 From the Book of Irish Poetry, Part 1, Read for LibraVox.org, Recording by Elaine Conway, England When all her brothers in the house were lying asleep, My love ran before me, and to the bend of bows, Till we looked down from above on the long loch, On the brave-in loch, on the lone loch of Killary, Together we ran down the cobs, and stood in the rain, As close as the birds that sleep in the soft tops of the tree, That comes and goes. When the morn moon, when the young moon, and the morn moon, is on Killary, In tremblings of the water, till swans we saw preen their coat, Biting their plumes, with stooped bill, And quivering neck, afloat on the brown shade, On the deep shade, the shade of hills on Killary. Why pale, my beloved, now, with the first light gins to beat, No, son of autumn is rich as thou, And honey after thy feet shall rise from the grass, From the wet of the grass, the brow of the grass over Killary. My grief it is only that thou and I must part, Like swans of the flood that rise up sorrowful into the sky, For one goes over the wood, and one overseas from Killary. Pee! Ah, the little raindrops that hang on the bow, Together they may run, but never again shall I and thou. Meet here in the morning sun, We shall meet no more, we must kiss no more, we shall meet no more, by Killary. And if Killary, this recording, is in the public to me. The Wood Pigeon by Catherine Tannin, from the Book of Irish Poetry, Part 1, Read for Librabox.org, by Larry Wilson. The Wood Pigeon. The skies were laden, the snowflakes were falling, No blackbird or lennet was courting or calling, But the wood-deaf sweet moaning was heard in the distance, And her song All of Love came in dulce of persistence. Oh, what though the nests were all flooded with water, And the cold eggs would give them no sweet son or daughter, She was dreamy with pleasure for her true love beside her, And her day was as gold as though young leaves did hide her. Oh, love sang the wood-deaf, the sweet bird of summer, It were death, it were madness, were my love a roamer, But love true and faithful, What power has cold weathered to still our wild song's love since we are together. Then I said to my true love, true love is enough love, And how wise is the wood-deaf who learns that lore-off love. This our charm for the winter, and when the winds cry love, And when in the grave, on your heart I still lie, love. End of The Wood Pigeon by Catherine Tannin. This recording is in the public domain. Forgiveness by A.E., from the Book of Irish Poetry, Part 1, Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. Forgiveness. At dusk the wind of pains grew gray, The wet world vanished in the gloom, The dim and silver end of day scarce glimmered through the little room, And all my sins were told. I said such things to her who knew not sin, The sharp ache throbbing in my head, The fever running high within. I touched with pain her apurity, Sins darker since I could not bring. My soul was black as night to me. To her I was a wounded thing. I needed love no words could say. She drew me softly nigh her chair, My head upon her knees to lay, With cool hands that caressed my hair. She sat with hands as if to bless, And looked with grave ethereal eyes, And sold with ancient quietness, A gentle priestess of the wise. End of Forgiveness by A.E. This recording is in the public domain. Song by Arthur O'Shaughnessy, from the Book of Irish Poetry, Volume 1, Recording by Larry Wilson. I made another garden, yay for my new love. I left the dead rose where it lay, And set the new above. Why did the summer not begin? Why did my heart not haste? My old love came and walked therein, And laid the garden waste. She entered with her weary smile just as of old. She looked around a little while, And shivered at the cold. Her passing touch was death to all, Her passing look a-blight. She made the white rose petals fall And turned the red rose white. Her pale robe clinging to the grass seemed like a snake, That bit the grass and ground alas, And a sad trail did make. She went up slowly to the gate, And there just as of yore, She turned back at the last to wait, And say farewell once more. End of Poem. This recording is in the public domain. Nature in Love by Stopford A. Brooke From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1, Read for Librabox.org by Larry Wilson. Nature in Love When first I gave him all my love, I took the beauty of the world, While the winds and sunlight stars above, And clouds upon the mountains furrowed. The life of waters and of woods, The sweetness of the flowers and grass, Dreams of the sunset, joyous moods, The spirit of the summer has. I filled him with their soft romance. I set my heart within its shrine. He saw the lovely countenance of nature, And then turned to mine. All, all I loved was given to him, All, all I loved was shown to me, And then that evening gray and dim, The low moon burning o'er the sea. He kissed me. I gave back his kiss. My arms were round him warm and fast. Is nature more, I cried, than this? Have I not conquered her at last? Since then he has loved and loved so much, That in the grave men say asleep, He shall not lose my sweet wild touch Through all the silence of the deep. But when the immortal passions move, Shall quick rise and with a cry Run to my arms and say, Well, love thou has not forgotten. No, nor I. End of Nature and Love, by Stubford A. Brook. This recording is in the public domain. The Little Flutes by Mrs. Dennis O'Sullivan From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for LibraVox.org Recording by Elaine Conway, England The world has slipped away and gone, Like rain into the sea. What could be calling me? For songs and silver flutes are gone, The little flutes he fluted on. That will not leave me be. These northern mountains in their pride Are stepping from the sea. I mind he loved the sea. Blue, lovely towers, bored in pride. I wonder now, is peace inside? Would sorrow leave me be? For in his speech he knew the south, And in his eyes the sea. The grey, green, changing sea, Oh, Ireland's sweeter in the south, And sweet the speaking of his mouth, That will not leave me be. I mind his whistles through the dark, The tunes he piped for me, The flutes he fluted free. Faint sounding as a soaring lark, Soft sounding silver flutes at dark, That will not leave me be. He surely walk in, in the west, And pipe in to the sea, Of Ireland, Ireland free. In Cork or Kerry, south or west, Oh, grief of Ireland that he rest, And leave the pipe in be. He's put the small flute to his mouth, The flute, the fluten balls to me. Past Wicklow Hills, I see his laughing eyes, That loved the south, His silver pipes that call me south, And will not leave me be. End of the little flutes. This recording is in the public domain. The Penalty of Love by Sidney Roy Slisot From the Book of Irish Poetry, Part 1, Read for LibriVox.org If love should count you worthy, And should deign one day to seek your door And be your guest, Pause ere you draw the bolt and give him rest, If in your old content you would remain. For not alone he enters, In his train are angels of the mist, The lonely quest, Dreams of the unfulfilled and unpossessed, And sorrow, And life's immemorial pain. He wakes desires you never may forget, He shows you stars you never saw before. He makes you share with him for evermore The burden of the world's divine regret. How wise were you to open not, And yet how poor if you should turn him from the door. End of the Penalty of Love. To More Fid by Lionel Johnson From the Book of Irish Poetry, Part 1, Read for LibriVox.org Recording by Elaine Conway, England A voice on the winds, A voice on the waters, Wonders and cries, Oh, what are the winds, And what are the waters, Mine are your eyes, Weston the winds, Weston the winds are, And weston the waters where the light lies. Oh, what are the winds, And what are the waters, Mine are your eyes, Cold, cold, Grow the winds, And dark grow the waters, Where the Sun ties, Oh, what are the winds, And what are the waters, Mine are your eyes, And to down the night winds, and down the night waters, The music flies, oh, what are the winds, And what are the waters, cold be the winds, And wild be the waters, so mine be your eyes. The Sages by Seamus O'Sullivan From the Book of Irish Poetry, Volume 1, Redford LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson I whispered my great sorrow to every listening's edge, And they bent, bowed with my sorrow, down to the water's edge. But she stands and laughs lightly to see me sorrow so, Like the light winds that laughing across the water go. If I could tell the bright winds that quite hearted move, They would bend down like the Sages with the sorrow of love. But she stands laughing lightly, who all my sorrow knows, Like the little wind that laughing across the water blows. In the poem, this recording is in the public domain. Can Doof Deelish From the Book of Irish Poetry, Part 1, Redford LibriVox.org by Sonja Can Doof Deelish by Dora Sigerson Can Doof Deelish, beside the sea, I stand and stretch my hands to thee across the world. The ridelless horses race to shore, With thundering hoofs and shuddering whore-blown mains uncurled. Can Doof Deelish, I cry to thee, Beyond the world, beneath the sea, thou being dead. Where has thou hidden, from the beat of crushing hoofs and tearing feet, thy dear black head? God bless the woman, whoever she be, From the tossing waves will recover thee, And lashing wind. Who will take thee out of the wind and storm, Dry thy wet face on her bosom warm, And