 Dedication, from the Book of Irish Poetry, Part 1, read for LibriVaults.org. Recording by Elaine Conway, England, to Douglas Hyde, LLD, D. Litt, President of the Gaelic League, because a loony, one Irish college and sons of fathers of the Southsame Church, striving to swell the sum of Irish knowledge, dear Creveen Yvyn, we unite our search, and each of us as Irish bardic brother, in songs of Connaught and the Gael, has found, this poem book is yours, for to know other, by such a kindly friendship, are my bound, A-P-G. Introduction, from the Book of Irish Poetry, Part 1. This is a LibriVaults recording, or LibriVaults recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVaults.org, recording by Elaine Conway, England. Of anthologies of Irish verse, there have been many. Misharlott Brooks's Irish Poetry, a volume of translation of her own from the Irish, led the way in the year 1789, and was followed by Hardiman's Irish Minstrelsy in 1831, with Metrical Translation by Thomas Furlong, Henry Gratton Curran, and John de Alton. Both these volumes contained the Irish originals, as well as the translations from them, and both volumes were extremely valuable for their preservation of those originals, but suffered from the overall nate, and indeed, often extremely artificial English verse, into which they were translated. Hardy finished that verse undoubtedly was, here and there, as fine as much of a Macpherson's Ocean, but it was, as a rule as untrue, a presentment in English verse of Irish Gaelic Poetry, as Pope's version of the Iliad, and Trident's translation of the Aeneid, are untrue expressions of the spirit, and form of the Greek and Latin originals. As a matter of fact, these translators from the Irish had not learnt the lesson, not long afterwards, learnt by Edward Walsh and Tessamiel Ferguson, that the use of that poetical, herburno English speech, recently made popular by Douglas Hyde, Sindh, Lady Gregory, and others, was a far truer vehicle for the expression, in translation or adaptation, of Irish Gaelic Poetry. Walsh, indeed, published his own translation of Reliques of Ancient Jacobite Poetry, 1844, and his more characteristic Irish popular songs, 1847. It might almost be thought, as a protest against the artificial character of previous collections of the kind, not accepting Montgomery's anthology, which preceded his second volume by year. Dr Drummond's, his ancient Irish minstrelsy, translated by himself, which appeared in 1852, is an attempt to hark back to the eighteenth century, and early nineteenth-century formal school of poetry, but has fine passages, such as his Cuckooin's chariot, expanded from a passage in The Breach in the Plain at Neothenay. This wise tendency to treat Irish poetry, in an Irish way, through the medium of what I have already called hyburno English speech, was lost sight of by the young islanders, whose work was, as a rule, a rhetorical, rather than poetical, when verse became the medium, when very large part the medium of their political propaganda. Thomas Davis and his friends felt more under the influence of Scott, and Macaulay, than under that of the Gaelic poets, immediately preceding them, or contemporary with them, no doubt they took a pleasure in printing Irish words, in Irish characters, here and there, in some of their national lyrics, and now and again we find, in Davis, more particularly the Irish human touch, which, when he had time to write poetry rather than verse, so distinguishes him. But, as a rule, the slowing appeals to patriotism on the part of the young island poets is little better than versified oratory. Thomas More was more individual as a poet, than any of the young island group, yet, whilst he undoubtedly possessed the Irish characteristics of wit and fancy, sentiment and satire, he had nothing of the spirit of the Irish countryside in his composition. Irish was not spoken by his parents or neighbors in Dublin, and when years afterwards he was seeking materials for his history of Ireland in the library of Trinity College, Dublin, he was amazed to find what a great body of Gaelic literature in prose and verse, actually new to him, lay collected there before his eyes. The classics inspired the anachronautics of Thomas Little, his poetical tales, coloured though they were by his Celtic imagination, as well as by his West Indian recollections, were entirely derived from Eastern, never from Irish sources. The only purely Irish influence upon his work was that of Irish music, and that influence has made his Irish melodies, in part at any rate, imperishable. In spite of his fine, as well as faithful translations from the Irish, the influence of Byron upon Callanan is obvious and Gerald Griffin, though much nearer to the spirit of his native soul, has a poet than most of his contemporaries was drawn, like so many young Irishmen with letters and a London literary influences that was never more than half emancipated from them. Mangan, on the other hand, had the good fortune to be able to study in translations some of the finer specimens of Gaelic verse, and his essentially mystic genius and fine musical ear, drew from that old Irish poetry as something which is lacking in the writings of his contemporaries. Ferguson and Edward Walsh alone accepted, yet Mangan, like more went to the East, was some of his inspiration though, and like more, he drew more of it from contemporary Gaelian poetry, which he translated, adapted, and imitated with characteristic power. But Mangan, at the end of his career, did a hasty piece of work of a thoroughly Irish kind in his translations of the Gaelic poets and poetry of Munster, from John O'Daily, the Gaelic publisher and bookseller, few of which as Mr. DJ O'Donoghue, his biographer, rightly says, are of high political merit. But it is only fair to add, in Mr. O'Donoghue's words, that Mangan, who did not live to see them published, would have given them, had he survived their appearance, as he often did with his early opponents, an additional polish or other necessary revision. The vulgar verse, which exploited the stage Irishmen before his time, was transformed by Samuel Lover into a new medium for the expression of humorous character sketches of Irish life. These lyrics, written to Irish popular heirs, or original compositions by the author, had a great vogue in their day, and on the strength of the reputation achieved by them, Lover published an Anglo-Irish anthology of Irish poetry, lyrics of Ireland, in 1858. Much pain has been bestowed on the collection, and classification of the poems in this illustrated anthology. This Anglo-Irish character is evident from the small proportion of either translations or adaptations from the Irish that it contains, but one poem in ten, and sentimental poems are too predominant in the volume. Much of it, moreover, is mere convivial and comic historical and political verse, but it is, nevertheless, the most comprehensive, as well as typical, collection of Irish verse that has yet appeared, and as it claims to be, the most national, in the widest sense of the word. Croft and Croker's popular songs of Ireland is a collection of Anglo-Irish folk songs and ballads, gleaned from an unfortunately narrow field, which though much still remains to be done, to supplement it, more especially in the north of Ireland. Dr Joyce has, in his folk song volume of 1906, added a considerable number of Irish popular ballads, in the English tongue to Croker's anthology. Meantime, other anthologies of Irish poetry are seeing the light. Charles Gavin Duffiz afterwards, Sir Charles Gavin Duffiz, well known volume of the Ballad Poetry of Ireland, which had reached a 40th edition in 1869, hazes two volumes of the Ballads of Ireland, 1855, and a very comprehensive, but far from Troy's collection, and the Harper Varian, a small but interesting anthology, edited by Ralph Varian, and published in 1869, in which northern writers are more adequately represented than elsewhere. To this may be added to the spirit of the nation, a collection of the best of the poems, published in that famous political journal edited by Gavin Duffiz and Michael Joseph Barris's collection, The Songs of Ireland, 1845, to which Thomas Davis wrote a stirring introduction, Dennis Florence