By W. B. Yeats
In 1895 the thirty-year-old W.B. Yeats, already verified as considered one of Ireland's best poets and folklorists, released this awesome number of Irish verse as a part of his crusade to set up a practice of Irish poetry healthy for the sunrise of a brand new age in Ireland's heritage. This Routledge Classics version, entire with a particularly commissioned creation by way of acclaimed author and critic John Banville, is vital interpreting for all who savor sturdy literature.
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Would give me life and soul anew, A second life, a soul anew, My Dark Rosaleen! O! the Erne shall run red With redundance of blood, The earth shall rock beneath our tread, And ﬂames wrap hill and wood, And gun-peal, and slogan cry, Wake many a glen serene, Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! The Judgment Hour must ﬁrst be nigh Ere you can fade, ere you can die, My Dark Rosaleen! James Clarence Mangan LAMENT FOR THE PRINCES OF TYRONE AND TYRCONNELL From the Irish O woman of the Piercing Wail, Who mournest o’er yon mound of clay With sigh and groan, lament for the princes of tyrone and tyrconnell Would God thou wert among the Gael!
Tis there the lake is, Well stored with perches, And comely eels in The verdant mud; Beside the leeches, And groves of beeches, Standing in order For to guard the ﬂood. There’s statues gracing This noble place in— All heathen gods And nymphs so fair; Bold Neptune, Plutarch, And Nicodemus, All standing naked In the open air. So now to ﬁnish This brave narration, the light of other days Which my poor genii Could not entwine; But were I Homer Or Nebuchadnezzar, ’Tis in every feature I would make it shine.
3 4 james nugent reynolds She milked the dun cow, that ne’er oﬀered to stir; Though wicked to all, it was gentle to her— So kind was my Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen, My Kathleen O’More! She sat at the door one cold afternoon, To hear the wind blow, and to gaze on the moon, So pensive was Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen, My Kathleen O’More! Cold was the night-breeze that sighed round her bower, It chilled my poor Kathleen, she drooped from that hour: And I lost my poor Kathleen, my own little Kathleen, My Kathleen O’More.
A Book of Irish Verse by W. B. Yeats