lips so kind? I not to know, it is hard to pray, But I shall for this woman from day to day, Comfort my dead, the sports of the winds and the play of the sea, I love thee too well for this thing to be, O dear black head. End of Can Doof Deelish This recording is in the public domain. The Betrayal From the Book of Irish Poetry, Part 1, When you were weary, roaming the wide world over, I gave my fickle heart to a new lover. Now they tell me that you are lying dead, Home mountains fall on me and hide my head. When you lay burning in the throes of fever, He vowed me love by the willow-margined river. Death smote you there, here was your trust betrayed. O darkness cover me, I am afraid. Yea, in the hour of your supremus trial I laughed with him. The shadow on the dial stayed not, A gassed at my dread ignorance, Nor man nor angel looked at me askance. Under the mountains there is peace abiding, Darkness shall be pavilion for my hiding, Tears shall blot out the sin of broken faith, The lips that falsely kiss shall kiss but death. End of The Betrayal This recording is in the public domain. Song by Eleanor Alexander From the Book of Irish Poetry, Part 1, Ed for Libervox.org He climbs his lady's tower, Where sail cold clouds about the moon. And at his feet the nightingale sings, Sir, too soon, too soon. He steals across his lady's park, He tries her secret gate. And overhead the saucy lark sings, Sir, too late, too late. End of Song This recording is in the public domain. A Silent Mouth From the Book of Irish Poetry, Part 1, Ed for Libervox.org by Sonja. A Silent Mouth by Cathol O'Brien. O little green leaf on the bow, You hear the lark in the morn, You hear the grey feet of the wind Stir in the shimmering corn, You hear, low down in the grass, The singing she as they pass, Do you ever hear, O little green flame, My loved one calling, whispering my name. O little green leaf on the bow, Like my lips you must ever be dumb, For a maiden may never speak, Until love to her heart says, Come. A mouth in its silence is sweet, But my heart cries loud when we meet, And I turn my head with a bitter sigh, When the boy who has stolen my love, Unheeding, goes by. I have made my heart As the stones in the street for his tread, I have made my love As the shadow that falls from his dear gold head, But the stones with his footsteps ring, And the shadow keeps following, And just as the quiet shadow Goes ever beside or before, So must I go silent and lonely And loveless for ever more. His home and his own country From the book of Irish poetry part one, Read for LibberVox.org, Recording by Chad Horner from Ballyclair, In County Antrim, Northern Ireland, Situated in the north-east of the province of Ulster, His home and his own country, I know not whether to laugh or cry. So greatly, utterly glad am I, For one whose beautiful love let face The distance head for a weary space, Has come this day of all days to me, Who am his home and his own country, What shall I say who am here at rest, Led from the good things up to the best, Little to my knowledge but this I know, It was God said, Love each other so, O love my love who has come to me, Thy love thy home and thy own country. Emily Hickey, And of his home and his own country, This recording is in the public domain. Vitor Serenade by Herbert Trench, From the book of Irish poetry volume one, Recording by Larry Wilson. Fate damned you young, Death young would now frustrate you, I have but lived as alchemist for gold In my mad pity's flame to recreate you, Heavily one waning cold, Dark planet to your sleepless desolations, Where to no ray Serene hath ever gone, Life might have come, With my poor invocations, You might have loved and shown. The lanterns and the gondolas have vanished, Gone the uproar and merry masquerade, From the lagoons the burning loves are banished, All your canal is shade. Magnolia bloom is here my only candle, White petals wash and break along the wall, While this poor loot, the loot with the scorched tangle, Is here to tell you all. Do you remember? But what soul remembers? I carved it from a log of quaintest tone, Snatched half consumed out of a great hearth's embers, The great hearth was your own. By God, to the cords wherewith you then endowed us, Something in you gave frame and strings of voice, Now you must listen in the hours allowed us. Listen, you have no choice. The very stars grow dread with tense foretelling of dawn, The bell towers darken in the sky As they would groan before they strike, Revealing new day to such as I. There comes a day too merciless in clearness, Worn to the bone the stubborn must give or, There comes a day when to endure in nearness Can be endured no more. A man can take the buffets of the tourney, But there's a hurt lady beyond belief, A grief the sun finds not upon his journey Marked on the map of grief. Was I not bred of the same clay and vapor And lightning of the universe as you? Had I the self-same God to be my shaper Or cracked the world in two? It cannot be, though I have not of merit, That man may hold so dear and with such pain Enfold with all the tendrils of the spirit, Yet not be loved again. It cannot be that such intense as yearning, Such fierce and incommensurable care Stard on your face, As though a crystal burning is wasted on the air. It cannot be I gave my soul Unfolding to you its very inmost like a child, Utterly giving faith, No jot withholding by you to be beguiled. No, in rich venous riotous and human That shrinks from me to sand-banks and a sky, Love such as that I bear you must be common enough. You let it die. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Wings of Love by James H. Cousins From the book of Irish poetry, Part 1, read for LibriVox.org. Recording by Elaine Conway, England. I will row my boat on my cross-league When the gray of the dove comes down at the end of the day And a quiet like prayer grows soft In your eyes and among your fluttering hair. The red of the sun is mixed With the red of your cheek. I will row you, O boat of my heart, Till our mouths have forgotten to speak In the silence of love, Broken only by trout that spring And are gone, Like a fairy's finger that casts ring With the luck of the world, For the hand that can hold it fast I will rest on my oars By eyes on your eyes Till our thoughts have passed From the lake and the sky And the rings of the jumping fish Till our ears are filled from the reeds With a sudden swish And a sound like the beating of flails In the time of corn. We shall hold our breath Until a wonderful thing is born From the songs that were chanted By bards in the days gone by For the wild white swan Shall be leaving the lake for the sky With a curve of her neck Stretched out in a silver spear. Oh, then when the creak of her wings Shall have brought her near We shall hear against a swish And a beating of flails And a creaking of oars And a sound like the wind in cells As the mate of her heart Shall follow her into the air A wings of my soul We shall think of Angus and Sia And Etaine and Medea That were changed into wild white swans To fly round the ring of the heavens To the dusks and the dawns And seen by all but two lovers Till judgment day Because they had loved for love only Oh, love, I will say For a woman and man With eternity ringing them round And the heavens above and below them A poor thing It is to be bound to four low walls That will spill like a petalous pack And a quilt that will ready to holes And a churn that will dry and crack Oh, better than these a dream in the night Or our hearts mute prayer That, O Donahue, the enchanted man Should pass between water and air And say, I will change them each To a wild white swan Like the lovers Angus and Medea And their loved ones Kier and Etaine Because they have loved for love only And have searched through the shadows Of things, the heart of all hearts Through the fire of love And the wine of love And the wings End of the wings of love This recording is in the public domain Oh, Tis little Mary Cassidy's The cause of all my misery And the reason that I am not Now the boy I used to be Oh, she bates the beauties All that we read about in history And sure half the countryside Is as hot for her as me Travel Ireland up and down Hill, village, Vale and town Farer than the Callum Don You're looking for in vain Oh, I'd rather live in poverty With little Mary Cassidy Than emperor without her Be of Germany or Spain T'was at the dance at Darmudis That first I caught a sight of her And heard her sing the Dronning Dun Till tears came in my eyes And ever since that blessed hour I'm dreaming day and night of her The devil a wink of sleep at all I get from bed to rise Cheeks like the rose in gin Song like the lark in chin Working resting night or night She never leaves my mind Oh, tell singing by my cabin far Sits little Mary Cassidy Tis little ease or happiness I'm sure I'll ever find What is wealth? What is fame? What is all that people fight about To a kind word from her lips Or love plants from her eye Oh, though troubles throng my breast Sure, they'd soon go to the right about If I thought the curly head of her Would rest thereby and by Take all I own today, kith, kin, and care away Ship them all across the sea Or to the frozen zone Leave me an orphan bear But leave me Mary Cassidy I never would feel lonesome With the two of us alone Francis A. Fay End of Little Mary Cassidy This recording is in the public domain Moline Auge by Francis A. Fay From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for LibraVox.org Recording by Elaine