McCarthy's The Book of Irish Ballads, 1846, and Hercules Ellis's Songs of Ireland, and Romances and Ballads of Ireland, 1849 and 1850, and William Johnston's Boyan Booker Poetry and Song, an orange collection, 1859. With the exception of a volume of my own in the Mayfair Library, and its title, Songs of Irish Wit and Humour Shows, have limited scope, no anthology of Irish poetry appeared for many years, until the interesting American collection of Alfred M. Williams, the circumstances under which that anthology was compiled, were remarkable. Mr Williams, reporter of the New York Tribune, during Fenian days, was imprisoned in Dublin, under the Arms Act, for carrying a weapon which, as an American citizen, he has always been in the habit of doing. He solaced his enforced leisure by the study of Irish poetry, and eventually published with messes Osgood and Coe of Boston, his scholarly and discriminating volume, The Poets and Poetry of Ireland. This anthology had the advantage of Longfellow's criticism, as it was going through the press, and is distinguished by the interesting essays, which preface most of its sections, and the critical and biographical notes which deal with the more important Irish poets. Like Lover's collection, it is divided into sections relating to the various types of Irish poetry, but more stress is laid by Williams, upon translations from the Irish, and generally speaking, it may be said, to be more expressive Gaelic than Anglo-Irish genius. It was swallowed by Mr T. D. Sullivan's Emerald Gems, 1885, The Emerald Wreath, and three American Irish collections, The Ballad Poetry of Ireland, in Ford's's National Library, 1886, Connolly's Household Library of Ireland's Poets, 1887, and the new Universal Songbook, P. T. Kennedy, 1887. Meantime there have been a fresh flowering of Irish poetry, brought about by what has been called the Irish Literary Renaissance. His first inspirers were Sir Samuel Ferguson, Mangan, Edward Walsh, and Aubrey De Vier, but to the influence of Standish O'Grady through his heroic history of Ireland, the main impulse to this movement was undoubtedly given. Mr Yates might have been drawn away to Leda's School of English, Mystic Poets, but for that influence, and Dr Todd Hunter and other writers were probably also have been contented to cast in their lot with the English poets amongst whom they lived. Mr O'Grady himself an Irish scholar, though perhaps more Greek than Irish in expression, fired the imagination of his friends and drew them to the contemplation of Irish heroic themes, for which he had shown so fine a feeling. Catherine Tynan, who had fallen under the spell of Rosetti, may be claimed as a disciple of his, as may Mr T. W. Rolleston, but undoubtedly Mr Yates was his greatest convert, and the finder and his influence at the Neo-Caltic School of Irish Poetry, and in conjunction with Lady Gregory of the Irish Literary Theatre on its heroic side. It is remarkable how his faithfulness to technique has impressed itself upon his followers. For, like his brother Poet A.E., he is an artist to his fingertips, if he has been blamed for the limited amount of his political output, he has at any rate a complete answer, that he has put artistic endeavour into each poem he has written, and that he has, as a propagandist, spoken and written more for the creation of Irish Literary and Graphic Art, and with more effect than any Irishman of his time. And finally, that his latest political work shows a remarkable departure in fresh and advanced directions. Mr Yates is also one of our anthologists, and his collection, A Book of Irish Verse, shows a more Catholic taste than could have been expected from one of his fastidious word-for-word finish. Halliday, Sparling's Irish Minstrelsy, 1887, had his vogue before the New School of Irish Symbolists, had arisen, under Mr Yates' ages, and Mr Hinkson's collection of verse by members of Trinity College Dublin, 1894, and his wife's Ney Kafton Tynan. Delightful, flowery legium of Irish love songs also anticipates that poetical period, as to a large extent, did the most ambitious and comprehensive volume of Irish verse that had yet appeared. A Treasury of Irish Poetry in the English Tongue, 1890, edited by Dr Stockford Brook and Mr T. W. Rolleston, afterwards his son-in-law. This anthology is more of a collection than a selection of Anglo-Irish poetry, or rather, as the editors describe it, Irish poetry in the English Tongue. It contains not a few fine translations and adaptations from the Irish. It is, as it promises to be, a compendium of poetical literature in the making, a history of Irish poetry in the English Tongue, as shown by examples of every variety of it, deserving critical recognition. Another important collection, rather than the selection of Irish poetry, and exhibiting great pains in its gathering, is Mr Cook's The Dublin Book of Irish Verse, which has the advantage of being a practically up-to-date anthology. It is arranged in the main, in chronological order, and typical illustrations are given, chiefly from Anglo-Irish writers. Though it also contains many good translations from the Irish, it has no literary formation and no biographical sketches of the poets presented, or such short critical estimates of the work as are to be found in the Brooks-Rouston collection, but there are about 30 pages of useful notes referring to the sources of the poems or explanatory of the allusions in them. Other important anthologies, and the latest in the field, are Mrs Tynan Hinkson's and Mr Patrick Gregory's recently published volumes, entitled The Wild Harp, and Modern Anglo-Irish Verse, respectively. The first volume, like Mr Yates's, contains the poems that have made a special appeal to the anthologist. The poems likely to capture for English ears, sensitive to a wild music, just such strains as might be sounded by the strings of a harp, something thin, strange, forlorn, something a little unearthly, and exquisite, else there would be no reason to garner it. This method of selection shouts out reflective poetry, unless the reflection is brief and shining. It bars propagandist poetry altogether. Mr Gregory's anthology only deals with poems whose authors were living when his selection was made. He only asks that his poet should be of Irish blood. He is not careful that their work should be Irish in atmosphere. He is very Catholic in his taste, and introduces his readers. Some half-a-dozen writers are finally distinctive verse. His work is either quite fresh, or has been hitherto overlooked by anthologists. John Eglinton, Helen Lanyon, Sir Samuel Keitley, Florence Wilson. Though partial to the ballad and himself a master of this form of verse, he lays special stress on the symbolist lyrics of what we may call the Irish Georgian School of Writers. Mr Thomas McDonough, Mr George Plunkett, Mr Darryl Figgis, Mr J. H. Cousins, and Mr Sydney Royce Lysort. The most notable new ballad in his book is Miss Emily Lawless's The Third Trumpet, one of the last poems you ever wrote, and a very remarkable one. While dealing with the bibliography of the subject, certain British anthologies may be mentioned, which have introduced Irish verse to the general body of readers. The first and most important of these is that beautiful volume, Lara Caltica, selected with great discrimination by Mrs William Sharp, from the best Irish Scotch Welsh, Cornish and Breton poetry available in the year 1896, and prefaced by a striking introduction from the pen of her husband, who, as a Celtic writer, has adopted the norm de plume of Fiona McLeod. Next comes Mr Brimley Johnson's charmingly illustrated full volumes of British ballads, known to be had for one shilling in every man's library, in which there is an interesting Irish selection. It has been followed by the Oxford Book of Verse, edited by Sir Quillar Couch, whose Celtic instincts have led him to admit not a few Irish poems into his volume. Conspicuous amongst the writers for the Book of Georgian Poets are some writers of Irish blood, and much room has been found in Mr Walter Gerald's living poets for the work of Irishmen and Irish women. Finally, attention should be called to two notable anthologies, drawn straight from the Irish Gaelic. Dr Sigerson, like Miss