Thou hast forgotten me.”
My dear Rossa—I wrote to you three times since we last met last at the Rock mills. I have often thought of your farewell words after I took your photograph from you that early morning in Patrick street: “No ship that was ever built should take us away from Ireland.”
Yours as ever, go dilis,
James O’Mahony,
Seamas laidir Ua Maghthamhna.
Go bhfeiceadsa an la go mbeidh raas air an Sagsanach.
A luingeas dha mbath, air lar na fairge.
John Lynch who, five years after, died in the next ward to me in a London prison, was an officer of that banquet committee in Cork City, Patrick’s day, 1862. He sent me this letter of invitation:
National Reading Rooms,
Tuckey St., Cork, Feb. 26, 1862.
My dear Sir—I am directed by the committee to ask your attendance as a guest at our Soiree and Ball in the Atheneum on St. Patrick’s night, to celebrate our National festival.
Trusting that you will make it your convenience to attend, and awaiting the favor of a reply, I am, dear sir, yours very truly,