Conway, England Moline Auge My Moline Auge I go put on your latest broke And slip into your smartest gown You rosy little rogue For a message kind I bear To yourself from old Adair That pepped the papers come around And they'll be dancing there Moline dear, I'll not presume To encroach into your room But I'd forget a fairing I'd brought you From my room, so open And I'll swear not one peep upon you The hair, tis a silver net To gather at the gloss Your golden hair Moline pet, my Moline pet Fay, I'm fairly in a fret At the time you're titivating Moline, aren't you ready yet Now, net, and gown, and broke Are you sure you're quite the vogue But, bidad, you look so lovely I'll forgive you, Moline Auge End of Moline Auge This recording is in the public domain The Yin-Wi Luik by G. F. Saffid Onstrong From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for LibraVox.org Recording by Elaine Conway, England At the board apart, she sat And knewntay this, you knewntay that She taught with careless kindness For we'll accountant her amazed heart In as she said, had little part Of haithitty words she heared Was minless, and though she seemed To shun my sight, I trusted, ma'er Her love that might, than Aeth's Loves the gither Then Yin-Wi gentle, Luik she gave Aid-weighted lang, that Luik To haith and lang, aid-weight For Sitch and Nither End of the Yin-Wi Luik This recording is in the public domain The Surely by G. F. Saffid Onstrong From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for LibraVox.org Recording by Elaine Conway, England Drive bitter-blast, frae Loftacy Her little manious Merton Her Ain-Wi surely's ruined my heart Her wee bands pinned at Parton And proof the night can win And snore, El walk frae here To Derry, the nose flood It's ma'er Camden, aid face it bold And marry, no Charlie Derry Ben ye dune, ye gist mone tack Ma' surely, El wrap it tight Tarun, your kist, for oh, the night Say swally, pure lad, ye'll fin it Un-co-cored, by Gransha Shaw Says E. T., and then Her Ain-Luit up in mine We are sit, love, un-pity We surely press and soft and warm A rune, my breast, a-glowing A kiss, ye flint, a-hug ye fast Amock the schools a-blowing Yet, then, as rule Let lightnings claim El face the tempest broly We're close again, my thrabbin heart I feel my love's wee surely End of the surely, this recording Is in the public domain The wee lassie's first love By G. F. Savage Armstrong A-canny hear his name and hide My thoughts we only art A-canny see him come and come The flittering eye, my heart It's pain to meet him when I walk Or meet him, nay, avar I wish him, ay, to come, te, me I wish him, ay, awar A-dine, ken, what's rang with me I'm fixed, a-canny, why? A-canny talk, a-canny walk My mince a-gangered, ugly A-says, it's foolish things At whilst, my face is scorched with wee pain Oh, let them love me tape myself I just would be a-lain I'm ne'er said tall as Elsie Barnes A hen is in like maize It aft he comes, for he may, te, me And ne'er we Elsie strays A-canny thought, te, see him long With grace, or rose, or gene And yet he's standing, ay, my side Ma-aft, than only, ay, His ay, say, courteous, ken, and free We mourn and laugh and chill May happy cares, nay, ma'er He, than just, te, wish me wheel But, ah, the kin-ness of his voice And, ah, his dark blue e And, ah, his face and courtly grace I think I just could dee End of the wee lass's first love This recording is in the public domain Cotton rushes from the Book of Irish Poetry Read for Libbervox.org Recording by Chad Horner from Ballyclair In County Antrim, Northern Ireland Situated in the north-east of the island of Ireland Cotton rushes Oh, maybe it was yesterday, or fifty years ago Myself was risen early on a day for cotton rushes Walking up the Brabla burn Still the sun was low Now I'd hear the burn run And then I'd hear the thrushes Young, still young And drench and wet the grass Wet the golden honeysuckle hanging Sweetly down here, lad, here Will ye follow where I pass And find me cotton rushes on the mountain Then was it only yesterday, or fifty years or so Rippin' round the bog pills High among the heather The hook it made me handsore I had to leave it go It was he that cut the rushes Then for me to bind together Come, dare, come, I'm back along the burn See the darlin' honeysuckle Hangin' like a crown Quick, one kiss, sure There's someone at the turn Oh, we're after cuttin' rushes on the mountain Yesterday, yesterday, or fifty years ago I wakin' out of dreams When I hear the summer thrushes Oh, that's Brabla burn I can hear it sing and flow For all that's fair I'll sooner see a bunch of green rushes Run, burn, run Can ye mind when we were young The honeysuckle hangs above And brown, sing, burn, sing Can ye mind the song ye sung The day we cut the rushes on the mountain Moira o neil And of cuttin' rushes This recording is in the public domain Little Child I Call Thee by Douglas Hyde from the Book of Irish Poetry, Vol. 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson from The Irish Little Child I Call Thee Fair clad in hair of golden hue Every lock and ringlet's falling down To almost kiss the dew Slow grey eye and languid mean Brows as thin as stroke of quill Cheeks of white with scarlet through them Ah, it's through them I am ill Luscious mouth, delicious breath Chock white teeth and very small Lovely nose and little chin White neck thin, she is swan-like all Pure white hand and shapely finger Limbs that linger like a song Music speaks in every motion Of my seamew, warm and young Rounded breasts and lime-white bosom Like a blossom touched of none Stately form and slender waist Far more graceful than the swan Alas for me, I would I were with her Of the soft-fingered palm In Waterford to still a kiss Or by the Liss whose airs are balm End of poem This recording is in the public domain Eileen Arun from the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for LibreVox.org Recording by Chad Horner from Ballyclair In County Antrim, Northern Ireland Suched it in the northeast of the province of Ulster Eileen Arun, after the Irish Wen like the early rose Eileen Arun, beauty in childhood blues Eileen Arun, when like a diadem Buds blush around the stem Which is the fairest gem Eileen Arun, is it the laughing eye? Eileen Arun, is it the timid sigh? Eileen Arun, is it the tender tome Soft as the stringed harb's moon? Oh, it is truth alone Eileen Arun, when like the rising day Eileen Arun, love sends his early ray Eileen Arun, what makes his dawning glow? Changeless through joy or woe Only the constant know Eileen Arun, I know a valley fair Eileen Arun, I knew a cottage there Eileen Arun, far in that valley shade I knew a gentlemaid, flower of a hazelgade Eileen Arun, who in the song so sweet Eileen Arun, who in the dance so fleet Eileen Arun, dear were her charms to me Dearer her laughter free Dearest her constancy Eileen Arun, where she no longer true Eileen Arun, what should her lover do? Eileen Arun, fly with his broken chain Far o'er the sounding maine Never to love again Eileen Arun, youth must with time decay Eileen Arun, beauty must fade away Eileen Arun, castles on her Castles are sacked in war Chieftains are scattered far Truth is a fixed star Eileen Arun, Gerald Griffin And of Eileen Arun, this recording is in the public domain Song by Thomas Macdonough From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for LibraVox.org Recording by Elaine Conway England Love is cruel, love is sweet Crawl sweet, love is sigh Till lovers meet, sigh and meet Sigh and meet, and sigh again Crawl sweet, o sweetest pain Love is blind, but love is sly Blind and sly, thoughts are bold But words are shy, bold and shy Bold and shy, and bold again Sweetest boldness, shyness, pain And of song, this recording is in the public domain Now, from the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for LibraVox.org For me, my friend, no graveside vigil keep With tears that memory and remorse might fill Give me your tenderest laughter earthbound still And when I die, you shall not want to weep No epitaph for me with virtues deep punctured in marble Pitiless and chill But when playtime is over, if you will The songs that soothe beloved babes to sleep No Lenten lilies on my breast and brow Delayed when I am silent Roses red and golden roses bring me here instead That if you love or bear me, I may know I may not know nor care when I am dead Give me your songs and flowers and laughter now End of now Amor Fons Amoris by Edmund G. A. Holmes From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for LibraVox.org Recording by Elaine Conway, England I love all men the better, O love, for loving thee The dear ones whom I cherish are dearer still to me Each stranger is my kinsman, and ever for thy sake Beloved at love's bidding, new springs of love awake I love all things the better, for loving thee the best My thoughts of thee make deeper, the glories of the west My hopes of thee make fresher, the fragrance of the spring And when thy accents haunt me, the birds move more sweetly sing I love the whole world better, for loving thee so well Love tells my soul the sweet, which tongue I never tell I learn, when thou art near me, that loss is more than gain That not a pang is wasted, that not a hope is vain Even love, the dream, the vision, that floods the world with light Lit by the flame, thy kindlust grows more divinely bright His beauty wins me beauty, from shining through thine eyes And when he claims my homage, he comes in thy sweet guise Heroes polishing their glowing weapons Blowing trumpets