Black Rose
Tell me the legends of long ago
When the kings and queens would dance in the realm of the black rose
Play me the melodies i want to know
So i can teach my children, oh
Pray tell me the story of young c chulainn
How his eyes were dark his expression sullen
And how he'd fight and always won
And how they cried when he was fallen
Oh tell me the story of the queen of this land
And how her sons died at her own hand
And how fools obey commands
Oh tell me the legends of long ago
Where the mountains of mourne come down to the sea
Will she no come back to me
Will she no come back to me
Oh shenandoah i hear you calling
Far away you rolling river
Roll down the mountain side
On down on down go lassie go
Oh tell me the legends of long ago
When the kings and queens would dance in the realms of the black rose
Play me the melodies so i might know
So i can tell my children, oh
My roisin dubh is my one and only true love
It was a joy that joyce brought to me
While william butler waits
And oscar, he's going wilde
Ah sure, brendan where have you behan?
Looking for a girl with green eyes
My dark rosaleen is my only colleen
That georgie knows best
But van is the man
Starvation once again
Drinking whiskey in the jar-o
Synge's playboy of the western world
As shaw, sean i was born and reared there
Where the mountains of mourne come down to the sea
Is such a long, long way from tipperary
song performed by by Thin Lizzy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
Roisin Dubh (Black Rose) / A Rock Legend
Tell me the legends of long ago
When the kings and queens would dance in the realm of the Black Rose
Play me the melodies I want to know
So I can teach my children, oh
Pray tell me the story of young Cuchulainn
How his eyes were dark his expression sullen
And how he'd fight and always won
And how they cried when he was fallen
Oh tell me the story of the Queen of this land
And how her sons died at her own hand
And how fools obey commands
Oh tell me the legends of long ago
Where the mountains of Mourne come down to the sea
Will she no come back to me
Will she no come back to me
Oh Shenandoah I hear you calling
Far away you rolling river
Roll down the mountain side
On down on down go lassie go
Oh Tell me the legends of long ago
When the kings and queens would dance in the realms of the Black Rose
Play me the melodies so I might know
So I can tell my children, oh
My Roisin Dubh is my one and only true love
It was a joy that Joyce brought to me
While William Butler waits
And Oscar, he's going Wilde
Ah sure, Brendan where have you Behan?
Looking for a girl with green eyes
My dark Rosaleen is my only colleen
That Georgie knows Best
But Van is the man
Starvation once again
Drinking whiskey in the jar-o
Synge's Playboy of the Western World
As Shaw, Sean I was born and reared there
Where the Mountains of Mourne come down to the sea
Is such a long, long way from Tipperary
song performed by by Thin Lizzy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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How Long?
How long, and yet how long,
Our leaders will we hail from over seas,
Master and kings from feudal monarchies,
And mock their ancient song
With echoes weak of foreign melodies?
That distant isle mist-wreathed,
Mantled in unimaginable green,
Too long hath been our mistress and our queen.
Our fathers have bequeathed
Too deep a love for her, our hearts within.
She made the whole world ring
With the brave exploits of her children strong,
And with the matchless music of her song.
Too late, too late we cling
To alien legends, and their strains prolong.
This fresh young world I see,
With heroes, cities, legends of her own;
With a new race of men, and overblown
By winds from sea to sea,
Decked with the majesty of every zone.
I see the glittering tops
Of snow-peaked mounts, the wid'ning vale's expanse,
Large prairies where free herds of horses prance,
Exhaustless wealth of crops,
In vast, magnificent extravagance.
These grand, exuberant plains,
These stately rivers, each with many a mouth,
The exquisite beauty of the soft-aired south,
The boundless seas of grains,
Luxuriant forests' lush and splendid growth.
The distant siren-song
Of the green island in the eastern sea,
Is not the lay for this new chivalry.
It is not free and strong
To chant on prairies 'neath this brilliant sky.
