#IrishWriters
I MADE my song a coat Covered with embroideries Out of old mythologies From heel to throat; But the fools caught it,
Sung by the people of Faery ov… We who are old, old and gay, O so old! Thousands of years, thousands of y… If all were told:
We should be hidden from their eye… Being but holy shows And bodies broken like a thorn Whereon the bleak north blows, To think of buried Hector
O, curlew, cry no more in the air, Or only to the waters in the West… Because your crying brings to my m… Passion-dimmed eyes and long heavy… That was shaken out over my breast…
“Would it were anything but merely… The No King cried who after that… Because he had not heard of anythi… That balanced with a word is more… Yet Old Romance being kind, let h…
Good Father John O’Hart In penal days rode out To a Shoneen who had free lands And his own snipe and trout. In trust took he John’s lands;
Once more the storm is howling, an… Under this cradle—hood and coverli… My child sleeps on. There is no… But Gregory’s wood and one bare h… Whereby the haystack—and roof—leve…
‘ALTHOUGH I’d lie lapped up in… A deal I’d sweat and little earn If I should live as live the neig… Cried the beggar, Billy Byrne; ‘Stretch bones till the daylight c…
The Danaan children laugh, in cra… And clap their hands together, and… For they will ride the North when… With heavy whitening wings, and a… I kiss my wailing child and press…
TOIL and grow rich, What’s that but to lie With a foul witch And after, drained dry, To be brought
How can I, that girl standing the… My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics? Yet here’s a travelled man that kn…
It is now more than ten years since I met, for the last time, Michael Robartes, and for the first time and the last time his friends and fellow students; and witnessed his and their tra...
Swift has sailed into his rest; Savage indignation there Cannot lacerate his breast. Imitate him if you dare, World-besotted traveller; he
THERE all the golden codgers lay… There the silver dew, And the great water sighed for lov… And the wind sighed too. Man-picker Niamh leant and sighed
SING of the O’Rahilly, Do not deny his right; Sing a 'the’ before his name; Allow that he, despite All those learned historians,