Some of these Poems are about the Places, People, and Experiences of Ireland. Page compiled by Teena from the noted resources.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Poems include- Lay of the Land League Griffith’s Valuation; The Irish Broque; The Cairn of the Stars; Whom should I meet; The Spendthrift; MacDiarmod’s Daughter; The Market Town; Fare Thee Well My Native Dell; Irish Names; To A Young Lady in the Beginning of Winter; The Belfast Mountains.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Lay Of The Land League Griffith’s valuation<\/strong> Farmers far and near, That’s the word to say, See their cheeks grow pale That’s the word to say Now o’er all the isle That’s the simple way Farmers one and all, That’s the word to say – T.D.S. in Dublin Nation The Irish Broque<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n You may talk as you like of the tongue of Spain, But of all the horrible sounds that Fate So, whether the blood in your Irish veins By P. J. DILLON The Cairn of the Stars<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Among the hills that kneel around And there, amazed, I saw a strange. And as I wondered who, of all Then suddenly, as come the streaks Then came the morning, Ireland; At last the day came up to me; For all these marvels, slumbered on. May some young Singer, warm of word Nor is the wish too bold for one, But O! that I might claim a spark *Mullaghairn (townland) in the civil parish of Drumragh, Barony of Omagh East, Co. Tyrone<\/p>\n\n\n\n Whom should I meet<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Whom should I meet at the dawn, at the dawn, “Why do you think such a wish, such a wish; Whom should I meet in the night, in the night. “Why do you ask such a boon, such a boon; Whom shall I meet at the dawn, at the dawn, The Spendthrift<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n I know a bright meadow and four bushy fences And there, on a summit beside an old high-way, O Field, guinea-golden, your hedges of honey And while the cold walls of that castle are standing *Ardstraw – a townland, Village, and Parish in Co. Tyrone<\/p>\n\n\n\n MacDiarmod’s Daughter<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n There is much to be said And much might be said So I’ll not spend a thought *Omagh a Town in the Civil Parishes of Cappagh & Drumragh<\/p>\n\n\n\n The Market Town<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n When I was ill in the long ago With their “Hark, ye! Hark ye! Again I’m buried deep in bed, With their ”Hark, ye! Hark, ye! Maybe a moon in another sky With their ”Hark, ye! Hark, ye! * there is a Ballinarry townland, Civil Parish Saul, in Co. Down and a Ballynarry townland in Co.’s \u00a0Antrim, Armagh, Cavan & Donegal. Above from ‘The Cairn of Stars and Other Poems’, by Francis Carlin, 1920.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Fare Thee Well My Native Dell<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Fare thee well, my native dell, Here once my youthful moments flew, Fare ye well, ye happy hours Farewell, thou old, romantic bridge, There’s many an isle in Scariff Bay, by Gerald Griffin<\/p>\n\n\n\n Irish Names<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Names wid the musical lilt, of a troll to thim, Brannigan, Flannigan, Milligan, Gilligan, Names wid a fine old Hibernian sheen to thim, Brannigan, Flannigan, Milligan, Gilligan,
(A Poem based on Griffiths Valuation)<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Long despoiled by plunder,
Let your tyrants hear,
Your voices loud as thunder;
Shout from shore to shore
Your firm determination
To pay in rents no more
than “Griffith’s valuation”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
To end their confiscation;
That’s the rent to pay –
“Griffith’s valuation”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When the word is spoken
Long and loud they wail
Because our chains are broken.
Yes the reign is o’er
Of begging and starvation
For now we’ll pay no more
Than “Griffith’s valuation”.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Down with confiscation!
Not a cent we’ll pay
But “Griffith’s valuation”.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They scorn it and abuse it;
Wait a little while,
You’ll see they’ll not refuse it.