The echo faints and fails;
It suiteth not, upon this western plain,
Out voice or spirit; we should stir again
The wilderness, and make the vales
Resound unto a yet unheard-of strain.
poem by Emma Lazarus
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The Scottish Dance
I once had myself a Scottish Lassie
She then became my joy and pride
Then one-night she gave me Scottish ale
Then she became my Scottish bride
~We then danced around the table
We danced across the floor
We danced and danced all night long
And then we drank a little more~
She enjoyed to go out clubbing
Her family and mates I would meet
She was so exciting and loving
And when I grabbed her she said I was cheek...
I once had myself a Scottish Lassie
She was also my Scottish bride
She fed me Scottish eggs and Haggis
I got so sick I thought I had nearly died.
~So we danced around the table
We danced across the floor
We danced and danced all night long
And then we ate a little more.~
She took me out dancing
Where I would meet her friends and mates
She would drink and dance all night long
How I wished to go back to the states...
I once had myself a Scottish Lassie
She was also my Scottish wife
She told me she loved me with all of her heart
And together we would share the same life.
~So we danced around the table
We danced across the floor
We danced and danced all night long
And then we loved a little more~
I would take her out drinking
Every Friday and Saturday night
One thing she loved more than drinking or singing
My lassie she loved to argue and fight...
I once had myself a Scottish Lassie
But that was many years ago
I will always remember my Scottish Lassie
And the places that we use to go
~We would dance around the table
We would dance across the floor
We would dance and dance all night long
And then we would dance a little more~
Now I am alone and single
But her memories and thoughts I do keep
I remember the good-times and not the bad
So now I smile and I never weep
~So I dance around the table
I dance across the floor
I dance and dance all night long
And then I drink and dance a little more~
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To Daughters for Your Sons
I am the slave hand that rocked the cradle
back and forth gently as my pink son slept.
While on a dirt floor, my brown son crept.
As I catered to masters' mood, my black son wept.
The year 1712, by a lake, grandma heard it.
Willie Lynch, his word; she cried as he spoke it.
This is her story, she told as a mother;
each one her son, each one their brother.
Grandma looked kind of sad, recalling tales by dark waters.
She spoke of her sons as she spoke to her daughters;
rear them up to be educated, leaders of men.
Teach them to fight; not with sword but with pen.
You are the black women who'll rock the cradle;
back and forth to sons in every coloration.
Light, brown, or black, educate each generation
Side by side with fathers, set a strong foundation.
I am the slave hand that wiped the nose
blown in and out softly as my pink son cried.
Outside in hot sun as my brown son was tied.
By old masters' hand as my black son died.
Celeste Butler-Mendez
Copyright ©2005
poem by Celeste Butler Mendez
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Tipperary Days
Oh, weren't they the fine boys! You never saw the beat of them,
Singing all together with their throats bronze-bare;
Fighting-fit and mirth-mad, music in the feet of them,
Swinging on to glory and the wrath out there.
Laughing by and chaffing by, frolic in the smiles of them,
On the road, the white road, all the afternoon;
Strangers in a strange land, miles and miles and miles of them,
Battle-bound and heart-high, and singing this tune:
It's a long way to Tipperary,
It's a long way to go;
It's a long way to Tipperary,
And the sweetest girl I know.
Good-bye, Piccadilly,
Farewell, Lester Square:
It's a long, long way to Tipperary,
But my heart's right there.
"Come, Yvonne and Juliette! Come, Mimi, and cheer for them!
Throw them flowers and kisses as they pass you by.
Aren't they the lovely lads! Haven't you a tear for them
Going out so gallantly to dare and die?
What is it they're singing so? Some high hymn of Motherland?
Some immortal chanson of their Faith and King?
'Marseillaise' or 'Brabanc,on', anthem of that other land,
Dears, let us remember it, that song they sing:
"C'est un chemin long 'to Tepararee',
C'est un chemin long, c'est vrai;
C'est un chemin long 'to Tepararee',
Et la belle fille qu'je connais.
Bonjour, Peekadeely!
Au revoir, Lestaire Squaire!
C'est un chemin long 'to Tepararee',
Mais mon coeur 'ees zaire'."
The gallant old "Contemptibles"! There isn't much remains of them,
So full of fun and fitness, and a-singing in their pride;
For some are cold as clabber and the corby picks the brains of them,
And some are back in Blighty, and a-wishing they had died.
And yet it seems but yesterday, that great, glad sight of them,
Swinging on to battle as the sky grew black and black;
But oh their glee and glory, and the great, grim fight of them! --
Just whistle Tipperary and it all comes back:
It's a long way to Tipperary
(Which means "'ome" anywhere);
It's a long way to Tipperary
(And the things wot make you care).
Good-bye, Piccadilly
('Ow I 'opes my folks is well);
It's a long, long way to Tipperary --
('R! Ain't War just 'ell?)
poem by Robert William Service
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Too Long In Exile
Too long in exile
Too long not singing my song
Too long in exile
Too long like a rolling stone
Too long in exile
Too long in exile
Baby those people just aint, just aint your friends
Too long in exile my friend
You can never go home again
Well that isolated feeling
Drives you so close up against the wall
Till you feel like you cant go on
Youve been in the same place for too long
Too long in exile
Baby you can never go back home
Too long in exile
Anyway you want
Oh that isolated feeling
Drives you up against, up against the wall
cos youve been on the mainland baby
Been on the mainland, cominon strong
Too long in exile
Too long people keep hanging on
Too long in exile
Too long like a rolling stone
And the wheeling and the dealing
All takes up too much time
Check your better self baby
Youd better satisfy, satisfy your mind
Too long in exile
Too long youve been grinding at the mill
Too long in exile
Man, Ive really just had my fill
Too long in exile
You can never go back home again
Too long in exile
Youre about to drive me just insane
Too long in exile, been too long in exile
Just like james joyce, baby
Too long in exile
Just like samuel beckett baby
Too long in exile
Just like oscar wilde
Too long in exile
Just like george best, baby
Too long in exile
Just like alex higgins, baby
Too long in exile
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Land where I was Born
HAVE you ever been down to my countree
Where the trees are green and tall?
The days are long and the heavens are high,
But the people there are small.
There is no work there; it is always play;
The sun is sweet in the morn;
But a thousand dark things walk at night
In the land where I was born.
Have you ever been down to my countree
Where the birds made happy Spring?
The parrots screamed from the honey-trees,
And the jays hopped chattering.
Strange were the ways of the water-birds
In the brown swamps, night and morn;
I knew the roads they had in the reeds
In the land where I was born.
Have you ever been down to my countree?
Have you ridden the horses there?
They had silver manes, and we made them prance
And plunge and gallop and rear.
We were knights of the olden time,
When the old chain-mail was worn:
The swords would flash and the helmets crash
In the land where I was born.
Have you ever been down to my countree?
It was full of smiling queens:
They had flaxen hair, they were white and fair,
But they never reached their teens.
Their shoes were small and their dreams were tall:
Wonderful frocks were worn;
But the queens all strayed from the place we played,
In the land where I was born.
I know you have been to my countree
Though I never saw you there;
I know you have loved all things I have loved,
Flowery, sweet, and fair.
The days were long,—it was always play;
But we,—we were tired and worn;
They could not welcome us back again
To the land where I was born.
poem by John Shaw Neilson
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The Mountains of Mourne
Oh Mary this London's a wonderful sight
With people here workin' by day and by night
They don't sow potatoes, nor barley, nor wheat
But there's gangs of them diggin' for gold in the street
At least when I asked them that's what I was told
So I just took a hand at this diggin' for gold
But for all that I found there I might as well be
Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.
I believe that when writin' a wish you expressed
As to how the fine ladies in London were dressed
Well if you'll believe me, when asked to a ball
They don't wear no top to their dresses at all
Oh I've seen them meself and you could not in truth
Say that if they were bound for a ball or a bath
Don't be startin' them fashions, now Mary McCree
Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.
There's beautiful girls here, oh never you mind
With beautiful shapes nature never designed
And lovely complexions all roses and cream
But let me remark with regard to the same
That if that those roses you venture to sip
The colors might all come away on your lip
So I'll wait for the wild rose that's waitin' for me
In the place where the dark Mourne sweeps down to the sea.
poem by William Percy French
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Riverboat
Riverboat,
Revolution!
Light,
Darkness,
Stuff,
Selection,
Seed,
Weed,
Need,
Deed,
Heed!
In this world,
Back to life,
Queens,
Kings,
Juggling,
Watching,
Kings and Queens! !
The theory,
The story,
The history,
The glory!
With the pressure;
But, 'sorry' is a sorry word.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Old Memory
O THOUGHT, fly to her when the end of day
Awakens an old memory, and say,
'Your strength, that is so lofty and fierce and kind,
It might call up a new age, calling to mind
The queens that were imagined long ago,
Is but half yours: he kneaded in the dough
Through the long years of youth, and who would have thought
It all, and more than it all, would come to naught,
And that dear words meant nothing?' But enough,
For when we have blamed the wind we can blame love;
Or, if there needs be more, be nothing said
That would be harsh for children that have strayed.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Roll down, Long River (song)
Roll down, Long, Long River to the sea,
Call me, Long, Long River where I should be.
Sing me a lullaby
How to live and die.
Lark's song in the sky
Lets me survive…
Bring your mud mad waters to the East.
Are you tired, Long River, of the heartless lucky beasts?
Lonely tears and cries,
Cruel lies and crimes
You submerge as well,
You'll never tell…
Roll down, Long, Long River to the sea…
Call me, Long, Long River where I should be…
Roll down, Long, Long River…
Roll down, Long, Long River…
To the East…
poem by Galina Struchalina
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. Interlude IV.
And then the blue-eyed Norseman told
A Saga of the days of old.
'There is,' said he, 'a wondrous book
Of Legends in the old Norse tongue,
Of the dead kings of Norroway,--
Legends that once were told or sung
In many a smoky fireside nook
Of Iceland, in the ancient day,
By wandering Saga-man or Scald;
Heimskringla is the volume called;
And he who looks may find therein
The story that I now begin.'
And in each pause the story made
Upon his violin he played,
As an appropriate interlude,
Fragments of old Norwegian tunes
That bound in one the separate runes,
And held the mind in perfect mood,
Entwining and encircling all
The strange and antiquated rhymes
with melodies of olden times;
As over some half-ruined wall,
Disjointed and about to fall,
Fresh woodbines climb and interlace,
And keep the loosened stones in place.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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As long as its music
Please play me a symphony
Make a simple cheerful harmony
Please play me a chord from a guitar
For me, it does not matter
If I’m the only audience of your theatre
Give me some instrumental vibes
All rhythms and tunes are musically ripe
There is no need to take precaution
While playing the Banjo or flamenco percussion
As long as its music
We can all heal
As long as its music
We can all feel
We can sing out our hearts and soul
We can let this music take control
Please play me the drums
We can sing or we can hum
Please play me a CD or a hit record
We could sing to the tunes of an ipod
With the sounds of music we can compose a song
Maybe sing to the town’s bells chiming ding-dong
Please play me the sweet keys of a piano
Hit a sweet note that is a major or minor
As long as its music
We can all heal or cry
As long as its music
We can all feel or fly high
And I will be lost in your voice and eyes
Holding on to each minute that flies
Whatever sounds or instruments
I shall feel good in the moment
Please play me a note from a flute
Those peaceful sounds tend to soothe
I want to hear sweet, sweet music
Choose your lyrics, take your pick
My heart will dance, till she is weak
Get out that guitar, acoustic or electric
Please play me the violins of an orchestra night
String me some melodies in broad daylight
And we can rap to melodious sense or crap
While our feet’s playfully tap, tap and tap
As long as its music
We can dance along the shore
As long as its music
We can all take to the dance floor
And I say once more, once more!
As long as its music, I will only ask for more
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Back Where It Was At
As our years get older
we have that yearning
to peel away those years
going back to the days
that we most enjoyed
back to where it was at.