loudly marshal A frost foggy wind with whistling darts flying These are the sounds of music that delight at early morn End of Amon Fons Amoris This recording is in the public domain Recording by James White Heroes polishing their glowing weapons Blowing trumpets loudly marshal A frost foggy wind with whistling darts flying These are the sounds of music that delight at early morn End of Ancient Irish Ran This recording is in the public domain Great limbed and swift and beautiful past any dream he came to her From Owen Macca through a land for gladness of the spring a stir And on the flutes of morning-blown, strong joy that took for breath no pause The song of breeze and stream and bird, the herald of his coming was Yea, and through all her April ways, to Aaron's utmost seagirt rim Through waking seed and blade and leaf, green nature laughed for joy of him And where he held his sun-bright course, straight sped as arrow on its flight Men thronged as to a pageant wrought by the high gods for their delight And seeing with a fairer faith the deathless mighty ones adored Who thus unto their ulsters' need had shaped at once a shield and sword So through the singing land he passed, the peerless warden of her fame So Lord himself of love and war, and to his fair-faced love he came Eleanor R. Cox End of Cuckullen's wooing This recording is in the public domain Leah's summons to Cuckullen From the book of Irish poetry Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org Recording by James White Rise, champion of Oltonia's need, from sickness freed to strength awake All miss thee from King Connor's levy, for him thy heavy slumber break Behold his steel-clad shoulders glare, his trumpets blare for battle press Behold his chariots sweep the glen, he marshals men as though for chess His red-branched knights with spear on loop, his maiden troop tall and serene His vassal kings, a battle storm, by each the form of his fair queen Look forth, the winter hath begun Now one by one its marvels mark Behold, for it besiems thee well, its long cold spells, its hueless dark This rest in glorious is not good, weak lassitude from wanton strife Such long repose is drunkenness, such sleep no less than death in life This trance, as of a toping churl, with mighty ardour hurl away Forth from thy bed of impotence, leap, champion prince, to front the fray End of Leah's summons to Cacullen This recording is in the public domain Where is the sweetest music by George Sigerson? From the book of Irish poetry Part 1 Read for LibraVox.org Recording by Elaine Conway, England From the Dean of Lismore's book Noble news of song and valor Bear I ballas fought within Little need I who may harken If my song be heard of Finn Men were gay in Gordon, Ayn, Hill and Hall in, far and wide Feast was spread unto music flowing And we saw our Finn reside Ocean staunch, and Dermot stately Saint, by the way, greatly strong And their friends, to feast and foray Ancient Conan, Oscar Young Speak ye champion chiefs rejoicing Rang the voice of Finn around Tell me each in answer me just Where is sweetest music found? There's one music fit for farming Give me gaming, Conan cried Strong his hand for crash combat But his head was sense denied Song of swords, for war and sheathing With quick breathing came the word Thronger blows when falling fleetest Seemed the sweetest, Oscar heard There is music more endearing Dark-eyed Dermot did declare Nought comes nigh the voice's cadence When the maiden soft and fair Sweetest song at dawning dewy Said Mack Laway, sharp of spear When the bounding dogs are crying And we race the flying deer This is song, and this is music Spoke our lofty leader old Blowing breeze midmoving banners And an army neath their gold Then I fear no bardic passion Ocean said our captain strong With my faithful piano round me This to me is harp and song End of Where is the sweetest music? This recording is in the public domain Situated in the north-east of the island of Ireland The Giant Walker This and the succeeding poem The Washer of the Ford are not literal versions Although they are the substance of original legends And are given as specimens Of the supernatural figures in Celtic romance They are from Sir Samuel Ferguson's epic poem Of Kongle, the Giant Walker Or the Burich And Kuytra-Rachna, the churl with the grey cloak Is a familiar figure In both Highland and Irish legend And has also been made the subject of a poem By James Clarence Mangan Under the title of The Churl with the grey coat The Washer of the Ford is paraphrased With considerable literalness from a passage In McQuieth's Wars of Turlock The operation appearing to the clan Brian Rowe Around the mound of sighs They filled the woody sided veil But no sweet sleep their eyes Refresh that night for all the night Around their echoing camp Was heard continuous from the hills Assigned as of the trump of giant footsteps But so thick the white mist lay around None saw the Walker shave the king He, starting at the sound Called to his foot his fierce red hound A thwart his shoulders cast A shaggy mantle grasped his spear And threw the moonlight past A lone-up dark Ben-Bolley's heights To ward-wetch above the woods With sound as when a close of eave The noise of falling floods Is born to shepherd's ear Remote on stilly upland lawn The steps along the mountainside With hollow fall came on Fast beat the hero's heart And close down-crunching by his knee Trembled the hound while through the haze Huge as through mists at sea The wake-long, sleepless mariner Describes some mountain cave Wrecked, infamous, rise on his lee Appared a monstrous shape, striding Impatient like a man much graved He walks alone, considering of a cruel wrong Down from his shoulders thrown A mantle skirted stiff With soil splashed from the mirey ground Every stride against his calves Struck with his loud rebind As makes the mainsail of a ship Brought up along the blast When, with the coil of all its ropes It beats the sounding mast So striding fast, the giant passed The king held fast his breath Motionless saved his throbbing heart And still and chill as death Stood listening while, a second time The giant took the round of all the camp For the third time the sound Came up and through the parting haze A third time huge and dim Rose out the shape The valiant hound sprang forth and challenged him And forth, bestaining that a dog Should put him so to shame Sprang congel and essayed to speak Dread shadow, stand Proclaim what wouldst thou That thou thus all night around Shouldst keep the troubulous vigil Banishing the wholesome gift of sleep From all our eyes who, though enured To dreadful sounds and sights By land and sea, have never yet In all our perilous nights Laying in the ward of such a guard The shape made answer none But with stern wafture of his hand Went angrier striding on Shaking the earth with heavier steps Then congel on his track Sprang fearless, answer me Thou, churl, he cried I bid thee back But while he spoke the giant's cloak Around his shoulders grew Like to a black bulged thunder cloud And sudden out there flew From all its angry swelling folds With up or unconfined Direct against the king's pursuit A mighty blast of wind Loud flapped the mantle-tipus line While fluttering down the gale As leaves in autumn, man and hound Were swept into the veil And heard o'er all the huge up-war Through startled daleray The giant went with stamp and clash Departing south away Sir Samuel Ferguson End of The Giant Walker This recording is in the public domain The Washer of the Ford by Sir Samuel Ferguson From the book of Irish poetry Part 1, read for LibriVox.org Recording by Chad Horner from Ballycler In County Antrim, Northern Ireland Situated in the northeast of the island of Ireland The Washer of the Ford At dawn to cross the fords Hard by the royal town The fresh, well-ordered, vigorous vans In gallant ranks drew down When low, a scepter horrible Of more than human size Full in the middle of the Ford Took all their wandering eyes A ghastly woman it appeared With grey disheveled hair Blood draggled And with sharp-boned arms And fingers crooked and spare Dabbing and washing in the Ford Were mid-leg deep she stood Beside a heap of heads and limbs Swam in oozing blood Where on and on a glittering heap Of reamant wretchen-brave With swift, pernicious hands She skipped and poured the crimson wave And though the stream approaching her Ran tranquil, clear and bright Sam gleaming between burdened banks A fair and peaceful sight Downward the blood-pollidant flood Rowed turbid, strong and proud With heady, eddy, dangerous whirls And surges dashing, loud All stood aghast, but Gilec cried I'll speak the bank, I'll speak the hag But back instead his trembling bearers shrank Then congled from the foremost rank A spear cast forward strode And said, Who art thou hideous one? I'm from what cursed abode Come astide thus in open day The hearts of men to freeze And his lopped heads and severed limbs And bloody vests are these I am the washer of the Ford, she answered And my race is off the truth The Danon line of Magi And my place for toil Is in the running streams of urn And my cave for sleep Is in the middle of the shell-haped Carn of meave, high up on hunted Nucknari, and this fine carnage heap Before me and these silken vests And mantles which I steep Thus in the running water Are the severed heads and hands And spear-torn scarfs and chinics Of these gay-dressed gallant bands Whom thou, O Kongle, leadest to death And this, the fury said While blifting by the cleric blocks What