English wrath and the power of English arms: it was this that nerved our Irish-American President, James K. Polk, to have Mexico thrashed before breakfast; it was this that woke the lion in the Irish bosom of John C. Calhoun, and impelled him to thunder the doctrine of State's rights under the Constitution; and it was this which finally put the North on the pension list and the South on crutches.

Let us weave the shamrock and the rose into garlands of glory for the Emerald Isle, the land of martyrs and memories, the cradle of heroes, the nursery of liberty.