• The Felon’s Track: a narrative of ’48. Embracing the leading events in the Irish struggle from the year 1843 to the close of 1848 (NY: W. H. Holbrooke 1849); Do., ed. M[ary] J[ane] Doheny [2nd edn.] (NY: Farrell & Sons, 207 Fulton St. 1867), 159pp.; Do. [another edn.] (Glasgow 1875), and Do. [another edn.] (Dublin: M. H. Gill & Son 1914; 3rd imp. 1918, 1920, 1943, 6th imp. 1951), xxxi, 320pp.. ill, ports. [as infra]

• ‘The Men of ’48 and The Three Graces’ [i.e., “Eva of the Nation”, “Mary of the Nation”, & “Speranza” (Lady Wilde)], an article by Colonel Michael Doheny, in New York Leader (22 March 1862).
• ‘Constitutional Action versus a War Policy - Speeches of T. F. Meagher & Michael Doheny’, in Morning News (9 Sept. 1864) [Both cuttings in Madden Papers, Gilbert Collection, MS 279, Pearse St. Library, Dublin.]
• ”Memoir of the Rev. Geoffrey Keating, D.D.”, The History of Ireland [i.e., Foras Feasa ar Eirinn, by Geoffrey Keating] from the earliest period to the English invasion. Translated from the original Gaelic, and copiously annotated, with topographical appendix, ed. & trans., John O’Mahony, with a (NY 1866), 20, 746pp.

Note: O’Donnell remarks that Stephens later spoke bitingly of Doheny twenty years after the events and cites his American Diary - i.e., American Diary, Brooklyn 1859 (UCD Press 2009) - though only 11 years after the events of 1848-49.

The long, long wished-for hour has come,
Yet come, astor, in vain;
And left thee but the wailing hum
Of sorrow and of pain;
My light of life, my only love!
Thy portion, sure, must be
Man’s scorn below, God’s wrath above -
A cuisle geal mo chroidhe!*

I’ve given for thee my early prime,
And manhood’s teeming years;
I’ve blessed thee in my merriest time,
And shed with thee my tears;
And, mother, thou thou cast away
The child who’d die for thee.
My fondest wishes still should pray
For cuisle geal mo chroidhe!

For thee I’ve tracked the mountain’s sides.
And slept within the brake,
More lonely than the swan that glides
On Lua’s fairy lake.
The rich have spurned me from their door,
Because I’d make thee free;
Yet still I love thee more and more,
A cuisle geal mo chroidhe!

I’ve run the outlaw’s wild career,
And borne his load of ill;
His rocky couch - his dreamy fear -
With fixed, sustaining will;
And should his last dark chance befall,
Even that shall welcome be ;
Id death I’d love thee beet of all,
A cuisle geal mo chroidhe!

’Twas told of thee the world around,
’Twas hoped for thee by all,
That with one gallant sunward bound
Thou’dst burst long ages’ thrall;
Thy faith was tied, alas! and those
Who periled all for thee
Were cursed and branded as the foe,
A cuisle geal mo chroidhe!

What fate is thine, unhappy Isle,
When even the trusted few
Would pay thee back with hate and guile,
When most they should be true!
’Twas not my strength or spirit quailed,
Or those who’d die for thee -
Who loved thee truly have not failed,
A cuisle geal mo chroidhe!

[First published in The People; rep. in Felon’s Track (1849), p.133-34 - with autobiographical remarks on the time of writing when hiding in Kerry after Rising; anthologised in Justin McCarthy, ed., Irish Literature (Washington: Catholic University of America 1904), pp.864-65; available at Internet Archive - online.]

Hurrah for the outlaw’s life!
Hurrah for the felon’s doom!
Hurrah for the last death-strife!
Hurrah for an exile’s tomb!
Come life or death, ’tis still the same,
So we preserve our stainless name
From losel of the coward’s shame.
Hurrah for the mountain side!
Hurrah for the bivouac!
Hurrah for the heaving tide!
If rocking the felon’s track.

Hurrah for the scanty meal!
If served by th’ ungrudging hand,
Hurrah for the hearts of steel,
Still true to this fallen land!
Still true, though every hazard brings
Some new disaster on its wings,
Which o’er her last faint hope it flings.
Hurrah, etc.

Sadly silent she sits, with her head on her hand,
While she prays, in her heart, to the Ruler above,
To protect, and to guide to some happier land,
The joy of her soul and the spouse of her love:
And she marks by her pulses, so wild in their play,
The slow progress of time, as it straggles along;
And she lists to the wind, as ‘tis moaning away,
And she deems it the chaunt of some funeral song.

Then anon does she start in her struggles with fear,
And she strains at the whispers of every one round,
While she brushes away, half indignant, the tear,
That will gush, tho’ unbidden, at every fresh sound;
And she strives to conceal—oh! how idle the task—
The deep lines in her cheek, and the rent in her heart;
But her neighbours grow pale as they gaze on the
    mask,
And more lowly and slowly they talk, as they part.

