By W. B. Yeats
In 1895 the thirty-year-old W.B. Yeats, already tested as one in every of Ireland's prime poets and folklorists, released this striking number of Irish verse as a part of his crusade to set up a convention of Irish poetry healthy for the sunrise of a brand new age in Ireland's historical past. This Routledge Classics version, entire with a especially commissioned advent via acclaimed author and critic John Banville, is vital interpreting for all who have fun with stable literature.
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Additional info for A Book of Irish Verse
Brehons, erenachs, weapons bright, And horsemen bold and sudden in ﬁght. I found in Leinster the smooth and sleek, From Dublin to Slewmargy’s peak; Flourishing pastures, valour, health, Long-living worthies, commerce, wealth. I found, besides, from Ara to Glea, In the broad rich country of Ossorie, o’hussey’s ode to the maguire Sweet fruits, good laws for all and each, Great chess players, men of truthful speech. I found in Meath’s fair principality, Virtue, vigour, and hospitality; Candour, joyfulness, bravery, purity, Ireland’s bulwark and security.
You, and only you, Soggarth aroon! And for this I was true to you, Soggarth aroon, In love they’ll never shake, When for old Ireland’s sake, We a true part did take, Soggarth aroon! John Banim 17 18 james clarence mangan DARK ROSALEEN From the Irish O my Dark Rosaleen, Do not sigh, do not weep! The priests are on the ocean green. They march along the deep. There’s wine from the royal Pope, Upon the ocean green; And Spanish ale shall give you hope, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, Shall give you health, and help, and hope, My Dark Rosaleen!
If they were forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows, Can you be proud, can you be stiﬀ, my Woman of Three Cows? 29 30 james clarence mangan The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning; Mavrone! for they were banished, with no hope of their returning— Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house? Yet you can give yourself these airs, O Woman of Three Cows! O, think of Donnel of the Ships, the Chief whom nothing daunted— See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted!