#Irish
FOUL-FEATHERED and scald-nec… They sit in evil state; Raw marks upon their breasts As on men’s wearing chains. Impure, though they may plunge
ONCE I loved a maiden fair, Over the hills and jar away, Lands she had and lovers to spare, Over the hills and far away. And I was stooped and troubled so…
BUT, Snake, you must not come wh… For you would tempt us; we should… ‘Oh, somewhere was a world was col… And voiceless; somewhere was a Be… Engrossed with substance, with no…
‘BELOW there are white-faced thr… Their march is a tide coming High… Below there are white-faced throng… Their faith is a banner flung high… Below there are white-faced throng…
O, to have a little house! To own the hearth and stool and al… The heaped up sods against the fir… The pile of turf against the wall! To have a clock with weights and c…
In The Farmer’s House I’M glad to lie on a sack of leav… By a wasted fire and take my ease. For the wind would strip me bare a… The wind would blow oul’ age upon…
FROM THE IRISH I’d bring you these for dowry A field from heather free, White sheep upon the mountain, And calves that follow me.
THEY have hanged Roger Casement… of a bell, Ochone, och, ochone, ochone! And their Smiths, and their Murra… Ochone, och, ochone, ochone!
To Meath of the pastures, From wet hills by the sea, Through Leitrim and Longford Go my cattle and me. I hear in the darkness
IN companies or lone They bend their heads, their hands They busy with their gear, Accomplishing the stitch That turns the stocking-heel,
A MOUNTAIN SPINNING SONG (A Young Girl sings it) THE Lannan Shee Watched the young man Brian Cross over the stile towards his f…
An age being mathematical, these f… Of linear stalks and spheroid bloo… By men with wakened, speculative m… And when with mathematics they exp… The Macrocosm, and came at last t…
THE great ship lantern-girdled. The tender standing by; The waning stars cloud-shrouded, The land that we descry! That pale land is our homeland,
I HEARD in the night the pigeon… Stirring within their nest: The wild pigeons’ stir was tender, Like a child’s hand at the breast. I cried 'O stir no more!
ERE Beowulf’s song Was heard from the ships, Ere Roland had set The horn to his lips: In Ogham strokes