seemed a dead man's head Is Danon head, O Kongle Wherewith she rose in air And vanished from the warriors Leaving the river bare Of all but running water Sir Samuel Ferguson End of The Washer of the Ford This recording is in the public domain by Haridev Patech Jaipur To Elm, son of Tarla When we hosted Forth afar With Etchoo's son of valor Yellow as the primrose Tarla I saw his tresses shine Tarla, for the fancy that compares The crown of golden power The primrose veers with Nial's hairs Of born maids should be thine To Elm, son of Tarla Brown in lashes, dusky soft Of equal arch and cluster Eyes as bold flowers in a croft Or hair sent blue Then the carmine of his cheeks Unchanging in their lusher Not the fairy fox-glove streaks May hoards with such a hue Tarla Laughter rare, red lips that near Reproved with scornful blaming Hero font in battle brunt Eclipsing all beside A harvest moon, a fairy noon A beacon fiercely flaming A dragon ship he glowed and rode On war's tumultuous tide To Elm, son of Tarla Keen on keen as carry poured Above his tresses flexing By grief heart-high stowed For Muradak's grants and great Erin Alba now shelled red The onset of the Saxon Now that echoes sun, life's dead O Black reproachful fate Tarla, Saxon's hope shall Shouting come, and swans of Lombard's strangers From the hour that Nial lay down Our guile and picked is made To Elm, son of Tarla Are that still on Tarla's tower Bright star in darkest dangers With tresses of the iris flower He stood as Tarla voted Tarla, great delight, great peace it was Dear son of my affection After thee for some high cause In company to go To Elm, son of Tarla Hero of the shoulder white Beneath whose strong protection Host and host we face the fight But never flood the foe End of a garage for King Nial Of the nine hostages This recording is in the public domain The Song of the Sword of Carol From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for LibraVox.org Recording by Elaine Conway England Addressed about AD 909 To Dallen Mack Moore Chief Bard to King Carol Mack New Oregon By an unknown poet Bright battle joy of the guile War's great woof sharply unthreading Chieftain on Chieftain beheading Sword of Carol all hail Offed on a foreman's soil With kings of council forth raiding Ever a worthy one aiding Hast thou divided the spoil? Still in a strong white hand pursuing Thy dread, red weeping Till night's shadows were weeping O the Lagenian learned Many a man of might Thy ravening radiance wielded Where was the shield? But yielded pierced by its venomous bite Enna of noble bands for forty years Without sorrow brandished thee Morrow by morrow Safe in his strenuous hands Enna no mean heirloom To Dunling his son did bequeath thee Still his foeman beneath thee Fowl till thou broughtest him doom Many a prince, proud mounted Possessed the ear-dermot the fierce With thee to Hugh and to Pierce Sixteen summers had counted Then when his powers decreased And a mightier master was owed thee On Murrigan-dermot bestowed thee Even at Allen's feast Forty the ears of thy sway with Murrigan High king of Allen Never a one, sang Dallan Passed without warfare away Murrigan, viking earth At Wexford gave thee to Carol Thou art his partner in peril Long as he pays to yellow earth Red was thy rallying point At Oddbar, the field of the strangers Scorn of valorous dangers Breaker of body and joint Crimson thy edge in its stain At Bellach, moon, whilst thou proven Fierce that fight as an oven Angered all alfie's plain Round thee a goodly host At the nocta, mounted asunder Through thee ate all's wonder As leaf in yielded to the ghost Through thee an army grew thin When thy lightning struck into slumber Flannigan's son and his number Highward Tara within From the southward they fled Out of Boine of the rough feats of valor When at thy stroke, catching pallor Khnovna, the noble dropped dead Furious too was thy foals As the bolt from a black cloud's rattle When in the front of the battle Ail Hill of fallow-calls Never an hour of defeat had d'thal With a fair meddled carol Just was he ever in quarrel Faithful in every feat Gladly danced by each day Thy glies and knights were unreckoned Monarchs at sundown Beckoned thee into combat away When henceforth chout thou curse Or to victory's goal be starting With whom, since carols departing Bebed it for better or worse Weapon of hero on hero Fear not thou shalt ever lie rusted Still for a champion trusted forth On his foes thou shalt spring Proudest prize of the gale Shall glorious nests repute thee Fin of the feasts shall salute thee Sword of the carol all hail End of the song of the sword of carol This recording is in the public domain King Ail Hill's Death by Whitley Stokes From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for Librevox.org Recording by Elaine Conway, England From the Book of Lenster I know who won the Peace of God The old King Ail Hill of the Ban Who fought beyond the Irish Sea All day against a conult clan The King was rooted in the flight He muttered to his charioteer Look back, the slaughter Is it red? The slayers Are they drawing near? The man looked back The west wind blew Dead clansman's hair against his face He heard the wash out of his foes The death cry of his ruined face The foes came darting from the height Like pine trees down a swollen fall Like heaps of hay in flood His clans swept on or sang He saw it all and spake The slaughter is full red And we may still be saved by flight Then groaned the King No sin of theirs falls on my people Here tonight, no sin of theirs Sin of mine, for I was worst of evil Kings and righteous, wrathful Hurling down to death Was shame or weaker things Draw rain and turn the chariot round My face against the foeman bend When I am seen and slain May hap the slaughter of my tribal end They drew and turned Down came the foe The King fell cloven on the sod The slaughter then was stayed And so King Elil won the peace of God End of King Elil's death This recording is in the public domain The clouds are fast creeping And Mary is weeping her tears down the sky Grey is the evening when Irishmen die Hark not the Kinging, rest thee and lie Linnavon Moe, Linnavon Moe Far be thee from the land Far be thee from the land Far be thee from the land Far be thee from the land Far be thee from the land Far be thee from the land Linnavon Moe, far be the foe Ours is the strife, yours is dear life Linnavon Moe, Earl Garrett is hiding Lord Edward is riding, and fast is his reign The horses are stamping over the plain Hark not the tramping, turn thee again Linnavon Moe, Linnavon Moe Nestle down low, others may ride You must abide, Linnavon Moe In the poem, this recording is in the public domain Ours is owed to the Maguire By James Clarence Mangan From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for Librevox.org Recording by Elaine Conway, England From the Irish Where is my chief, my master Bleak night, my Rome Oh, cold, cold, miserably cold Is this bleak night for Hugh It's sherry, arry, speary, sleet Pierceth won through and through Pierceth won to me very bone Rolls real thunder, or was that rat Livid light only a meteor I scarce know, but through that midnight dim The pitiless ice-wind streams Accept the hate that persecues him Nothing how cruel a venomy might An awful, a tremendous night Is this, me, scenes The floodgates of the river Of heaven, I think, have been burst white Down from the overcharged clouds Like unto headlong oceans tied Descends grey-raining roaring streams Though he were even a wolf ranging The round green woods Though he were even a pleasant salmon In the unchained and chainable sea Though he were a wild mountain eagle He could scarce bear he This sharp, sore, sleet These howling floods Oh, mournful is my soul this night For Hugh McGuire, darkly as in a dream He strays before him and behind Triants the serranous anger Of the wounding wind The wounding wind that burns as fire It is my bitter grief It cuts me to the heart That in the country of clandari It should be his fate Oh, woe to me, where is he Wandering, houseless, desolate Alone without or guide or chart My dreams I see just now his face The strawberry bright Uplifted to the blackened heavens Where the tempestuous winds Blow fiercely over and round him And the smitting, sleet-sharp lines The hero of gallant tonight Large, large affliction And to me and mine it is That one of his majestic bearing His fair stately form Should thus be tortured and airborne That this unsparing storm Should wreak its wrath on head like his That has great hand So oft the avenger of the oppressed Should this chill, childish night for chance Be paralysed by frost While through some icicle-hung thicket As one lawn and lost He walks and wanders without rest The tempest-driven torrent deludes The mead it overflows the low banks Of the rivulets and ponds The lawns and pasture grounds Like locked in icy bonds So that the cattle cannot feed The pale bright margins of the streams As seen by none Rushes and sweeps along the untable Flood on every side It penetrates and fills the cottages Dwellings far and wide Water and land are lent in one Through sun-dark wood Mid bones of monsters, you nice strays And he confronts the storm With anguished heart but manly brow Oh, what a sword wound To that tender heart of his Were now a backward glance At peaceful days But other thoughts are his Thoughts that can still inspire With joy and onward bounding hope The bosom of Macnee Thoughts of his warriors charging Like bright billows of the sea Born on the winds-wings Flashing fire And though frost blaze tonight The clear dew have his eyes And white, ice gauntlets Glove his noble fine fair fingers Oh, a warm dress is to him That lightning garb he ever wore The lightning of the soul, not skies A friend Hugh marched forth to the fight Aggrieved to see him so depart And low tonight he wanders frozen Rain drenched, sad, betrayed But the memory of the limewight mansions His right hand have laid in ashes Warms the hero's heart End of Ohasse's Ode to Le Maguire This recording is in the public domain His grave is loaned by Guadalquiver And Lois's young heart laid Where the quiet waves of the Yellow River Sleep in the Linden shade But hard and cold lies foreign mould Beneath that royal head Oh, had he fallen in the ringing battle Out by Dunganon's side Where the Norman rout-like driven cattle Choked Avon's swirling tide Then should my grief find proud relief By saying how the Red Earl died But I am come to this pale river Weeping from far away Where my dear Avon rolls forever Pure as the dewy ray When soft and bright the summer night Kisses the lingering day Oh, lovelily that light is lying On Grey Dunlose's hold Where the breath of night Come shoreward sighing Low sighing as of old And soft asleep the shadows creep Far up the spears of gold But I must watch by this pale river Weary and lone and grey And my grief's tide must roll forever Wearing this heart away Deep as the wave dark as his grave Cold as my hero's clay In the poem this recording Is in the public domain Lament for the death of Organ Rad O'Neill by Thomas Davis From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org Recording by Elaine Conway England Did they dare Did they dare To slay Organ Rad O'Neill Yes, they slew with poison him They feared to meet with steel May God wither up their hearts May their blood cease to flow May they walk in living death Who poisoned Organ Rad Though it break my heart to hear Say again the bitter words From Derry against Promwell He marched to measure souls But the weapon of the Sassanac Met him on his way And he died at Kloch Yacht Uachta Upon St. Leonard's Day Whale, whale, ye for the mighty one Whale, whale, ye for the dead Wrench the hearth And hold to the breath With ashes drew the head How tenderly we loved him How deeply we deplore Holy Saviour, but think we shall Never see him more Sadest in the council Was he kindest in the hall Sure we never won a battle Was Owen won them all Had he lived Had he lived Had your country had been free But he's dead And his slaves will ever be Le Farrell and Clann Richard Preston and Red Hugh Audley and McMahon Ye valiant from wise and true But what are ye all To our darling who is gone The rudder of our ship was he Our castle's cornerstone Whale, whale, him through the island Weep, weep for our pride Would that on the battlefield Our gallant chief had died Weep the victor of BN Burb Weep him young and old Weep for him ye women Your beautiful lies cold We thought you would not die We were sure you would not go And leave us in our utmost need To Cromwell's cruel blow Sleep with our shepherd And the snow sheds out to the sky Oh, why did you leave us, Yogan? Why did you die? Soft as women's was your voice so new Bright was your eye Oh, why did you leave us, oh, Yogan? Why did you die? Your troubles are all over You're at rest with God on high But with slaves And with orphans, Yogan Why did you die? End of the lament for the death Of Yogan Rohado Odeo This recording is in the public domain The Maiden City by Charlotte Elizabeth Tonner From the book of Irish poetry, Part 1 Read for LibraVox.org Recording by Elaine Conway, England In 1686, Richard Tolbert was sent to Ireland by James II to command the army with the title of Earl of Tyre Connell and a year later he was made viceroy who was a Catholic It had been the policy of James to restore to the Catholics many of their rights Tyre Connell wished to introduce some Catholics into the corporations of the large cities Derry absolutely refused to admit them and when Lord Antrim was sent with 1200 men to enforce the order the pretenses of Derry closed the gates in their faces when he deposed King James after landing in Ireland in 1689 marched to Derry he was treated in the same way by the sturdy sons of the city where for all his swelling water's rolls northward to the main here Queen of Erin's daughters where Derry fixed her reign a holy temple crowned her and commerce graced her street a run-part wall was round her the river at her feet and here she sat alone boys and looking from the hill vowed the maidens on her throne boys would be a maiden still from Antrim crossing over in Famous 88 a plumed and bouted lover came to the ferry gate she summoned to defend our sires and beatless race who shouted no surrender and slammed it in his face then in a quiet tone boys they told him towards their will that the maiden on her throne boys should be a maiden still next crashing all before him a kingly roar came the war banner over him blashed crimson deep for shame he showed the Pope's commission nor dream it to be refused she pitted his condition but begged to stand excused in short the fact is known boys she chased him from the hill the maiden on her throne boys would be a maiden still on our brave sires descending for then the tempest broke their peaceful dwellings rending mid blood and flame and smoke that hallowed graveyard yonder smiles with slaughtered dead O brothers, pours and ponder it was for us they bled and while their gift we own boys the feign that tops our hill O the maiden on her throne boys shall be a maiden still nor wily tongue shall move us nor tyrant armour fright will look to one above us who ne'er forsook the right who will make crouch and tender the birthright of the free brothers, no surrender no compromise for me we want no barrier stone boys no gates to guard the hill yet the maiden on her throne boys shall be a maiden still end of the maiden city this recording is in the public domain the battle of the boine from the book of Irish poetry part one read for LibriVox.org all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain July the first of a morning fair in 1690 famous King William did his men prepare to fight with false King Seamus King James he pitched his tents between the lines for to retire but King William threw his bomb balls in and set them all on fire there at revenge the Irish vowed upon King William's forces and vehemently with cries did crowd to check their forward courses a ball from out their batteries flew as our King he faced their fire his shoulder not away at shot quote he pray come no nire then straight his officers he did call saying gentlemen mind your station and prove your valor one and all before this Irish nation my brazen walls let no man break and your subtle foes you'll scatter let us show them today good English play as we go over the water then horses and foot we marched to Maine resolved their ranks to batter but the brave Duke Schoenberg he was slain as he went over the water then King William cried feel no dismay at the losing of one commander for God shall be our King today and I'll be general under then stoutly we boine river crossed to give the Irish battle our cannon to his dreadful course like thunder claps did rattle in majestic mean our Prince Rodor the stream ran red with slaughter as with blow and shout we put to route our enemies over the water end of the battle of the boine this recording is in the public domain a ballad of SARS field or the bursting of the guns from the book of Irish poetry part one write for LibriVox.org this intercepting of digging calls Siege Strain on its way to Limerick is one of the most famous episodes in the career of the gallon Patrick Sarsfield Sarsfield rode out the Dutch to route and to take and break their cannon to mass when he at half past three and at four he crossed the Shannon Turkano slept in dream his thoughts old fields of victory run on and the chieftains of Thamund in Limerick's towers slept well by the banks of the Shannon he rode ten miles and he crossed the Ford he couched in the wooden weighted till left and right on marched in sight that host wish the true man hated charge Sarsfield cried and the green hill sighed as they charged replied in thunder they rode over the plane and they rode over the slain and the rebel right lay under he burned the gear the knaves held dear for his king he fought not plunder with powder they crammed the guns and rammed their mouths the red soil under the spark flashed out like a nation's shout the sound into heaven ascended the hosts of the sky made to earth reply and the thunders twin were blended Sarsfield rode out the Dutch to route and to take and break their cannon a century after Sarsfield's laughter was echoed from Duncan by Aubry de Vier end of a ballad of Sarsfield or the bursting of the guns this recording is in a public domain a ballad of Athlone second siege or how they broke down the bridge from the book of Irish poetry part one read for LibriVox.org when the Jacobite war was renewed Deginkel besieged Athlone which was held by St. Ruth the gallant action described in the poem only delayed the taking of the tone a short while does any man dream that a gale can fear of a thousand deeds let him learn but one the shannon swept onward broad and clear between the leaguers and broad Athlone break down the bridge six warriors rushed through the storm of short and the storm of shell with late but certain victory flushed the grim Dutch gunners eyed them well they wrenched at the planks