When her babes are at rest will she breathe to their
   breath,
And keep vigil, how wistfully, over their sleep,
As it mirrors, poor mourner, the stillness of death,
And she stirs them, and calls, for she deems it too deep;
But again does she hush them, first telling them pray,
Till at length overcharged by the tears yet unshed,
Will she sink, and as consciousness passes away,
O’er her pale furrowed cheek, see the hectic o’erspread.

Slowly thus, day by day, does the fever-fire trace
Its incessant course down her fast-withering cheek,
Till the smile that made light in the glow of her face,
But the faint, fading glimpses of vigour bespeak,
And her reason will fitfully pass into night—
Into night even deeper than that of the blind,
As the shade of the gibbet-tree looms in her sight.
And she fancies a death-scream in th’ echoing wind.

There are few facts detailed in the following pages that need explanation here. If my motive in writing them were personal gratification, or simply a desire to preserve a memorial of scenes in which I took an anxious part, I might labour to make the narration more interesting to my readers, without any care for future consequences.

But through every disaster I preserved unbroken faith in the purpose and courage of my country. I believed, and still believe that her true heart is faithful to liberty and hopeful for the future; and this conviction involved me in a struggle with the apparently opposite tendency of the facts I was bound to narrate. Had I to write for a new generation, upon whom these facts could have made no false impressions, my task would be easy. I am persuaded that a simple statement of all that occurred would satisfy any candid mind that no disgrace attached to Ireland in her recent discomfiture. But I must needs confess that it is a task of extreme difficulty to reconcile her fall with the pre-conceived notions or present prejudices of those who read her story through the false medium of the press; nor do I hope for more than partial success from the details I have been able to give of the circumstances of which she was the victim and the dupe.

It is impossible fully to appreciate the pernicious effect of Mr. O’Connell’s teaching, without reviewing in minute detail the leading circumstances of his wonderful career and the matchless and countless resources with which he upheld his fatal system. In dealing with this part of my subject my difficulties have been multiplied and enhanced by a strong desire to do him no injustice, and to leave untouched by doubt or suspicion a character so intertwined with my country’s love. But it became necessary to refer to those acts which chiefly tended to increase the obstacles which beset our endeavours. In doing this, whether here or elsewhere in my narrative, if I use phrases which would seem to imply harshness to his memory, I wish them to be understood as applied in reference to the attempt to effect the deliverance of Ireland by force of arms, and establishing her entire and perfect independence. I have avoided this question, assuming that I wrote only for those who agreed with me in the belief that such is her true destiny, and the end for which her children ought to strive.

In this view of her recent struggle, there can be no doubt of the tendency of Mr. O’Connell’s policy to demoralise, disgrace, enfeeble and corrupt the Irish people, and it is in that sense, and that only, I have always spoken of him.

Another subject, of perhaps greater delicacy and difficulty, was the part taken by the Catholic clergy. On my arrival in America, I found a fierce contest agitating, dividing and enfeebling the Irish-American population. It was asserted on one side that the entire failure was attributable to the Catholic priests, and that in opposing the liberation of Ireland they acted in accordance with some recognised radical principle of the Church.

I could not assent to either of these propositions. I knew several priests who were fully prepared to take their share in an armed conflict; in fact, the vast majority of those I met at the time. And again, with respect to such as did interfere, and opposed the efforts of the people’s chiefs, I do not believe that one man was influenced by considerations connected with, or emanating from the Church, in its corporate capacity. Of Mr. O’Connell’s policy, already referred to, none were blinder victims than some of the priests. It had made such an impression on them that they scarcely could believe anything was real, or any sentiment was true; and when they admitted its truth it was only to prove its madness. Of other and more questionable motives I shall say nothing here.

But while I feel the injustice of the sweeping charge made against the whole body of the priesthood, I would be unfaithful to my purpose and my convictions if I concealed the acts and language of those among them, who interposed and unhappily exercised baneful influence on the abortive attempt of their unfortunate country. I shall only say further that what relates to them is the only part of my narrative which gave me shame to tell.

I have only a word to add in reference to certain proceedings in the Committee of the Association now made public for the first time. It may be said, and, I doubt not, will be said, that these were matters which we were morally pledged to keep secret. I readily admit that, although there was no obligation whatever, either expressed or implied, as to any subject discussed in committee any more than in the public hall, still, I should not disclose any part of its proceedings if I were not compelled by an imperative necessity. Upon one subject, and that the most important to the character of my illustrious friend, no other proof was available. And the tacit understanding, in virtue of which I would be disposed to admit any obligation of secrecy, does not and could not extend beyond such matters as would, if divulged, endanger the safety or impair the efficiency of the Association. What I tell of the proceedings of the Committee, even if it yet existed, would scarcely have any such effect. But every one knows it not only does not exist, but that is has left no memory which it would be possible to degrade. Its physical existence long survived the last spark of moral vitality, and its efficiency now consists in this, if it warn all men against the species of terrorism which finally prevailed in its councils and effected its overthrow.

