By W. B. Yeats
In 1895 the thirty-year-old W.B. Yeats, already demonstrated as one in every of Ireland's major poets and folklorists, released this striking 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 via acclaimed author and critic John Banville, is vital analyzing for all who get pleasure from reliable literature.
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On thy dark road of life May no kind one befriend thee! May fevers long burn thee, And agues long freeze thee! May the strong hand of God In His red anger seize thee! Had he died calmly, I would not deplore him; Or if the wild strife Of the sea-war closed o’er him: But with ropes round his white limbs Through ocean to trail him, Like a ﬁsh after slaughter— ’Tis therefore I wail him. Long may the curse Of his people pursue them; Scully, that sold him, And soldier that slew him! dirge of o’sullivan bear One glimpse of heaven’s light May they see never!
And one beamy smile from you Would ﬂoat like light between My toils and me, my own, my true, My Dark Rosaleen! My fond Rosaleen! 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!
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. The Bird of all birds that I love the best, Is the Robin that in the churchyard builds his nest; For he seems to watch Kathleen, hops lightly o’er Kathleen, My Kathleen O’More. James Nugent Reynolds THE GROVES OF BLARNEY The groves of Blarney They look so charming Down by the purling Of sweet, silent brooks, Being banked with posies That spontaneous grow there, Planted in order By the sweet rock close.
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