Where we used to
dance the night away
to our favourite
artist of the day
and each generation
have artists of their own.
In the fifties, the Americans
lead the way with rock and roll
and Elvis was King
falling in his footsteps
other greats followed behind.
In the winter’s snow of February 1959,
the world was shocked
and a generation’s music died
in a plane crash
that claimed three lives.
In the sixties, the British
took the lead
handing out the change
with the Beatles
and the term Beatlemainia was born.
In the seventies Sweden
took the lead with ABBA
becoming the new Kings and Queens
with their catchy lyrics
and sing along songs.
As a testament of those days
back where it was at,
we buy reissued CD’s
to play and play, again
so we can relive once more
a time when we were young
back where it was at.
poem by David Harris
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Little White Rose
Little white rose that I loved, I loved,
Roisin ban, Roisin ban!
Fair my bud as the morning's dawn.
I kissed my beautiful flower to bloom,
My heart grew glad for its rich perfume—
Little white rose that I loved!
Little white rose that I loved grew red,
Roisin rua, Roisin rua!
Passionate tears I wept for you.
Love is more sweet than the world's fame—
I dream you back in my heart the same,
Little white rose that I loved!
Little white rose that I loved grew black,
Roisin duv, Roisin duv!
So I knew not the heart of you.
Lost in the world's alluring fire,
I cry in the night for my heart's desire,
Little white rose that I loved!
poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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So long, too long!
So long, too long!
Back in the days and back in time;
Struggling from the roots of Africa to identify myself;
But, born in 1961! !
So long, too long!
From yesterday with my muse of love;
And like today with the problems of the earth,
But, is this the future? ! !
The African story,
The African struggle,
The African muse,
The African experience,
The African hardships,
With the hustle and bustle to identify myself to the status of this world;
But, i am still moving on without giving up! !
For, nobody knows tomorrow.
So long, too long!
But, all the fingers are not equal;
And like the movements of the snail and tortoise,
However, i will surely reach there when you also do get there.
This life,
This muse,
This continent,
This mind,
This writer and his story! !
But, it has taken me so long, too long!
This is my life,
This is my muse,
This is my mind,
This is myact,
And, i am now presenting my love to you;
But, it has taken me so long, too long!
1961,
Born in Africa;
Yes, from 1961 to the present time! !
Struggling to make ends meet;
And, like the life seen in the slums of Africa!
But, it has taken me so long, too long! !
Africa, Africa, Africa, Africa! ! !
The land of my birth and my homeland;
But, i am still finding my way through the dark forest to represent myself to the world,
With hopes and dreams every now ansd then without giving up!
But, it has taken me so long, too long! !
Back in the days,
Oh yes! ! And, like the days of yesterday gone by;
But today, you can read my lines to know who i am!
And like the muse of sweet love in the land of peace,
But, it has taken me so long, too long!
This is it,
This is me,
That is it,
That is my muse,
Here i am and, this is my mind! !
With the sweet love from my heart brewed in the African Pot;
Touching the minds of many and, ready to educate others,
But, it has taken me so long, too long!
Come and enter into my world so sweet with your love,
Come and taste the muse of my love with your mind,
And like the aroma of sweet love from the bed of roses;
Where, the delight of love is crowned with peace and care,
But, this journey on this earth started from my mother's womb.
Oh yes! ! in the land of Africa to represent my muse;
Out of the womb of my mother to cry out to the world! !
And like the tears of love in the land of beautiful flowers,
However, it has taken me so long, too long!
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Dancing on butterfly wings
Dancing dancing,
swaying my hips.
You wish you could see
the butterfly tattoo
and kiss my lips.
I'll dance all night long,
and sing with the crowd
but when this night is done
i would don my shroud.
You see I'm that person
that can fly all day and night
never caught, cause even fragile i will fight.
I can have yellow black or even green
cause i only dance on butterfly wings.
You can reach out for me
with your in-snaring net
I will just dance away.