Trembling on their knees
They’ll say in supplication,
Oh!, give us if you please,
“Griffith’s valuation”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
To end their confiscation;
That’s the rent we’ll pay –
“Griffith’s valuation”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
From hill and dale and heather,
Hear your country’s call,
Band yourselves together;
Standing firm and strong
In dauntless combination
You’ll have your lands ‘erelong
At “Griffith’s valuation”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Down with confiscation
That’s the rent we’ll pay
“Griffith’s valuation”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
(Donahoe’s Magazine, Vol. 5, 1881)<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And the beauties of Latin and Greek explain;
But riddle me this! Is there one of them all,
Whose silvery notes of love can fall
From the ear to the heart of a maiden fair,
And create such terrible havoc there,
As the soothering tale of an Irish rogue
When told with a “taste” of the Irish brogue?
By the powers above!
Sure the god of Love
Learned his trade with an Irish brogue.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Can send on an Irish ear to grate,
An Irish brogue with an English twang
Out-Herods the worst of the whole “jing-bang.”
‘Tis the hybrid voice of a hybrid mind,
And – whatever his station -a slavish kind,
But for him don’t bother! the course of Kishogue
Attends this same English-cum-Irish brogue.
(And he’ll want to be nursed
When he’s properly cursed
With the terrible ban of Kishogue.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ran its infant course by Leinster’s plains
Or whether the air of Ulster hill
Has nurtured your sturdy Northern will;
Whether or not you’re a Munster boy,
Or a Connaught girl from the banks of the Moy,
Whenever your tongue feels inclined to collogue,
Let it keep a firm grip of its own sweet brogue;
With its hearty ring,
And its genial swing;
Hurrah! for the Irish brogue!<\/p>\n\n\n\n
(of Brisbane, Australia. The poem appeared originally in The Sydney Freeman’s Journal) Rhyme with Reason by P.G. Smith, Chicago 1911.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A giant summit’s ancient mound,
I stood, one night, below a cairn
Of stars on cloudy Mullaghairn.*<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Pale Host descend the mountain range.
As the Years, like spectral Slingers, passed
The cairn on which Their stars were cast.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Your Lovers, lay beneath the pall;
A Star of Hope fell on it, hurled
From heathery crags above the world.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Of dawn between two mountain peaks,
Another Year came up to fling
A Star of Freedom from His sling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But not before the fading hand
Of the pale Star-Slinger crowned the heap,
In a dream that would not let me sleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But not before the alchemy
Of Fate had changed the Songs I threw,
As silver sparks, on the Lover, who,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
O Ireland of the Dream of Dawn,
When I shall rest without a theme
In sleep that shall not let me dream,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Beside the Twilight’s shallow Ford,
Cast silver stones on heedless clay
A thousand years from yesterday!<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Whose love was kindled at the sun;
For one whose fire shall yet be white
As embers on the hearth of Night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
From off that mound, built up to mark
Some long-forgotten Lover’s bones –
A cairn of stars instead of stones.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Whom should I meet at the dawning.
But the King of the Wee Folk, and faith, he had on
The jewels that I would be pawning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Why do you wish for my wealth, boy?
With the stir-about waiting for you in a dish,
You are wealthy enough with your health, boy.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And I with the dew of my sorrow.
But the Good People’s harper who played with delight
On the harp I endeavored to borrow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Why are you wishing to play, boy?
With a song for the morning, a whistle for noon,
And a dream for the rest of the day, boy!”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Whom shall I meet in the morning?
Troth! silly am I, for the Fairies are gone
With the wisdom that I would be scorning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
With blossoms that hide in the dark of the haw;
But their fragrance and beauty are lost to the senses
Of one who is always away from Ardstraw.*<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Are two mossy towers I knew as a lad;
But the road and the ruins lie not upon my way,
For all the desires the heart of me had.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Are far from my world and the labor thereof;
But while the rich bees have no business with money,
I’ll squander my thoughts on the flowers I love.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In which, as a boy, all my fancies began,
I’ll squander my dreams on the mountain commanding
That view of Ardstraw I would see as a man.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For Mac Diarmod’s young daughter,
And much to be sung
Were a poet about;
Since her eye is a mirror
Of Ulster’s Blackwater,
When ripples shine over
The dark-dappled trout.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For his daughter’s fair dower
Of heifers and bullocks
And meadowy grass;
But my head might be hanging
From Omagh* gaol’s tower,
For all the concern
That the heart of her has.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On Mac Diarmod’s young daughter,
But much might be sung
Of her land and her looks;
Since her fields are the fairest
Near Ulster’s Blackwater,
And her eyes are dark-dappled
Like trout in the brooks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That lately seems so nigh,
They placed a mirror before me so
I could see the passersby;
Market women and trading men,
Children and ballad-singers,
Farmers coming to town, and then
The noisy auction-ringers<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At twelve o’clock in Ballinaree -*
Twenty acres of turbary land
To be sold at the fall of the hand,”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But in this looking-glass
I see the folk who passed instead
Of those who now may pass;
Market women and trading men.