made a hail of fire they fell in death their work halved on the bridge stood fast and nigh and nigher the foes warmed darkly densely on a hoof or erring was struck a stroke who hurled young planks what a waters war six warriors forth from their comrades broke and flung them upon that bridge once more again at the rocking planks they dashed and four dropped dead and two remained the huge beams groaned and the arc down crashed two stalwart swimmers the margin gained St. Ruth in his stirrups stood up and cried I have seen no deed like that in France with a toss of his head Sarsfield replied they had luck the dogs it was a merry chance oh many a year upon Shannon's side they sang upon moor and they sang upon heath of the twain that breasted that raging tide and the ten that shook bloody hands with death by Aubry de Vier and of a ballad of Athlone second-seat or how they broke down the bridge this recording is the public domain after the battle of Ochrim from the book of Irish poetry part one write for LibriVox.org Athlone fell, St. Ruth retreated to Ochrim in Galway where on July the 12th a decisive battle was fought St. Ruth was slain and the Irish utterly defeated no quarter was given by the English so that the battle ended in wholesale in horrible slaughter Knight closed around the conquerors way and lightnings showed the distant hill where those who lost that dreadful day showed few and faint but fearless still the soldier's hope the patriot's zeal forever dimmed, forever crossed oh who shall say what heroes feel when all but life and honors lost the last hour of freedom's dream and Valerys task moved slowly by while mute they watched till morning's beam should rise and give them light to die there's yet a world where souls are free where tyrants stand not nature's bliss if death that world's bright opening be oh who would leave a slave in this by Thomas Moore end of after the battle of Ochrim this recording is the public domain farewell to Patrick Sarsfield from the Irish farewell oh Patrick Sarsfield may luck be on your path your camp is broken up your work is marred for years but you go to kindle into flame the king of Francis Wrath though he leaves sick air in tears ouch ouch run may the white sun and moon reign glory on your head all hero as you are and holy man of God you have taxed in so many an hour of dread in the land you have often trod ouch ouch run the son of Mary Gorgia and bless you to the end it is altered as the time since your legions were a stir when that cullin you were hailed as the conqueror and friend and you crossed narrow water near where ouch ouch run a journey to the north over mount Moore and wave to us there I first beheld in file and line the brilliant Irish hosts they were bravest of the brave but alas they scorned to combine ouch ouch run on the bridge of the boine was our first overthrew by Stanley the next for we paddled without rest the third was an agrum oh air thy woe is a sore in my bleeding breast ouch ouch run oh the rift above our heads it was barbarously fired while the black orange guns blazed and bellowed around and as volley followed volley Colonel Mitchell inquired whether looking still stood his grind ouch ouch run but O'Kelly still remains to defy and to toil he has memories at hell won't permit him to forget and the sword that will make the blue blood flow like oil upon many an agrum yet ouch ouch run and I never shall believe that my fatherland can fall well with the Birks and the chicks and the son of Royal James and Talbot the captain and Sargefield above all the beloved of Thames, Us and Dames ouch ouch run James Clarence Mangan end of a farewell to Patrick Sargefield this recording is in the public domain for the battle night oh bad the march the weary march beneath these alien skies but could the night the friendly night that sews our tired eyes and bad the war the tedious war that keeps us sweltering here but could the hour the friendly hour that brings the battle near that brings us on the battle that summons to their share the homeless troops the banished men the exiled sons of Clare oh little Corkabaskin the wild the bleak the fair oh little stony pastures whose flowers are sweet if rare oh rough the rude Atlantic the thunderous the wide whose kiss is like a soldier's kiss which will not be denied the whole night long we dream of you and waking think we're there vain dream and foolish waking we never shall see Clare the wind is wild tonight there's battle in the air the wind is from the west and it seems to blow from Clare have you nothing nothing for us loud brawler of the night no news to warm our heartstrings to speed us through the fight in this hollow star prick darkness as in the sun's hot glare in sun tide in star tide we thirst we starve for Clare hark yonder through the darkness one distant ratatat the old foe stirs out there God bless his soul for that the old foe musters strongly he's coming on at last and Clare's brigade may claim its own wherever blows fall fast send us ye western breezes our full our rightful share for faith and fame and honor and the ruined hearths of Clare End of Fontenoy, 1745 Part 1 The recording is in the public domain Fontenoy, 1745 from the book of Irish poetry Part 1, read for LibriVox.org 2 After the battle, early dawn Clare coast Mary mother shield us, say what man are ye, sweeping past so swiftly on this morning sea without sails or rollocks merely we glide home to Corkabaskin on the brimming tide Jesus save you gentry why are you so white sitting all so straight and still in this misty light nothing ails us brother joyous souls are we sailing home together on the morning sea cousins, friends and kinsfolk children of the land here we come together a merry rousing band sailing home together from the last great fight men of Corkabaskin men of Clare's brigade harken a stony hills of Clare hear the charge we made see us come together singing from the fight home to Corkabaskin in the morning might End of Fontenoy, 1745 Part 2 This recording is in the public domain Clare's Durgons by Thomas Davis from the book of Irish poetry read for LibreWogs.org by Fulm Vivella for Ireland's wrong and Vivella for Ireland's right Vivella in the battle throng for a Spanish steed and saber bright the brave old lord died near the fight but for each drop he lost that night a Saxon Cavalier shall bite the dust before Lord Clare's Durgons for never when our spurs were set and never when our sabers met could we the Saxon soldiers get to stand the shock of Clare's Durgons Vivella for the new brigade Vivella the old one too Vivella the rose shall fade and the shamrock shine forever new another Clare is here to lead the worthy son of such a breed the French expect some famous deed when Clare leads on his bold Durgons our colonel comes from Brian's race his wounds are in his breast and face the gap of danger is still his place foremost of his bold Durgons Vivella the new brigade Vivella the old one too Vivella the rose shall fade and the shamrock shine forever new there's not a man in the squadron here was ever known to flinch or fear they'll first in charge the last in rear have ever been Lord Clare's Durgons but C will soon have work to do to shame our boast or prove them true for hither comes the English crew to sweep away Lord Clare's Durgons Vivella for Ireland's wrong Vivella for Ireland's right Vivella in battled throne for a Spanish steed and saber bright O comrades think how Ireland pines her exiled lords her old shrines her dearest hope the ordered lines and bursting charge of Clare's Durgons then fling your green flag to the sky elimeric your battle cry and charge till blood floats fatlock high around the trap of Clare's Durgons Vivella the new brigade Vivella the old one too Vivella the rose shall fade and the shamrock shine forever new end of poem this recording is in the public domain Fremona by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle read for LibriVox.org by phone the French army including a part of the Irish brigade under Marshal Villaroy held the fortified town of Cremona during the winter of 1702 Prince Eugene with the imperial army surprised it one morning and owing to the treachery of a priest occupied the whole city before the alarm was given Villaroy was captured together with many of the French garrison the Irish however consisting of the regiments of Dillon and Burke held a fort commanding the river gate and defended themselves all day in spite of Prince Eugene's efforts to wind them over to his cause eventually Eugene being unable to take the post was compelled to withdraw from the city the grenadiers of Austria are proper men and tall the grenadiers of Austria have scaled the city wall they have marched from far away ere the dawning of the day and to morning saw the masters of Cremona there's not a man to whisper there's not a horse to neigh of the footmen of Lorraine and the riders of Ducré they have crept up every street in the marked place they meet they are holding every vantage in Cremona the Marshal Villaroy he has started from his dead the Marshal Villaroy has no wig upon his head I have lost my mind I have lost my men cause he and my men they have lost me and I sorely fear we both have lost Cremona Prince Eugene of Austria is in the marked place Prince Eugene of Austria has smiles upon his face says he our work is done for the citadel is won and the black and yellow flag flies over Cremona Major Dan Omahoney is in the barrack square and just 600 Irish lads are waiting for him there says he come in your shirt and you won't take any hurt for the morning air is pleasant in Cremona Major Dan Omahoney is at the barrack gate and just 600 Irish lads will neither stay nor wait they're stillin' and they're spark and there'll be some bloody work ere the Kaiserlich shall boast they hold Cremona Major Dan Omahoney has reached River Fort and just 600 Irish lads are joining in the sport come take a hand says he and if you will stand by me then it's glory to the man who takes Cremona Prince Eugene of Austria has frowns upon his face and loud he calls his galloper of Irish blood and race McDonald ride I pray to your countrymen and say that only day are left in all Cremona McDonald he has reigned his mare beside the River Dyke and he has tied the Parley flag upon a sergeant's pike six companies were there from Limerick and Clare the last of all the Guardians of Cremona now Major Dan Omahoney give up the river gate or Major Dan Omahoney you'll find it is too late for when I gallop back tis the signal for attack and no quarter for the Irish in Cremona and Major Dan he laughed you say be true and if they will not come until they hear again from you then there will be no attack for you're never going back and will keep you snug and safely in Cremona all the weary day the German stormers came all the weary day they were faced by fire and flame they have filled the ditch with dead and the rivers running red but they cannot win Cremona all the weary day again again again the horsemen of Dupré and the footmen of Lorraine Tav and Herberstein and the riders of the Rhine it's a mighty price they're paying for Cremona time and time they came with deep-mouthed German roar time and time they broke like the wave upon the shore for better men were there but they were not and who will take the gateway of Cremona Prince Eugene has watched and he gnaws his nether lip Prince Eugene has cursed as he saw his chances slip call off call off he cried it is nearing even tide and I fear our work is finished in Cremona says while choked to McOlive is growing slack says Major Dan and Mahoney it is their last attack but who will stop the game while there's light to play the same and to walk a short way with them from Cremona and so they snarl behind him and beg them turn and come they have taken Neuberg standard they have taken DX drum and along the winding pole beard on shoulder stern and slow the Kaiser Licks are riding from Cremona just 200 Irish lands are shouting on the wall 400 more are lying who can hear no slogan call but what's the odds of that for it's all the same to pat if he pays his debt in Dublin or Cremona says General de Vaudré you've done a soldier's work and every tongue in France shall hear of Dylan and of Burke ask what you will this day and be it what it may it is granted to the heroes of Cremona why then says Dan and Mahoney one favor we entreat we were cold a little early and our toilets not complete we've no quarrel with the shirt but the britches wouldn't hurt for the evening air is chilly in Cremona end of poem this recording is in the public domain the Irish Colonel by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle from the book of Irish poetry part one read for Liberfox.org by phone said to King to the Colonel the complaints are eternal that you Irish give more trouble than any other core said to Colonel to the King this complaint is no new thing for your foam and sire have made it a hundred times before end of poem this recording is in the public domain oh the sight and trancing by Thomas Moore from the book of Irish poetry part one read for Liberfox.org by phone oh the sight and trancing when morning's beam is glancing or files arrayed with helm and blade and plumes in the gay wind dancing when hearts are all high beating and the trumpets voice repeating that song whose breath may lead to death but never to retreating then if a cloud comes over the brow of sire or lover think just the shade by victory made whose wings right or as hover oh the sight and trancing when the morning beam is glancing or files arrayed with helm and blade and plumes in the gay wind dancing yet tis not helm nor feather for ask John despot whether his plummet bands could bring such hands and hearts as ours together leave pumps to those who need them give man but heart and freedom and proud he braves the godiest slaves that crawl where monarchs lead them the sword may pierce the beaver stone walls in time may sever tis mind alone works steel and stone that keeps men free forever oh that sight and trancing when the morning beam is glancing or files arrayed with helm and blade and in freedoms calls advancing end of poem this recording is in the public domain The Burial of Sir John Moore by Charles Wolfe from the book of Irish poetry part one read for librafox.org by phone not a drum was heard not a funeral note as his course to the rampart we hurried not a soldier discharged his farewell shot or at a grave where our hero we buried we buried him darkly at dead of night the swords with their bayonets turning by the struggling moonbeams misty light and the lantern dimly burning no useless coffin enclosed his breast not in sheet or in shroud we wound him but he lay like a warrior taking his rest with this marshal cloak around him few and short were the prayers we said and we spoke not a word of sorrow but we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead and we bitterly thought of tomorrow we thought as we hollowed his narrow bend and smoothed down his lonely pillow that the foe and the stranger would tread or his head and we far away on the billow lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone and or his cold ashes abrade him but little he'll wreck if they let him sleep on in the grave where a britain has laid him but half of our heavy task was done when the clock struck the hour for retiring and we heard the distant and random gun that the foe was suddenly firing slowly and sadly we laid him down from the field of his fame fresh and gory we carved not a line and we raised not a stone but we left him alone in his glory end of poem this recording is in the public domain ways of war by lionel johnson from the book of irish poetry part one read for librafox.org by phone a terrible and splendid trust heartens the host of innisfail their dream is of the swift sword thrust a lightning glory of the gale croc patrick is the place of prayers the assembling place but each sweet wind of ireland bears the tremble of battle on its race from dursey isle to donagall from house to achill the glad noise rings and the airs of glory fall or victory crowns their fighting joys a dream an ancient dream yet air peace come to innisfail some weapons on some field must gleam some burning glory fire the gale that field may lie beneath the sun fair for the treading of a host that field in the realms of thought be won and armed minds to their utter most some way to faithful innisfail shall come the majesty and all of marshal truth that must prevail to lay on all the eternal law end of poem this recording is in the public domain this sword by michael joseph berry from the book of irish poetry part 1 read for librafox.org by foe what rights to brave the sword what freeze the slave the sword what cleaves in twain despots chain and makes his guives and dungeon vain the sword then sees thy proud task never while rests a link to sever guard of the free will cherish thee and keep thee bright forever what checks the nave the sword what smites to save the sword the wrong and punished long at last upon the guilty strong the sword then sees thy proud task never while rests a link to sever guard of the free will cherish thee and keep thee bright forever what shelters right the sword what makes it might the sword what strikes the crown tyrants down and answers with its flash their frown the sword then sees thy proud task never while rests a link to sever guard of the free will cherish thee and keep thee bright forever still be thou true good sword will die or do good sword leap forth to light and trust our arms to wield thee right good sword yes sees thy proud task never while rests a link to sever guard of the free will cherish thee and keep thee bright forever end of poem this recording is in the public domain A Soldier's Wake by Timothy Daniel Sullivan from the Book of Irish Poetry part one read for LibriVox.org by phone and this is all she has to lay tonight upon the snowy sheets before the friends who come to wave and sighing take their humble seats this medal bravely dearly won poor token of her gallant son but over this as not beside of him she loved to her remains the lights are lit the keen is cried and women croon their saddest strains while men who knew his boyhood well say foals went down before he fell these clasps and medal only these for this she nursed and loved him long she rocked him softly on her knees with pleasant song and saw him with a mother's pride grow up and strengthen by her side till bright with manhood's glowing charms he in his turn her nurse became he clasped her in his manly arms and fondly propped her drooping frame her step grew weak her eye grew dim but then she lived and moved on him he went he joined the deadly fight his true heart loved her not the less but these are all she has tonight to light and cheer her loneliness these silver honors dearly won poor tokens of her gallant son but even these tomorrow mourn when lights burn out shall round her withered neck be worn shall lie upon her weary heart till death for his dear memory's sake and then shall deck another wake