In certain circumstances which I relate, I may possibly make some mistakes in the dates, owing to the difficulty of finding those dates in odd numbers and broken volumes of the Journals to which alone I have had access.

It would have given me the sincerest pleasure to add to the collection of heads, which I have been able to procure, those of others who took an honourable part in the Irish struggle. Foremost among them are John Martin and Kevin Izod O’Doherty, who followed in the footsteps and shared the fate of John Mitchel. But I am not aware that there are any likenesses of them in existence; at all events they are not to be obtained in this country.

There are others, too, mentioned in my narrative, whose likenesses I would feel delighted to present to my readers, and some, who although cursorily or not at all mentioned, acted a noble and devoted part. Of the first, are the companions of my wanderings, James Stephens and John O’Mahony; and of the second, Doctor Antisel, Richard Dalton Williams, James Cantwell, Richard Hartnet, Patrick O’Dea, and indeed many others, of whose efforts and sacrifices it would be a source of pride to me to make honourable mention.

I may be permitted to take this opportunity to assure them and others of whom I have not spoken that no name has been omitted by me from any feelings of dislike or any desire to depreciate the services and sacrifices of a single man among the hundreds, whose exile or ruin attests the sincerity of their convictions and the purity of their patriotism. Even with men who do not take the same view of last year’s history as I do, their names and characters will go far to redeem its darkest traces from shame and obloquy. They are now scattered over the wide earth, and there is not one among them from the highest to the humblest, whom I do not hold in the utmost honour and esteem.

New York, September 21, 1849.

There remains to be told but one incident. On our arrival at the Paris terminus, we got into an English omnibus which brought us to an English hotel — the Hotel de Louvre, in the rue St. Thomas. There we dined together, some dozen or so of the passengers. After dinner my friend and I had champagne. While discussing its merits the conversation turned on Ireland. Opinions, of course, varied. Mine, it need scarcely be added, to an Englishman’s ear sounded bloodily, and I urged them with the vehemence of baffled rage. An old English gentleman of that quiet school which affects liberality and moderation, but entertains deepest animosity, deprecated the violence [156] of my language and sentiments, and expressed his painful astonishment at hearing such opinions from the mouth of a clergyman; “they would not be unbecoming,” added he with great bitterness of tone, “that sanguinary brigand, Doheny.” Involuntarily and simultaneously my friend and myself burst into an immoderate fit of laughter. The gentleman could not at all comprehend our mirth. He had, he thought, delivered himself of very sound and very gentlemanly philosophy, and he was really shocked to find it had made an impression so different from what he had expected. He had travelled much, he said, and met men of many lands, of whom Irishmen were ever the most polite and best bred gentlemen; a fact which rendered our laughing in his face rather inexplicable. The conversation was again resumed and again waxed warm. I expressed my opinion of English paupers in Ireland, and said they ought to be transported in a convict ship back to Liverpool, in the same fashion as Irish paupers of a different class are transmitted to Dublin by the Liverpool guardians. To this he replied by saying that there would be no peace in Ireland until the Mitchels and Dohenys were hanged, a fate which the latter was hastening to with irresistible impetus. At this selfsatisfied prophecy we laughed louder than before, whereupon he waxed wrathful, and repeating his experience of the world in general, and of Irishmen in particular, demanded an explanation of the laugh. I said, “That is a straightforward question, and demands a direct answer. It shall be given, although you have refused to answer, as all Englishmen of your class invariably do, several direct questions which I have put to you. I laughed because I am that same sanguinary Doheny;” and pulling off my wig, I added, “me voila at your service.” The sudden appearance of him who answered the incantations of the weird sisters could not produce a greater panic. Chairs tumbled in every direction, and their occupiers fled the room, leaving myself and my friend ample space to enjoy the joke and the champagne in undisturbed quiet.

[...] From beginning to end, some mischance marred every propitious circumstance that presented itself. It seemed 'as if the failure had been predestined. But to yield to such a fate, to abjure the great and true faith which the attempt of the last unhappy year quickened in the hearts of all men, would be distrust of God’s mercy and justice. In the struggle that preceded the outbreak a great victory was won. The most formidable power that ever fettered the consciences of men was struck to the earth. Truth, long lost sight of, was again restored, as one of the great agencies of national deliverance, and national elevation. The question between England and Ireland assumed its real character ; and although huxtering politicians have since endeavored to set up the honor of the island for sale, they have been only able to dispose of their own characters. The people have not debased themselves. In the lying homage to the Queen of England they took no part. They have preserved through the severest trials the old immortal yearning of their race, and the arms they had provided themselves with in ’48, they have guarded religiously, in the hope of using them on some day of brighter auspices and loftier destiny.