Children and auction-ringers,
Farmers coming to town, and then
The welcome ballad-singers<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The Blushing Rose of Ballinaree –
Twenty verses of a ballad made
For the best of the Dublin trade,”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Shall be as a mirror so
It might reflect the world which I
Would still desire to know;
Market women and trading men,
Children and ballad-singers,
Farmers coming to town, and then
The rambling notice-ringers<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At twelve o’ the clock in Ballinaree –
A ploughing match with a guinea’s prize
For the skill of your hands and eyes,”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Though far away I wander.
With thee my thoughts shall ever dwell,
In absence only fonder.
Farewell ye banks, where once I roved,
To view that lonely river,
And you ye groves so long beloved,
And fields farewell forever!<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In joy like sunshine splendid.
The brightest hours that e’er I knew,
With those sweet scenes were blended –
When o’er those hills at break of morn,
The deer went bounding early,
And huntsmen woke with hounds and horn
The mountain echoes cheerly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So bright but long departed!
Fare ye well yet fragrant bow’rs
So sweet, but now deserted!
Farewell each rock and lonely isle,
That make the poet’s numbers;
And thou O ancient, holy pile,
Where mighty Brian slumbers!<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Where morn has seen me roaming,
To mark across each shallow ridge
The mighty Shannon foamin.
No more I’ll press the bending oar
To speed the painted wherry.
And glide along the shady wood,
To view the hills of Derry!<\/p>\n\n\n\n
With many a garden blooming,
Where oft I’ve passed the summer day
Till twilight hours were glooming.
No more shall evening’s yellow glow
Among those ruins find me;
Far from these dear scenes I go,
But leave my heart behind me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Names wid a rollickin’ swing, an’ a roll to thim,
Names wid a body, an’ bones, an’ a soul to thim \u2014
Shure, an’ they’re poethry, darlint, asthore!
Names wid the smell o’ the praties, an’ wheat to thim,
Names wid the odor o’ dillisk, an’ peat to thim,
Names wid a lump o’ the turf, hangin’ sweet to thim \u2014
Where can yez bate thim, the whole world o’er?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Duffy, McGuffy, Mullarky, Mahone,
Rafferty, Lafferty, Connelly, Donnelly,
Dooley, O’Hooley, Muldowny, Malone;
Maddigan, Caddigan, Hallahan, Callahan,
Fagan, O’Hagan, O’Houlihan, Flynn,
Shanahan, Lanahan, Fogarty, Hogarty,
Kelly, O’Skelly, McGinnis, McGinn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Names wid the dewy shamrocks clingin’ green to thim,
Names wid a whiff o’ the honest potheen to thim \u2014
Shure, an’ they’re beautiful, darlint, asthore!
Names wid the taste o’ the salt o’ the earth to thim,
Names wid the warmth o’ the ancisthral hearth to thim,
Names wid the blood o’ the land o’ their birth to thim \u2014
Where can yez bate thim, the whole wurruld o’er?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Duffy, McGuffy, Mullarky, Mahone,
Rafferty, Lafferty, Connelly, Donnelly,
Dooley, O’Hooley, Muldowny, Malone;
Maddigan, Caddigan, Hallahan, Callahan,
Fagan, O’Hagan, O’Houlihan, Flynn,
Shanahan, Lanahan, Fogarty, Hogarty,
Kelly, O’Skelly, McGinnis, McGinn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n