Easter Week
1 "Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
2 It's with O'Leary in the grave."
3 Then, Yeats, what gave that Easter dawn
4 A hue so radiantly brave?
5 There was a rain of blood that day,
6 Red rain in gay blue April weather.
7 It blessed the earth till it gave birth
8 To valour thick as blooms of heather.
9 Romantic Ireland never dies!
10 O'Leary lies in fertile ground,
11 And songs and spears throughout the years
12 Rise up where patriot graves are found.
13 Immortal patriots newly dead
14 And ye that bled in bygone years,
15 What banners rise before your eyes?
16 What is the tune that greets your ears?
17 The young Republic's banners smile
18 For many a mile where troops convene.
19 O'Connell street is loudly sweet
20 With strains of Wearing of the Green.
21 The soil of Ireland throbs and glows
22 With life that knows the hour is here
23 To strike again like Irishmen
24 For that which Irishmen hold dear.
25 Lord Edward leaves his resting place
26 And Sarsfield's face is glad and fierce.
27 See Emmet leap from troubled sleep
28 To grasp the hand of Padraic Pearse!
29 There is no rope can strangle song
30 And not for long death takes his toll.
31 No prison bars can dim the stars
32 Nor quicklime eat the living soul.
33 Romantic Ireland is not old.
34 For years untold her youth shall shine.
35 Her heart is fed on Heavenly bread,
36 The blood of martyrs is her wine.
poem by Joyce Kilmer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
September 1913
What need you, being come to sense,
But fumble in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, until
You have dried the marrow from the bone?
For men were born to pray and save:
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Yet they were of a different kind,
The names that stilled your childish play,
They have gone about the world like wind,
But little time had they to pray
For whom the hangman's rope was spun,
And what, God help us, could they save?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Was it for this the wild geese spread
The grey wing upon every tide;
For this that all that blood was shed,
For this Edward Fitzgerald died,
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,
All that delirium of the brave?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Yet could we turn the years again,
And call those exiles as they were
In all their loneliness and pain,
You'd cry, 'Some woman's yellow hair
Has maddened every mother's son':
They weighed so lightly what they gave.
But let them be, they're dead and gone,
They're with O'Leary in the grave.
poem by William Butler Yeats
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
September
WHAT need you, being come to sense,
But fumble in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, until
You have dried the marrow from the bone?
For men were born to pray and save:
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Yet they were of a different kind,
The names that stilled your childish play,
They have gone about the world like wind,
But little time had they to pray
For whom the hangman's rope was spun,
And what, God help us, could they save?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Was it for this the wild geese spread
The grey wing upon every tide;
For this that all that blood was shed,
For this Edward Fitzgerald died,
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,
All that delirium of the brave?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Yet could we turn the years again,
And call those exiles as they were
In all their loneliness and pain,
You'd cry, 'Some woman's yellow hair
Has maddened every mother's son':
They weighed so lightly what they gave.
But let them be, they're dead and gone,
They're with O'Leary in the grave.
poem by William Butler Yeats
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Dead whno Died for Ireland
The dead who died for Ireland!
Oh, these are living words
To nerve the hearts of patriots —
to steel avenging swords —
They thrill the soul when spoken,
and lowly bend the head
With reverence for the memories
of all our martyred dead.
The dead who died for Ireland —
the noble ones — the best,
Who gave their lives for Motherland,
Who poured upon her breast,
In Freedom's cause, the blood she gave —
Who with their dying breath,
Sent prayers to God to heal her woes —
then sealed their love in death.
The dead who died for Ireland,
How hallowed are their graves!
With all the memories fresh and green,
Oh! how could we be slaves?
How could we patient clang the chain?
How could we fawn and bow?
How could we crouch like mongrels
'neath the keeper's frowning brow?
Be proud, ye men of Ireland!
Be proud of those who died;
Never men o'er all the earth
Had greater cause for pride —
Hope and strive, and league for freedom,
And again the souls will rise
Of the dead who died for Ireland
To cheer you to the prize.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Ireland
O WE have loved you through cold and rain
And pitiless frost,
Consuming our offering of blood and brain
Gladly again and again and again,
Though it all seemed lost,
Ireland, Ireland!
O we will fight, fight on for you till
Your anguish is past,
The wronged ones righted, the tyrants still. —
Though God has not saved you, yet we will,
At the last, at the last,
Ireland, Ireland!
O we will love you in warmth and light
And the happy day,
When you have forgotten the terrible night,
Standing proud and beautiful bright
For ever and aye,
Ireland, Ireland!
poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Ireland Shall Rebel
WHILE tyrants rule the land,
Beneath the Irish skies;
While e’er the iron hand
Upon our people lies;
While sons are driven forth
In other lands to dwell,
Still in the South and North
Old Ireland will rebel!
Rebel, rebel!
Old Ireland will rebel!
While fanlike from below,
And pale against the skies,
That light of shame—the glow
Of burning homes—shall rise;
While hot indignant tears
From Irish hearts shall swell:—
Be it a thousand years,
Old Ireland will rebel!
Rebel, rebel!
Old Ireland will rebel!
Until the tyrant’s rod
Shall broken be in twain,
And on the dear old sod
Blest freedom treads again;
Or till our masters learn
To rule our country well,
The fires of hate shall burn!—
Old Ireland will rebel!
Rebel, rebel!
Old Ireland will rebel!
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
As Ireland Wore the Green
BY RIGHT of birth in southern land I send my warning forth.
I see my country ruined by the wrongs that damned the North.
And shall I stand with fireless eyes and still and silent mouth
While Mammon builds his Londons on the fair fields of the South?
CHORUS:
O must we hide our colour
In fear of Mammon’s spleen?
Or shall we wear the bonnie blue
As Ireland wore the green?
As Ireland wore the green, my friends!
As Ireland wore the green!
Aye, we will wear our colour still,
As Ireland wore the green!
I see the shade of poverty fall on each sunny scene.
And slums and alley-ways extend where fields were evergreen.
There is a law that stamps the flower of freedom as it springs;
And this upon a soil that’s trod by prouder feet than kings’.
And must I hide my colour
In fear of Mammon’s spleen?
Or shall I wear the bonnie blue
As Ireland wore the green?
As Ireland wore the green, my friends!
As Ireland swore the green!
Aye, I will wear my colour yet,
As Ireland wore the green!
Out there beyond the lonely range our fathers toiled for years
’Neath all the hardships that beset true-hearted pioneers;
And our brave mothers journeyed there to do the work of men
On those great awful plains that were unfit for women then.
Then must we hide our colour
In fear of Mammon’s spleen?
Or shall we wear the bonnie blue
As Ireland swore the green?
As Ireland wore the green, my friends!
As Ireland wore the green!
Aye, we shall wear our colour still,
As Ireland wore the green!
O shall the fields our fathers won be yielded to the few
Who never touched the axe or spade, and hardships never knew?
Shall lordly robbers rule the land and build their mansions high,
And ladies flaunt their jewelled plumes where our brave mothers lie?
O must we hide our colour
In fear of Mammnon’s spleen?
Or shall the wear the bonnie blue
As Ireland wore the green?
As Ireland wore the green, my friends!
As Ireland wore the green!
Aye, the will wear our colour yet,
As Ireland wore the green!
What though our stalwart fathers came from every land on earth,
We will be loyal to the land that gives our children birth.
We’ll show our banner to the sun—the Southern Cross displayed—
And join our strength together for the home our fathers made.
Let cowards hide their colour
For fear of Mammon’s spleen!
But I will wear my bonnie blue
As Ireland swore the green!
As Ireland swore the green, my friends!
As Ireland wore the green!
Aye, I will wear my colour still,
As Ireland swore the green!
We’ll light the lamp of hope above the alley and the slum,
And teach the poor and drill them for the war that is to come.
We’ll send our songs recruiting far beneath the western sky,
And wake the towns and let them know the day of deeds is nigh.
And the twill wear our colour
In spite of Mammon’s spleen!
O the will wear the bonnie blue
As Ireland wore the green!
As Ireland wore the green, my friends!
As Ireland wore the green!
Aye, the will wear our colour yet,
As Ireland wore the green!
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
November in Ireland
November days in Ireland
The skies are dull and grey,
But Oh! The clear strong flame of love,
That burns by night and day.
As swift and bright the whispered prayers fly to the Heavens O'erhead,
From faithful hearts in Ireland, remembering their dead.
No primroses or cowslips now,
But cold November rain,
No hawthorns in the hedges,
Till Spring comes round again,
But roses bloom in chapels lone and cabins far apart
Dear rosaries of remembrance said to Mary's loving heart.
"For all the Holy Souls we pray,
God give them peace and light
For the brave boys that died for us,
We pray both day and night.
We can feel their presence near us-we can hear their voices call,
For the dead folk in Ireland are the 'livest' of us all"
November days in Ireland
Are just one round of prayer,
Of loving help, and sacrifice,
For those who claim our care.
And Oh! Look up with hope to Heaven: the starry, shining dome,
Is vibrant with the beating wings of glad souls going home.
poem by Alice Guerin Crist
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I Am Of Ireland
'I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,' cried she.
'Come out of charity,
Come dance with me in Ireland.'
One man, one man alone
In that outlandish gear,
One solitary man
Of all that rambled there
Had turned his stately head.
That is a long way off,
And time runs on,' he said,
'And the night grows rough.'
'I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,' cried she.
'Come out of charity
And dance with me in Ireland.'
'The fiddlers are all thumbs,
Or the fiddle-string accursed,
The drums and the kettledrums
And the trumpets all are burst,
And the trombone,' cried he,
'The trumpet and trombone,'
And cocked a malicious eye,
'But time runs on, runs on.'
I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,' cried she.
"Come out of charity
And dance with me in Ireland.'
poem by William Butler Yeats
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Ireland, Ireland
Down thy valleys, Ireland, Ireland,
Down thy valleys green and sad,
Still thy spirit wanders wailing,
Wanders wailing, wanders mad.
Long ago that anguish took thee,
Ireland, Ireland, green and fair,
Spoilers strong in darkness took thee,
Broke thy heart and left thee there.
Down thy valleys, Ireland, Ireland,
Still thy spirit wanders mad;
All too late they love that wronged thee,
Ireland, Ireland, green and sad.
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Foggy Dew
A splendid place is London, with golden store,
For them that have the heart and hope and youth galore;
But mournful are its streets to me, I tell you true,
For I'm longing sore for Ireland in the foggy dew.
The sun he shines all day here, so fierce and fine,
With never a wisp of mist at all to dim his shine;
The sun he shines all day here from skies of blue:
He hides his face in Ireland in the foggy dew.
The maids go out to milking in the pastures gray,
The sky is green and golden at dawn of the day;
And in the deep-drenched meadows the hay lies new,
And the corn is turning yellow in the foggy dew.
Mavrone ! if I might feel now the dew on my face,
And the wind from the mountains in that remembered place,
I'd give the wealth of London, if mine it were to do,
And I'd travel home to Ireland and the foggy dew.
poem by Katharine Tynan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Oh To Be Back Home In Ireland (To Jo)
Oh to be back home in Ireland now that April winds are blowing
And the weather getting milder and the green grass is a growing
And the breath of Spring is in the air and daylight hours grow long
And the skylark o'er the heather sings his merry April song.
Oh to be back home in Ireland the Country of my birth
The Land where I was bred and raised the greenest Land on Earth,
Land of the grassy valleys and scenic heather hills
Of murmuring brooks and rivers and rippling mountain rills.
I have travelled thousands of miles from my home in County Cork
I have been to London City and westward to New York,
I have seen the lights of Paris and the seven hills of Rome
But my heart is always yearning for my Country and my home.
And it's oh to be in Ireland now that April days are here
And the wildborn birds are singing in the Springtime of the year
And the wildflowers are a blooming and new leaves grow on the trees
In the Country I was raised in way beyond Atlantic seas.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
God Be With You
The truth will ever hide
Even though I tried
They tried to take my pride
But they only took my father from me
They only took my father
Even though I cried
Even though I tried again
God be with you ireland
God be with you ireland
Sometimes I was afraid
Even though I prayed
Ive lost my religion now
You took that too somehow
Blood upon thy hands
Blood upon thy hands again
(I have served my time)
God be with you ireland
(suffered for my crime)
God be with you ireland
(I have served my time)
God be with you ireland
(suffered for my crime)
God be with you ireland
God be with you now
God be with you now
God be with you now
God be with you now
song performed by by Cranberries
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Robert Emmet
“Let no man write my epitaph.”
The defiant rebel said.
'Let no woman eulogize me
After I am dead.'
'I give my life for Ireland-
An Ireland strong and free
An Ireland that‘s united,
One free of tyranny.'
'When my country takes its rightful place
Among nations of the world.
That day I will not live to see
When our banner is unfurled.'
'On that day, and only then
Let my suffering be recalled-
and that I died for Liberty-
The sweetest death of all.'
poem by John F. McCullagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
How She Went To Ireland
Dora’s gone to Ireland
Through the sleet and snow;
Promptly she has gone there
In a ship, although
Why she’s gone to Ireland
Dora does not know.
That was where, yea, Ireland,
Dora wished to be:
When she felt, in lone times,
Shoots of misery,
Often there, in Ireland,
Dora wished to be.