Cause you can surely bet,
I dance dance dance,
on butterfly wings.
Beauty sprouts from my back,
colors swirl down to my feet.
I dance and dance
all night long.
And I'll disappear in the winter
I'll come dance another night.
poem by Ashley burnam
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The Home Of The Irish
The Land where the famous stout Guinness is made
And that Imperialist Armies often did invade
And that has suffered in the political and religious divide
A problem that now seems to be Worldwide.
It's history seems complex and hard to understand
It's Patron Saint Patrick is of another Land
He did come from Scotia as we have been told
That's going back in time to a history that's old.
Myths and legends through the centuries about it have grown
By names such as Tir Na Nog and Hibernia it once has been known
Tribes such as the Laiginian, Milesians, Fir Bolg and De Danaan lived there before the Celts arrived
Though mostly only oral history of their existence 'twould seem has survived.
A Land in the North Atlantic that always looks green
Of legends such as Fionn MacCumaill, Kathleen Ni Houlihan and Dark Rosaleen
A Country that does have many claims to fame
The home of the Irish and Ireland it's name.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Guardian and BloodRose
BloodRose,
Rose of my love,
My love for Dark moon,
Dark as my heart,
Black as my soul,
And gave me my rose.
The rose of blood,
With petals soft and black,
Never as a rose so beautiful,
Grown not in light,
But under a dark moon lit sky.
Guardian,
Yes a guardian of BloodRose,
With teeth long and sharp,
Claws hard as diamonds,
Scales as dark as night.
My dear sweet guardian,
Guardian black as my heart,
Fire in your eyes,
Shadows in your soul,
A dragon of the dark moon.
A single rose,
With petals so fare,
As dark as my heart,
I now hold in my hand,
The rose of blood.
You are my darkness,
Fear of this love,
This love for you,
Love for darkness,
The cold shadows in my heart
That makes me yearn for you.
Now as you lay dying,
I hold a single rose,
The rose you gave me,
And as I hold it tight,
The thorns slice my hand,
Covered with blood,
My blood.
I have one fear,
The fear of death,
Symbol of my lost love,
Rose as dark as me,
Laying in a pool of blood,
Blood from me.
As I lay dying,
I remember my name,
BloodRose,
I am the rose of blood,
And I died of my own creation.
A creation of perfect beauty,
Petals dark black,
Thorns like small daggers,
Grown from my love,
My love for a dragon,
A dragon as dark as my heart.
Even in my death,
I think of you,
And the rose you gave me,
The rose that killed me,
The Rose of Blood.
poem by Nicolette Gonzalez
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Strong Black Woman
Baby, such a long life, my child
So many stories I have to tell you
Of slavery and of tragedy
Sit down and listen to my tales
Everybody thinks that the strong black woman died
No, she only stood back because she had not cried
She took a minute to rest. She cried. Her heart so heavy
But she’s back, baby. And child, she’s so pretty
I’m a strong black woman, and I am fighting
Don’t mess with me; I’ll leave your eyes shining
I give these children all the love they crave
I’ll beat away any energy that makes life grave
Hallelujah, the strong black woman still lives
Hallelujah, the strong black woman still gives
Hallelujah, can you feel the strength of her?
Hallelujah, this woman is one you can’t deter
Praise the lord’s name and speak in tongues
May all the strong black women live so long
I am a strong black woman, I am here
A strong black woman lives in my heart
Hallelujah, the black woman is so strong
Hallelujah, this has become my favorite song
Hallelujah, the strong black woman prospers
Hallelujah, she is no different than her brothers
The strong black woman never died, she lives
See, no matter what happens she always survives
I am here, I am a strong black woman, in disguise
And this newly strong black woman never dies
Praise the lord’s name the black woman is back
Now the world knows that we survive any attack
Give her all the suffering children or people in despair
Because the strong black woman will return them to air
The strong black woman was not lynched or killed
She gave herself a proud face and lived on so skilled
Praise the lord’s name and know that she lives on
Hallelujah, the strong black woman will never be gone
poem by German Alcala
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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