Hence she’s gone to Ireland,
Since she meant to go,
Through the drift and darkness
Onward labouring, though
That she’s gone to Ireland
Dora does not know.
poem by Thomas Hardy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Song For The Irish Militia
The tribune's tongue and poet's pen
May sow the seed in prostrate men;
But 'tis the soldier's sword alone
Can reap the crop so bravely sown!
No more I'll sing nor idly pine,
But train my soul to lead a line
A soldier's life's the life for me
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
No foe would fear your thunder words,
If 'twere not for your lightning swords
If tyrants yield when millions pray,
'Tis less they link in war array;
Nor peace itself is safe, but when
The sword is sheathed by fighting men
A soldier's life's the life for me
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
The rifle brown and sabre bright
Can freely speak and nobly write
What prophets preached the truth so well
As HOFER, BRIAN, BRUCE, and TELL?
God guard the creed these heroes taught-
That blood-bought Freedom's cheaply bought
A soldier's life's the life for me
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
Then, welcome be the bivouac,
The hardy stand, and fierce attack,
Where pikes will tame their carbineers,
And rifles thin their bay'neteers,
And every field the island through
Will show 'what Irishmen can do! '
A soldier's life's the life for me
A soldier's death so Ireland's free!
Yet, 'tis not strength and 'tis not steel
Alone can make the English reel;
But wisdom, working day by day,
Till comes the time for passion's sway
The patient dint and powder shock,
Can blast an empire like a rock.
A soldier's life's the life for me
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
The tribune's tongue and poet's pen
May sow the seed in slavish men;
But 'tis the soldier's sword alone
Can reap the harvest when 'tis grown.
No more I'll sing, no more I'll pine,
But train my soul to lead a line
A soldier's life's the life for me
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free.
poem by Thomas Davis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Oh Mr Yeats
Oh Yeats you wrote of this terrible beauty
And in your great poem you glorified death
But it's been proved that even suicide cases
At their last moment will struggle for breath.
How can you serve your Country by dying for it?
To me that's just a heroic suicide
Perhaps Ireland's greatest was Daniel O Connell
And it was of natural causes that he died.
Those men who led the nineteen sixteen rising
Were brave that from them can't be took away
They died because they fought for love of Ireland
But life for love too big a price to pay.
And tell me what is fame and what is glory?
So many people only live for fame
In hope that after death they'll be remembered
And that others will pay homage to their name.
Oh Mr Yeats you said in death there's beauty
But I cannot agree with what you've said
I would take wealth and fame whilst I'm still living
For such will be useless to me when I'm dead.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Song For The Irish Militia
AIR--_The Peacock._
I.
The tribune's tongue and poet's pen
May sow the seed in prostrate men;
But 'tis the soldier's sword alone
Can reap the crop so bravely sown!
No more I'll sing nor idly pine,
But train my soul to lead a line--
A soldier's life's the life for me--
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
II.
No foe would fear your thunder words,
If 'twere not for your lightning swords--
If tyrants yield when millions pray,
'Tis less they link in war array;
Nor peace itself is safe, but when
The sword is sheathed by fighting men--
A soldier's life's the life for me--
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
III.
The rifle brown and sabre bright
Can freely speak and nobly write--
What prophets preached the truth so well
As HOFER, BRIAN, BRUCE, and TELL?
God guard the creed these heroes taught--
That blood-bought Freedom's cheaply bought
A soldier's life's the life for me--
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
IV.
Then, welcome be the bivouac,
The hardy stand, and fierce attack,
Where pikes will tame their carbineers,
And rifles thin their bay'neteers,
And every field the island through
Will show 'what Irishmen can do!'
A soldier's life's the life for me--
A soldier's death so Ireland's free!
V.
Yet, 'tis not strength and 'tis not steel
Alone can make the English reel;
But wisdom, working day by day,
Till comes the time for passion's sway--
The patient dint and powder shock,
Can blast an empire like a rock.
A soldier's life's the life for me--
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
VI.
The tribune's tongue and poet's pen
May sow the seed in slavish men;
But 'tis the soldier's sword alone
Can reap the harvest when 'tis grown.
No more I'll sing, no more I'll pine,
But train my soul to lead a line--
A soldier's life's the life for me--
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free.
poem by Thomas Osborne Davis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Son
He hurried away, young heart of joy, under our Devon sky!
And I watched him go, my beautiful boy, and a weary woman was I.
For my hair is grey, and his was gold; he'd the best of his life to live;
And I'd loved him so, and I'm old, I'm old; and he's all I had to give.
Ah yes, he was proud and swift and gay, but oh how my eyes were dim!
With the sun in his heart he went away, but he took the sun with him.
For look! How the leaves are falling now, and the winter won't be long. . . .
Oh boy, my boy with the sunny brow, and the lips of love and of song!
How we used to sit at the day's sweet end, we two by the firelight's gleam,
And we'd drift to the Valley of Let's Pretend, on the beautiful river of Dream.
Oh dear little heart! All wealth untold would I gladly, gladly pay
Could I just for a moment closely hold that golden head to my grey.
For I gaze in the fire, and I'm seeing there a child, and he waves to me;
And I run and I hold him up in the air, and he laughs and shouts with glee;
A little bundle of love and mirth, crying: "Come, Mumsie dear!"
Ah me! If he called from the ends of the earth I know that my heart would hear.
Yet the thought comes thrilling through all my pain: how worthier could he die?
Yea, a loss like that is a glorious gain, and pitiful proud am I.
For Peace must be bought with blood and tears, and the boys of our hearts must pay;
And so in our joy of the after-years, let us bless them every day.
And though I know there's a hasty grave with a poor little cross at its head,
And the gold of his youth he so gladly gave, yet to me he'll never be dead.
And the sun in my Devon lane will be gay, and my boy will be with me still,
So I'm finding the heart to smile and say: "Oh God, if it be Thy Will!"
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Catholic To His Ulster Brother
Is there no bond of blood to you, my brother?
Who have called her ours, the ancient Mother,
And here we hope to rest from Life's temptation
Building of souls our patriotic Nation.
Can we not stand amongst the purple heather
To find that God we both revere together?
Beneath this sky can come no bigot preaching
To fling our lofty dreams to lowly teaching.
William or James, need we still hate each other
For their dead sakes, my Irish-hearted brother?
Can we not pray without fear of dissension
'God save our land' with but the same intention?
If we from Derry walls were flung defeated,
And you from Limerick town in speed retreated,
One God is ours no matter what religion,
One land we love and shall not have division.
Shall we divide? Ah, better take the token
Of Ireland's luck and leave the shamrock broken
Of one green leaf, when four brought joy upon it,
As Ulster lost—from Munster, Leinster, Connacht.
But Ulster lost with each green sod still crying
For those dear dead who left us dreams undying
Of Ireland's needs, O'Neill whose heart took fire
And joined the sacred flames of Hugh Maguire.
Shall we not cry 'Lamh Dearg abu' and glory
In Cromwell's fall, in reading Clonmel's story,
Or by the 'Yellow Ford' who cheered most loudly
As hand from hand we passed the same flag proudly?
Yea, we have gone with joyous hearts to follow
Men of your thought by mountain, hill and hollow,
Died for them, lived again, loved down the ages
To bless them yet upon historic pages.
Emmet and Tone! Ah, half our pride uprooted,
We were but dead if we such names refuted,
Our well-beloved, dear brothers of our Sireland,
We call with them 'For God and Holy Ireland.'
And do we mourn our Owen Roe less sadly,
Or hold Lord Edward's claim more loved or gladly,
Because of 'popish' ways of Owen's praying,
Or Edward went to other altars straying?
Do we forget or could our fond faith slacken
A patriot's glow in owning Joy MacCracken,
Who Belfast-born has helped the island's story
And shed from Antrim's hills a sunrise glory.
Mitchel or Meagher! Ah, hear the dear names falling
On no deaf ears, we welcome to you calling,
'O dead long gone, O dead of recent slaying,
From your chill hands we take the banner, praying.'
Where this dear land forbids us to forsake her,
Join with the one sweet voice to the same Maker,
'Our hate is one, our love is one the other,
Lead on! or follow, O my Irish brother.'
poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Old Dan
Old stories he told and old ballads he sung
The Tans were in Ireland when old Dan was young
He was twenty six years in nineteen sixteen
And the bitterness and grief of war he had seen.
I knew him when he was in his mid sixties in his life's early Fall
And he said his Civil war memories were his saddest memories of all
When the signing of a Treaty caused families to divide
And brother at the hand of brother had died.
He had fought in war but the praises of war would not sing
He said war to Ireland death and sorrow did bring
A heroic freedom fighter of which he never did brag
He said far too many lives lost for the colour of a flag.
With the deceased of Munster for decades he lay
I knew him as an ageing man his hair silver gray
He told stories and sung songs of his younger years
Of the Ireland he loved Land of bloodshed and tears.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!