Brooke, had preferred to make all the translations from the Irish contained in his Bards of the Gael and Gaul. This volume appeared in 1897, but much of the work had been done in the 60s, when, following in the footsteps of Edward Walsh, Dr Sigerson, co-operation with the late John O'Dalley, accomplished for Munster Lyric's What Dr Hyde, has since achieved the religious and love poetry of Connort, in his two memorial books, The Love Songs of Connort and The Religious Songs of Connort. In his collection, which is prefaced by a peculiarly interesting and as well a scholarly introduction, and contains a wealth of valuable notes, Dr Sigerson covers practically the whole ground of Gaelic political literature, not only making translations in the meters and spirit of Irish verse of every kind, heroic, religious, sententious, humorous, descriptive, erotic, hitherto and outwith, but being always ready to break a lance with former translators, such as Ferguson, Walsh and Mangan, by presenting fresh versions of his own of famous Gaelic originals. Lastly we come to miss Eleanor Hulse's delightful volume, The Poem Book of the Gael. This is written much on the same lines of Dr Sigerson's book, but with these differences, besides making some excellent translations of her own in the Irish, she gives her readers the best metrical translations made by the leading Irish poets of the century, and to the last, and by such brilliant prose writers as Mr. Standish Hayes O'Grady, Professor Cunomea and Lady Gregory. She covers as much ground as Dr Sigerson, although she does not go into as close detail in the matter of the origins of Irish verse, and it's peculiar metric, but she presents a very fine prose translation from her own hand of the Solterne Naran, a 9th century Irish version of Paradise Lost and Regained, attributed to Dengas the Caldy, and never rendered into English before, and she prints in translation an interesting set of recently collected Irish folk poems, religious and secular, as well as translations in verse and prose from contemporary Gaelic poetry. In what respects does my own anthology of Irish poetry differ from those described? Roughly speaking it may be said to be a selection of Irish poetry, old and new, old and modern Gaelic poems in English first translation, and Anglo-Irish poetry of the last two centuries, which have most appealed to me as illustrating the leading features of Gaelic, Hiberno, English and Anglo-Irish verse. I do not suggest that there are not other poems, or even many poems equal in merit to those chosen for this volume, but I have been careful to make such a selection under the seven heads, which appear to me most illustrative of the special characteristics of Irish poetry, as I hope will be found to yield as much variety of thought, style and metrical expressions as could well be contained within the compass of from three to four hundred pages. My headings are nature poetry, wonder poetry, love poetry, war poetry, national poetry, countryside poetry, spiritual and philosophical poetry, and religious poetry. I have been led to adopt this order of subjects for good reasons. The earliest Irish poetry consists of mystical nature hymns, and nature enters largely into the poems of the Cuckoo Lane and Fennegan's Harders, while nature poems pure and simple are attributed to Finn McComill-Hale himself. Bit interblend with the visible beauties of this world are the invisible enchantions and supernatural appearances to the fairies. The denizens of that other world which, amongst the gales, was neither in heaven or hell, but in intermediate space. Love poetry finds early expression amongst the gales. Much earlier expression from both sexes than is to be found in any other European literature. The Irish were without verse epics, but their prose romances are interspersed with lyrics of many kinds, including lovely lyrics of poignant beauty. Amongst these may be mentioned Deirdre's farewell to Alba, her lament over the bodies of Nacy, Arden and Anley, and her passionate rejection a year later of King Connor's attempts to win her love. The lamentation over the lovers of the two Creadfests, Fand's noble farewell to Cuck Lane and Graying's sleep song over Dermott, when they are hiding from the pursuit of fiong are love poems of the rarest quality. I've placed the Irish war poetry next, because it follows naturally upon the love contests between Chieftain and Chieftain, and also because it stretches from pagan to early Christian times, and through them, in its many modes of daring, triumph and defeat, down to the rebellion of 98, flickering out finally in Smithy O'Brien's and the Fenian Rebellion's. But it is not until the tribal system had been broken forever that there emerged that spirit of common Irish nationality, which makes Irish patriotic poetry so distinctive. The love for islanders, no doubt, most tenderly and imperfectly expressed by Saint Colerneba. But it is not until the clans had united in common defence of the whole country, and until Ireland began to be described by her bards, by such loving names as the Little Dark Rose, or the Silk of the Cleyhee, or again by such titles as Conelli, or Kathleen the Hulhan, or the Shan van Rot, that a spirit of nationalism had been abused, sufficient to endure and bear, because it hoped for all things this patriotic poetry, beginning as suggested with Saint Colerneba, carried on by Keating, the historian in his delightful letter to Erin, and then spreading it in every direction over Ireland, and overseas with Irish exiles. It is no sense confined to poets of any particular creed or political belief. It is as strong in Emily Lawless as in Darcy McGee as fervently expressed by Samuel Ferguson as Stephen Gwynne, or Standisher Grady, or A.E. I doubt whether there is any poetical literature in the world so suffused with this genuine love of country, or in which it is expressed with more delicate fueling. Folk songs have come to us in countless numbers from the Gaelic and Anglo-Irish alike, but the Gaelic folk songs are without doubt the finest. Specimens of these have been given in translation with all the skill commanded by Mangan, Ferguson, Walsh, Dr. Sigerson, Dr. Hyde, Mr. P. J. McCall, Ms. Eleanor Hull, and Mr. Thomas Mackey Jonah. For their collection, warm obligations are due to Hardiman, Edward Walsh, Dr. Sigerson, Dr. Hyde, Mr. McCall, Mr. P.H. Pierce, and the Gaelic League and Irish Folk Song Society. They would ill be spared, speaking as they do straight from the heart of the Irish people. Lastly, we have to deal with Irish religious poetry and the spiritual and philosophical poetry, which has followed it in recent years, and which is the most remarkable outcome of contemporary Irish literature thought, unless indeed the new Irish literature drama may be said to rival it as an expression of the modern Irish mind, though let it be noted that three of its most prominent representatives, Mr. W.B. Yates, Mr. George Russell, AE, and Mr. Padraic Cullen, are also leading dramatists of the Irish Literary Theatre. Early Irish religious poetry is remarkable, not only for its fine metrical form, but for its cheerful spirituality, its open air freshener, sand for its occasional touches of kindly humour, and the later religious poetry of O'Daley and Kindred Writers as preserved by Dr. Hyde, whilst of a more somber character is beautifully fervid and extraordinarily finished in its technique. And what may be called the world flowers of Irish religious poetry, the short prayers, invocations, and charms are as delightful in their degree as all readers of Dr. Hyde's religious songs of Connort must confess, and now I hand over to my readers the song wreath I have been long gathering for them, may they grow to love as much as I do, what I have elsewhere described as the sprays of druid oak and you, and red-branch roans, whore with you, and sedges sighing from the strand, wence oisin road to fairyland, and festivals blooms whose bardic breath pleasure to the proud Elizabeth, heath blooms that o'er our princes sang, exultant to the battle-clang, pale immortels whose plaintively still murmurs o'er their hero-play, and wild flowers plucked with artless art, from out the Irish peasant's heart, wood shamrocks, noign inns from that lawn, the drinnon, dunn, and canavon, arbiters from Kilani's shore, bogmirtle, magical lasmore, and every blossom, ours above, dark Rosaline's own rose of love, alfred, persimple graves. End of introduction from the book of Irish poetry part one, read for LibriVox.org, recording by Elizabeth Kenright, Colorado Springs. We are the music makers and we are the dreamers of dreams, wandering by lone seabreakers and sitting by desolate streams, world-losers and world-forsakers on whom the pale moon gleams, yet we are the movers and shakers of the world forever, it seems. With wonderful deathless ditties we build up the world's great cities and out of a fabulous story we fashion an empire's glory. One man with a dream at pleasure shall go forth and conquer a crown and three with a new song's measure can trample an empire down. We in the ages lying in the very past of the earth build Nineveh with our sign and babble itself with our mirth and or through them with prophesying to the old of the new world's worth. For each age is a dream that is dying or one that is coming to birth. End of ode, this recording is in the public domain. The scribe from the book of Irish poetry part one, read for LibriVox.org, recording by Chad Horner from Balli Clare in County Hunter, Northern Ireland, situated in the northeast of the island of Ireland. The scribe from the early Irish, a leafy groove surrounds me quite from my delight the black birds flit, while o'er my little books lined words sweet warbling birds their scribe salute. The cuckoo in his mantle gray cries on all day through lush treetops and verily God shield me still, well speeds my quell beneath the coops. End of the scribe, this recording is in the public domain, recording by Chad Horner from Balli Clare in County Hunter, Northern Ireland, situated in the northeast of the island of Ireland. The Song of Amorgan from the book of Irish poetry part one, read for LibriVox.org by Sonja. The Song of Amorgan by Amorgan, a prehistoric bard from the books of Lacan and Bellymote. I am the wind on the sea for might. I am a wave of the deep for length. I am the sound of the sea for fright. I am a stag of seven points for strength. I am a hawk on a cliff for lightness. I am a tear of the sun for brightness. I am a salmon in wisdom's fountain. I am a lake that afar expands. I am knowledge and posies mountain. I am a spear in a spoiler's hands. I am a god who fashioned smoke from magic fire for a druid to slay with. Who but I will make clear each question the mind of man still goes astray with? Who but myself the assembly's nose of the house of the sages on high-sleeve-miss? Who but the poet knows where in the ocean the going-down of the great sun is? Who seven times sought the fairy-forts without all fear or injury? And who declareeth the moon's past ages and the ages thereof that have yet to be? Who out of the shadowy horns of Tethra hitherward draws his herds of kind? Who segregated them from each other to browse the plains of the watery brine? For whom will the fish of the laughing ocean be making welcome, if not for me? Who shapeeth as I can the spell of letters a weapon to win them out of the sea? In vogue a satirist fit incantations to weave for you, O folk of the waves, even me the druid forth furnishing organ letters on oaken staves, even me the parter of combatants, even me who the fairy-height enter to find the cunning enchanter to you with me your souls to light. I am the wind of the sea from might. End of The Song of Amorgan. This recording is in the public domain. First Winter Song. From the Book of Irish Poetry. Part 1. Red4Libervox.org. Take my tidings. Stags contend. Snows descend. Summers end. A chill wind raging. The sun low keeping. Swift to set or seas high sweeping. Dull red the fern. Shapes are shadows. Wild geese mourn or misty meadows. Keen cold limes. Each weaker wing. I see times. Such I sing. Take my tidings. End of First Winter Song. This recording is in the public domain. King and Hermit. From the Book of Irish Poetry. Part 1. Red4Libervox.org. Recording by Colleen McMahon. King and Hermit. A 10th Century Poem. First published and translated by Professor Kuno Mayer. Marvin, brother of King Guar of Connacht, in the 7th Century, had renounced the life of a warrior prince for that of a Hermit. The King endeavored to persuade his brother to return to his court, when the following colloquy took place between them. Guar. Now, Marvin, Hermit of the Grot, why sleepest thou not on quilted feathers? Why, on a pitch-pine floor instead, still make thy bed, despite all weathers? Marvin. I have a shelling in the wood. None save my god has knowledge of it. An estuary and a hazelnut. It's two sides shut. Great oak boughs roof it. Two Heathclad posts beneath a buckle of honeysuckle its frame are propping. The woods around its narrow bound, swine fattening mast are richly dropping. From out my shelling, not too small, familiar all, fair paths invite me. Now, Blackbird, from my gable end, sweet sable friend, thy notes delight me. With joy the stags of oak ridge leap into their clear and deep-banked river, far off Redroiny glows with joy, muck-raw, moin-moy, in sunshine quiver. With mighty mane a green-barked you upholds the blue, his fortress green, an oak up-rears against the storms, tremendous forms, stupendous seen. Mine apple tree is full of fruit, from crown to root a hostel's store. My bonny, nutful hazel bush leans branching lush against my door. A choice pure spring of cooling draught is mine, what prince has coiffed a rarer? Around it creses keen, O king, invite the famishing wayfarer. Tame swine and wild, and goat and deer assemble here upon its brink. Ye even the badgers brood draw near, and without fear lie down to drink. A peaceful troupe of creatures strange, they hither range from wood and height, to meet them slender foxes steal at Vesperpeel, O my delight. These visitants, as to a court, frequent resort to seek me out. Pure water, brother Guare, are they. The salmon gray, the speckled trout. Red rowens, dusky slows and mast, O unsurpassed and godsent dish. Blackberries, wortelberries, blue, red strawberries to my taste and wish. Sweet apples, honey of wild bees, and after them of eggs a clutch. Halls, berries of the juniper, who, king, could cast a slur on such. A cup with meat of hazelnut outside my hut in summer shine, Or ale with herbs from wood in spring, Are worth, O king, thy costliest wine. Bright bluebells are my board I throw, A lovely show my feast dispangle. The rushes radiance, oaklets gray, Briar tresses gay, sweet, goodly tangle. When brilliant summer casts once more, Her cloak of color o'er the fields. Sweet tasting marjoram, pig nut, leek, To all who seek her verger yields. Her bright red-breasted little men, They're lovely music than outpour. The thrush exalts, the cuckoos all Around her call and call once more. The bees earth's small musicians hum, No longer dumb in gentle chorus, Like Echo's faint of that long plant, The fleeing wildfowl murmur auras. The wren, an active songster now, From off the hazel-bowl pipes shrill. Woodpeckers flock in multitudes, With beauteous hoods and beating bill. With fair white birds, the crane and gull, The fields are full while cuckoos cry. No mournful music, heath polts done, Through russet heather sunward fly. The heifers now with loud delight, Summer bright salute thy reign, Comfort smooth for toilsome loss, Tis now to cross the fertile plain. The warblings of the wind That sweep from branchy wood to sapphire sky, The river falls, the swan's far note, Delicious music floating by. Earth's bravest band, because unhired, All day untired makes cheer for me. In Christ's own eyes of endless youth, Can this same truth be said of thee? What, though in kingly pleasures now, Beyond all riches thou rejoice, Content am I, my Savior good, Should on this wood have set my choice? Without one hour of war or strife, Through all my life at peace I fare, Where better can I keep my trist With our Lord Christ, O brother Guire? Guire, my glorious kingship, Ye and all thy sires estates that fall to me, My Marvin I would gladly give, So I might live my life with thee. End of King and Hermit. This recording is in the public domain. Saint Columba in Iona, from the Book of Irish Poetry, part one, read for LibriVox.org. Recording by Colleen McMahon. Saint Columba in Iona, from an Irish manuscript in the Burgundian Library, Brussels. Delightful would it be to me, from a rock pinnacle to trace continually the ocean's face, That I might watch the heaving waves of noble force, To God the Father chant their staves of the earth's course, That I might mark its level strand, To me no lone distress, That I might hark the seabird's wondrous band, Sweet source of happiness, That I might hear the clamorous billows thunder on the rude beach, That by my blessed churchside I might ponder their mighty speech, Or watch surf-flying gulls the dark shawl follow, With joyous scream, or mighty ocean monsters, Spout and wallow, wonder supreme, That I might well observe of ebb and flood, All cycles therein, And that my mystic name might be for good, But coolery, erin, That gazing toward her on my heart might fall a full contrition, That I might then be well my evil's all, Though hard the addition, That I might bless the Lord who all things orders for their great good, The countless hierarchies through heaven's bright borders, Land, strand, and flood, That I might search all books, And from their chart find my souls calm, Now kneel before the heaven of my heart, Now chant a psalm, Now meditate upon the king of heaven, Chief of the holy three, Now ply my work by no compulsion driven, What greater joy could be, Now plucking dulls upon the rocky shore, Now fishing eager on, Now furnishing food unto the famished poor, In hermitage anon, The guidance of the king of kings Hath been vouchsafed unto me, If I keep watch beneath his wings, No evil shall undo me. End of St. Colomba in Iona This recording is in the public domain The Irish Wolfhound by Dennis Florence McCarthy From the Book of Irish Poetry Part One Read for LibriVolks.org Recording by Elaine Conway England From the foray of Con O'Donnell His nature, his stature tall, His body long, his back like night, His breast like snow, His foreleg pillar-like and strong, His hind leg like a bended bow, Rough culling hair, head long and thin, His ear a leaf so small and round, Not brown, the favourite dog of thin, Could rival John MacDonald's hound. As fly the shadows o'er the grass, He flies with step as light and sure, He hunts the wolf through tossed and pass, And starts the deer by leasing o'er The music of the Sabbath bells, O' corn has not as sweet a sound Than when along the valley swells The cry of John MacDonald's hound. End of the Irish Wolfhound This recording is in the public domain The Rock of Cashell by Sir Aubrey Devere From the Book of Irish Poetry Part One Read for LibriVolks.org Recording by Elaine Conway England Royal and saintly, Cashell, I would gaze upon the wreck of thy departed powers, Not in the dewy light of matten hours, Nor the meridian pomp of summer's place, But at the close of dim or tunnel days, When the sun's parting glance Through slanting showers, Shared o'er thy rock, Throne the battlements and towers, Such awful gleams, As bright and o'er decays, Prophetic teak, At such a time, me thinks, The breeze from thy lone courts, And to voiceless aisles, A melancholy moral, Such as sings, On the lone traveller's heart, Amid the powers of vast purse-police, On her mountain stand, Or Thebes half-buried in the desert sand. End of The Rock of Cashell This recording is in the public domain Glen Gareth by Sir Aubrey Devere From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for LibriVolks.org Recording by Elaine Conway England Gazing from each low-bulock of this bridge, How wonderful the contrast, Dark as night, Here amid cliffs and woods, With head along the might, The black stream walls, Through ferns and a drooping search, Neath twisted roots moss-brown, And a weedy ledge, Gushing aloft, From yonder birch-clad height, Leaps into air, A cataract, snow-white, Falling to gulfs, obscure, The mountain ridge, Like a grey water, Guardian of the scene, Above the cloven, Gorge gloomily towers, Ur, the dimwoods, A gathering tempest lowers, Save where earth walked the moist, Leaves lucid green, A sunbeam dancing, Glancing through desparted showers, Sparkles along the rill, Diamond sheen, A sunburst on the bay, Turn and behold, The restless waves, Resplendent in their glory, Sweet, glittering past, Yon-purpled, Remontory, Bright is Apollo's breastplate, Bathed in gold, Yon-bastioned eyelet gleams, Thin insists are old, Translucent, Through each clan, A mantle-hoary veils, Those peaked hills, Shapely as air in story, Delfig or alpine, Or Vesuvian old, Minstrels have sung, From rock and headland proud, The wild wood spreads its arms Around the bay, The manifold mountain cones, Now dark, now bright, Now seen, now lost, Alternate from rich light, To spectral shade, And each dissolving cloud, Reveals new mountains as it floats away. End of Glen Gareth This recording is in the public domain. Siberia by James Clarence Mangan From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Red for Libra Fox dot org Recording by Elaine Conway England In Siberia's wastes, The ice-wind's breath woundeth, Like the tooth's steel, Lost Siberia doth reveal, Only blight and death, Blight and death alone, No summer sun shines, Night is interblent with day, In Siberia's wastes, All way, the blood blackens, The heart pines, In Siberia's wastes, No tears are shed, For they freeze within the bram, Nought is felt but dullest pain, Pain acute, yet dead, Pain as in a dream, When years go by, Funeral paste, yet fugitive, When man lives and doth not live, Doth not live, nor die, In Siberia's wastes, Are sands and rocks, Nothing blooms of green, All soft, But to the snow peaks rise aloft, And to the gaunt ice blocks, And to the exile there, Is one with those, They are part, and he is part, For the sands are in his heart, And to the killing snows, Therefore, in those wastes, None curse the czar, Each man's tongue is cloven By the North Blast, who heweth nigh, With sharp skimmetal, And search doom each dweez, Till hunger norm, and cold slain, He at length sinks there, Yet scares more a corpse than ear, His last breath was drawn, End of Siberia, This recording is in the public domain, Asci for knock many, by William Carlton, From the Book of Irish Poetry, Part I, Read for LibraVox.org, Recording by Elaine Conway, England Take proud ambition, Take thy fill, Of pleasures won through toil or crime, Coal learning, Climb thy rugged hill, And give thy name to future time, Philosophy be keen to see, What air is just awfuls or vain, Take each thy need, But oh, give me, To range my mounting glens again, Pure was the breeze that found my cheek, As oh, not many's brow, I went, When every lonely dell could speak, In airy music, vision sent, False world, I hate thy cares and thee, I hate the treacherous haunts of men, Give feedback my early heart to me, Give back to me my mounting glen, How light my youthful visions shone, When spanned by fancy's radiant form, But now her glittering bow is gone, And leaves me but the cloud and storm, With wasted form and cheek all pale, With heart long, seared by grief and pain, Done roll, I'll seek thy native fail, I'll tread my mountain glens again, Thy breeze once more may fan my blood, Thy valleys all are lovely still, And I may stand where oft I stood, In lonely musings on thy hill, But ah, the spell is gone, No art in crowded town or native plain, Can teach a crushed and breaking heart To pipe the song of youth again. End of a sigh for not many. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet by Edward Dowden, From the Book of Irish Poetry, Part 1, Read Philippa Volkslott-Aug, Recording by Elaine Conway, England. I've wept tears and learnt a fear, Sad waste of searching for a smile, And I can guess the secret of a wan maths drooping-gnus, And know which eyes are they that waste their gaze On the hid grave of hope. Yet nearer, the less my heart leaps up, To utter thanks and bless, Our earth which bears sweet flowers, And to the glad face of these unworried waters, Thanks to them. For brief, intense, bright moments, When we see our life stand clear in joy, We kiss the hem of God's robe in a rapture, At our hole on windswept hilltops, By the mystery of ocean on still morns, Or when the soul springs to the lark in a fine ecstasy. End of Sonnet. This recording is in the public domain. Four Ducks on a Pond by William Allingham, From the Book of Irish Poetry, Part 1, Red4Libervox.org. Four Ducks on a Pond, A grass bank beyond, A blue sky of spring, White clouds on the wing, What a little thing to remember for years, To remember with tears. End of Four Ducks on a Pond, This recording is in the public domain. Phone Flakes by Standish O'Grady, From the Book of Irish Poetry, Part 1, Red4Libervox.org. Recording by Elaine Conway, England. Gotten in the strife of waters, Twinkling little stars of foam, Restless, beautiful white daughters Of a father made to roam, And a sun and a moon, And many a cloudy sky, To a low monotonous tune, Ego glancing, dancing by, Fleeting shapes of rarest beauty, Poetry and life and joy, I would err in manhood's duty, If I passed you like a boy. I will lie down here and weave A web of similes to you, In the long ride-gross, And cleave a little lane, To see you through, Shooting, quivering, Restless flamelits On a restless heart you see, Fairy-tenanted white hamlets, Rocked of earthquakes on the stream, White as clouds of bluest ether, Pressed in eons hand as snow, Throne in multitudes together, On the streams of earth below, Forms as undefined as faces, Seen in dreamland ghosts of white, Flowers that grew in heavenly places, Fed on heavenly air and light, I would cast my lot with you In your bundle would be bound, Shining maintenance, beard adieu, To this barren, steady ground, Dance with you amid the ridges, And to the madness of the stream, Sleep and kiss you wear The midges on the silent water gleam. End of Phone Flakes This recording is in the public domain, From Shannon to See, by E. G. A. Holmes, From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1, Read for Libberfox.org, Recording by Elaine Conway, England The Shannon bore me to thy bosom wide, I wandered with it on its winding way, By fields of yellow corn and new moan hay, And far blue hills that froze on either side, And low dark woods that fringed the ebbing tide, And ever as its waters neared the west, Out of the slumber of its broadening breast, Faint momentary ripples rose and died, And rose again before the breeze and grew, To wavelets dancing in the noonday light, And these were changed to waves of ocean blue, And creek and headland faded from the sight, And earl at last, at last I floated free, On the long rollers of the open sea, End of Phone Shannon to See. This recording is in the public domain, Eternal Vigil by E. G. A. Holmes, From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1, Read for Libberfox.org, Recording by Elaine Conway, England Oh, once again upon thy heaving breast I floated, Like a seabird when it braves the shoreward onset of thy flowing waves, And leaps triumphant on each rushing crest, Round me in, dark, magnificent unrest, The billows of the wild Atlantic, Rolled far, far away, Into the gates of gold, The sunlit portals of the stormy west, Oh, never wear it, in the hush of noon, Thy billows break the paths of golden sleep, Thy break the dream, and luster off the moon, Earth knows the hours of darkness, Thou dost keep eternal vigil, Still thy shirt is white, Flash through the deepest gloom of starless night. End of Eternal Vigil. This recording is in the public domain, Third by Moira O'Neill, From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1, Read for Libberfox.org, Recording by Elaine Conway, England Sure, maybe you've heard the storm thrush, Whistling bold in March, Before there's a primrose peeping out, Or a wee red comb on the larch, Whistling the sun to come out of the clouds, And the wind to come over the sea, But for all he can whistle so clear and loud, He's never the bird for me, Sure, maybe you've seen the song thrush, After an April rain, Slip from in under the dripping leaves, Wishful to sing again, And lo, we love when he's near the nest, And loud from the top of the tree, But for all he can flutter the heart In your breast, He's never the bird for me, Sure, maybe you've heard the cacadoo, Calling his mate in May, When one's sweet thought is the whole of his life, And he tells it the one sweet way, But my heart is sore at the cacadoo, Filled with his own soft glee, Over and over his me and you, He's never the bird for me, Sure, maybe you've heard the red breast, Singing his lone on a thorn, Mind in himself, O, the dear day's lost, Brave with his heart forlorn, The time is in dark November, And no spring hopes as he, Remember he sings, remember, Athon's the wee bird for me. End of birds, This recording is in the public domain, Sheeps and Lambs, by Catherine Tynan Hinkson, From the Book of Irish Poetry, Part 1, Read for LibraVox.org, Recording by Elaine Conway, England. All in the April morning, April airs were abroad, Sheep with their little lambs, Passed me by on the road, The sheep with their little lambs, Passed me by on the road, All in the April evening, I thought on the Lamb of God, The lambs were weary and crying, With a weak human cry, I thought on the Lamb of God, Going comically to die, Up in the blue, blue mountains, Dewey pastures are sweet, Rest for the little bodies, Rest for the little feet, Rest for the Lamb of God, Up on the hilltop green, Only a cross of shame, Two stark crosses between, All in the April evening, April airs were abroad, I saw the sheep with their lambs, And thought on the Lamb of God. End of Sheeps and Lambs, This recording is in the public domain, April in Ireland, by Nora Hopper, From the Book of Irish Poetry, Part 1, Red for Leepervox.org, Recording by Elaine Conway, England. She hath a woven garland, All of the sighing's edge, And all her flowers and snowdrops, Grown on the winter's edge, The golden looms of Tiana and Og, Woeful the winter, Through her gown of mist and raindrops, Shot with a cloudy blue. Sunlight she holds in one hand, And rain she scatters after, And through the rainy twilight, We hear her fitful after. She shates down on her flowers, The snow's less white than they, Then quickens with her kisses The folded knots of May. She seeks the summer lover, That never shall be hers, Fane for gold leaves of autumn, She passes by the furs. Though barred gold it hideeth, She scorns her seddy crown, And pressing blindly sunwards, She treads her snowdrops down. Her gifts are all a faddle, Of wayward smiles and fears, Yet hope she also holdeth, This daughter of the ears, A hope that blossoms faintly, Set upon sorrow's edge, She hath a woven garland, All of the sighing's edge. End of April in Ireland. This recording is in the public domain. Glourne's Weir by Winifred M. Letts, From the Book of Irish Poetry, Part 1, Read for LibreFox.org. Recording by Elaine Conway, England. At night when the world was sleepy and still, I'd awake, Maybe in the depths of the dark, And think of the river below the hill, That flows so fast by the ruined old mill, Never assigned besides would I hear, But the water rowing at Glourne's Weir, I'd think to myself how day would come soon, The water hence wake, And the wag-tail stir, The kingfisher flash in the light of the noon, From the willowy banks of Nockmaroon. But through the day you could scarcely hear, The voice of the river at Glourne's Weir, I'd awake in the depths of the dark, Maybe when the friendly voices of the day were still, But the river would lift its song for me, Down from the mountains, Off to the sea, And glad was I in the night to hear, The roar of the waters at Glourne's Weir. End of Glourne's Weir This recording is in the public domain. The Nine Green Glends, by John Stevenson, From the Book of Irish Poetry, part one, Read for Lebervoxtot all. Recording by Elaine Conway, England. Sorrow and strife be far away, From these sweet veils and hills for a, O, who would think of sword and death, That feels the living sea's sweet bread, Blow through the nine green glens today, Who sees the blue smoke skyward curled, For many a lowly glen half-stone, Each with a pleasure and a pain, A pathos and romance its own, Each to household a world, Who that can hear the voice of mourn, The whisper of the springing corn, Who understands the babbling rills, The weird, wild music of the hills, And nameless voices have been borne. Sure am I that the antrim glen Holds mysteries beyond our ken, And that their moves in wind and sea, And rock and stream and weed and tree, A life not far from the life of men, Dear Mother Earth, I know within, At leaf and eye our next of kin, The rowing high by blood is near, The primrose as a sister dear, Brother of mine the mountain win, Now on the ocean sure I stand, The sea-worn cliff on either hand, And farther north no other land, Only the long sea-heave and roll Between me and the arctic pole, End of the nine green glens, This recording is in the public domain. Lough Bray, won by Rose Kavanaugh, From the book of Irish poetry, Part 1, read for LibraVox.org, Recording by Elaine Conway, England. A little lonely moorland lake, Its waters brown and cool and deep, The cliff, the hills behind it, Make a picture for my heart to keep, For rock and heather, wave and strand, Wartints I never saw them wear, This the dune sunshine was o'er the land, Before it was never half so fair, The amber ripples sang all day, And singing spilled their crowns of white, Upon the beach in thin pale spray, That street, the sober strand with light, The amber ripples sang their song, When suddenly, from far ahead, A large, pure voice mixed with a throng Of lovely things about to spread, Some flowers were there so near the brink, Their shadows in the way were thrown, While mosses green and gray and pink Grew thickly round each smooth dark stone, And over all the summer sky, Shut out the turn we left behind, Twas joy to stand in silence by, One bright chain linking mind to mind, Oh, little lonely mountain spot, Your place within my heart will be, Apart from all life's busy lot, A true sweet solemn memory. End of Lough Bray 1 This recording is in the public domain. Lough Bray 2 by Standish O'Grady From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for Librevox.org Recording by Elaine Conway, England Now memory, false, spendthrift memory, Disloyal treasure keeper of the soul, This vision change shall never wrong from thee, No wasteful years are facing as they roll, O steel, blue lake, high-cradled in the hills, O sad waves, Filled with little sobs and cries, White glistening shingle, Hiss of mounting rills, And granite-hearted wolves, Blotting the skies, shine, sob, gleam, Gloom forever, oh, and me, Be what you are in nature, A recess to sadness, Dedicate the mystery within, afar, In the soul's wilderness. Still let my thoughts, leaving the worldly raw, Like pilgrims, Wander on thy haunted shore. And of Lough Bray 2 This recording is in the public domain. An Awakening from the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for Librevox.org by Sonja An Awakening by Alice Perlong Oh, spring will awaken the heart of me, With the rapture of blown violets, When the green bud quickens on every tree, The spring will awaken the heart of me, And dews of honey will rain on the lee, Tangling the grasses in silver nets. Yes, spring will awaken the heart of me With the rapture of blown violets. End of An Awakening This recording is in the public domain. The Little Waves of Brefney From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for Librevox.org by Sonja The Little Waves of Brefney By Eva Gore Booth The grand road from the mountain Goes shining to the sea, And there is traffic in it, And many a horse and cart, But the little roads of clunar Are dear afar to me, And the little roads of clunar Go rambling through my heart. A great storm from the ocean Goes shouting over the hill, And there is glory in it, And terror on the wind, But the haunted air of twilight Is very strange and still, And the little winds of twilight Are dearer to my mind. The great waves of the Atlantic Sweep storming on their way, Shining green and silver With the hidden herring shore, But the little waves of Brefney Have drenched my heart in spray, And the little waves of Brefney Go stumbling through my soul. End of The Little Waves of Brefney This recording is in the public domain. On Great Sugarloaf From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for Librevox.org by Sonja On Great Sugarloaf by George A. Green Where Sugarloaf With bear and ruinous wedge Cleaves the grey air To view the darkening sea, We stood on high And heard the north wind flee, Through clouds storm-heavy Fallen from ledge to ledge. Then sudden, look, we cried, The far black edge of south horizon Oped in sun-bright glee, And the broad water shone, One moment free, ear-darkness veiled Again the wavering sedge. Such is the poet's inspiration, Still too evanescent, Coming but to go, Such the great passions, Showing good in ill, Quick brightnesses, Love-lights too burned low, And such man's life, Which flashes heaven's will Between two glooms, a transitory glow. End of On Great Sugarloaf This recording is in the public domain. A June Day From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for Librevox.org by Sonja A June Day by John Todd Hunter The very spirit of summer breathed to-day, Here, where I sun-me in a dreamy mood, And leapt the salt-release, And seems to brood tenderly Over those hazed hills far away. The air is fragrant with the new-mown hay, And drowsed with hum of myriad flies Pursued by twittering martins. All young hillside wood Is drowned in sunshine till its green looks gray. No scrap of cloud is in the still blue sky, Vaporous with heat, From which the foreground trees stand out Each leaf cut sharp. The wetted scythe Makes rustic music for me as I lie, Watching the gambles of the children blithe, Drinking the season's sweetness to the lease. End of A June Day This recording is in the public domain. The Swimmer by Rodan Noel From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for Librevox.org Recording by Elaine Conway, England Who would linger idle? Dallying would lie, When wind and wave, a bridal celebrating fly, Let him plunge among them, Who hath wooed in a flirted with them, Sang them. In the salt-sea trough he may win them, Onward on a buoyant crest, Far to seaward, sunward, Ocean born to rest, Wild wind will sing over him, On a blithe sea bosom, Swims another too, swims a live sea blossom, A gray-winged sea view, Grape-green all the waves are, By whose hurrying line, Half of ships and caves are buried under brine, Supple shifting ranges, Lucent at the crest, With pearly surface changes, Never lay to rest. Now a dipping gun-whale, Momentally he sees, Now a fuming funnel, A red flag in the breeze, Arms flung open wide, Lip the laughing sea, For play-fellow, for bright, Claim her impetuously, Try unfortly exalt, With all the free buoyant, Bounding splendour of the sea, And if while on the billow, We aerily he lay, His awful wild play-fellow, Filled his mouth with spray, Reft him of his breath, To some far realms away, He would float with death, Wild wind would sing over him, And the free foam over him, Waft him sleeping, Sandward, all alone with death, Are alone with death, In a realm of wondrous dreams, And shadow-haunted ocean gleams. End of the swimmer, This recording is in the public domain. Spring The Travelling Man by Winifred M. Letts From the book of Irish poetry, Part 1, Read PhilippaVox.org, Recording by Elaine Conway, England Spring The Travelling Man has been here, Here in the Glen, He must have passed by, In the great of the dawn, When only the Robin and Wren Were awake, Watching out with their bright little eyes. In the midst of the break, The rabbits may be heard him hozz, Stepping light on the grass, Whistling careless and gay, At the break of the day, Then the black thorn to give him delight, Put on raiment of white, And all for his sake, The gorse on the hill, When he rested an hour, Grew bright with a splendour of love, My grief that I was not aware Of himself being there, It is I would have given my dare, To have seen him set forth, Whistling careless and gay, In the gray of the morn, By gorse, bush, And frohung and thorn, On his way to the north. End of Spring, The Travelling Man, This recording is in the public domain, A fine day on Loch Swilly, By William Alexander. From the book of Irish poetry, Part 1, Read PhilippaVox.org, Recording by Elaine Conway, England Soft slept the beautiful autumn, In the heart on the face on the Loch, Its heart, whose pulses were hushed, Till you knew the life of the tide, But by a wash on the shore, A whisper like whispering leaves, In green abysses of forest, Its face, whose violet melted, Melted in roseate gold, Roses and violets, Dying into a tender mystery of soft, impalpable haze, Calm lay the woodlands of fun, The summer was gone, Yet it lay on the gently yellowing leaves, Like the beautiful poem, His tones are mute, His words are forgot, But its music sleepeth forever Within the music of thought, The robin sang from the ash, The sunset's pencils of gold, No longer wrote their great lines On the bowls of the odorous lines, Or bathed the treetops in glory, But as soft, strange radiance there hung, In splinters of tenderest light, And those whose look it from glengollen Saw the purple wall of the scalp, As if through an old church window, Stain it with a marvellous blue, From the snow-white shells drowned of inch, You could not behold the white horses Lifting their glittering backs, Tossing their mains on Dunry, And the battle of McCamish Was lulled in the delicate air. As in old pictures, The smoke goes up from Abraham's pyre, So the smoke went up from Rathmullen, And beyond the trail of the smoke Was a great, deep, fiery abyss Of molten gold in the sky, And it set a far tracker up the waters, A blaze with gold like its own, Over the fire of the sea, Over the chasm in the sky. My spirit, as by a bridge of wonder, Went wandering on, And lost its way in the heaven. End of a fine day on Loch Swilly. This recording is in the public domain. First morning by William Alexander. From the book of Irish poetry, part one, read PhilippaVox.org. Recording by Elaine Conway, England. The morn is cold, A whiteness newly brought, Lightly and loosely pared as every place, The pains among yon trees, That eastward face, Flash rosy fire from the opposite dawning court, As the face flashes with a splendid thought, As the heart flashes with a touch of grace, When heaven's light comes on ways, We cannot trace, Unsought yet lovelier than we ever sought, In the blue northern sky is a pale moon, Through whose thin texture something doth appear, Like the dark shadow of a branchy tree, Fit morning for the prayers of one like me, Whose life is in midwinter, And must soon come to the shortest day Of all my year. End of the frost-burning, This recording is in the public domain. The wind from the west by Ella Young. From the book of Irish poetry, part one, Read PhilippaVox.org. Recording by Elaine Conway, England. Blow high, blow low, A wind from the west, You come from the country, I love the best, O say have the lilies yet lifted their heads, Above the lake water that ripples and spreads, Do the little sedges still shake with delight, And whisper together all through the night, Have the mountains the purple I used to love, And peace about them, Around and above, A wind from the west, Blow high, blow low, You come from the country, I loved long ago. End of the wind from the west, This recording is in the public domain. Peaks my own, Hovering above thy fragrant sun-steeped valleys, Or on salt winds, From height to headland-blown. I would, I were a little wind of night-time, All the great winds blow through the upper skies, But I would wonder, where through dew-starred myrtle, Like faint moon-flames, Thy secret thoughts arise. I would, I were a falling star, beloved, One of a host exultant, swift and free, Then would I burn the sundering leagues of darkness, And flaming to thy heart, Be lost in thee. End of to the mountain-ben-balben. This recording is in the public domain. Annach, from the Book of Irish Poetry, Part One, RedVolubriVox.org, by Sonja. Annach, by Daryl Figgis. There is no peace now, however things go, No peace where the ways of men ring loud, Safe in a secret place that I know, Hidden as in a cloud. All the high hills then clustering round, Arch to protect it from trouble and noise, The great strong hills that sing without sound, And speak with no voice. There lies Keralog, the mute low lake, And Banna Vrower, lying aloft, Peacefully sleeping, or even if they wake, Lepping low and soft. Upon the high hill-tops the heather may be crying, And over the hill-tops the voices of men are heard, But here only water, lepping and sighing, Or the wail of a bird. Peace, peace, and peace, From the inner heart of dream, More full of wisdom than speech can tell, Dropped like a veil round the show of Things that seem with an invisible spell. End of Annach. This recording is in the public domain. The Fairy is Lalibai, from the Book of Irish Poetry, Part 1, Read for LibriVox.org by Sonja. The Fairy is Lalibai, from the Gaelic, by Eleanor Hull. My Merth and Merrimand, soft and sweet art thou, Child of the race of Kong art thou, My Merth and Merrimand, soft and sweet art Thou, of the race of Kong art thou. My smooth green rush, my laugh the sweet, My little plant in the rocky cleft, Were it not for the spell on thy tiny feet, Thou wouldst not here be left, not thou. Of the race of Kong art thou, My laugh the sweet and low art thou, As you grow on my knee, I would lift you with me, Were it not for the mark that is on your feet, I would lift you away, and away with me. End of The Fairy is Lalibai. This recording is in the public domain. The Fairy Host, from the Book of Irish Poetry, Part 1, Read for LibriVox.org by Sonja. The Fairy Host, from the Irish Tale, Lager MacCriman's visit to the Fairy realm of Magmel. Pure white the shields their arms upbear, With silver emblems rare overcast, Amid blue glittering blades they go, The horns they blow are loud of blast. In well-instructed ranks of war, Before their chief they proudly pace, Cerulean spears over every crest, A curly-dressed pale-visaged race. Beneath the flame of their attack, Bare and black turns every coast, With such a terror to the fight, Flashes that mighty vengeful host. Small wonder that their strength is great, Since royal in estate are all, Each hero's head a lion's fell, A golden yellow mane let's fall. Calmly and smooth their bodies are, Their eyes the starry blue eclipse, The pure white crystal of their teeth, Laughs out beneath their thin red lips. Good are they at man's laying feats, Melodious over meats and ale, Of woven verse they wield the spell, At chess-craft they excel the gale. End of the Fairy Host. This recording is in the public domain. The Song of the Fairies. From the Book of Irish Poetry, Part 1. Read for LibriVox.org by Sonja. The Song of the Fairies. When they made the road across the bog of Lamar for their king-media. From the Irish by A. H. Leary. Pile on the soil, Thrust on the soil, Red are the oxen around to toil, Heavy the troops that my words obey, Heavy they seem, and yet men are they. Strongly as piles are the tree trunks placed, Red are the wattles above them laced, Tired are your hands, and your glances land, One woman's winning, this toil may grant. Oxen are ye, but revenge shall see, Men who are white shall your servants be, Rushes from Tefa are cleared away, Grief is the price that the men shall pay. Stones have been cleared from the rough Meath-ground. Where shall the gain or the harm be found? Thrust it in hand, force it in hand, Nobles this night as an ox-troop stand. Hard is the task that is asked, and who, From the bridging of Lamar shall gain or rule. End of the Song of the Fairies. This recording is in the public domain. Vengeance by George Sigerson From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for LibreFox.org Recording by Elaine Conway, England A great gallant king of yore, Ruled shore and sea of Aaron, Noble then all sectioned shone, Neath Rigdon, son of Daring, O'er the mane of slow grey seas, With a breeze lay his whore way, To behold his foreign friend, He would wend north to Norway. Spared his splendid vessels three, When the sea calmed its motion, Till they, sailing, Sudden stop on the ridgy top of ocean, They refused to wend away, Fixed they lay, nowhere faring. Then into the dark, deep, deeps, Rurad leaps, greatly daring, When he dived for their release, Through the sea's surging waters, There he found the forms, Divine of its nine beautiest daughters, These, with clear soft axon, Served it was they stayed his sailing, That to leave nine maiden sweet, Where feet few prevailing, He, with these nine nymphs remained, Where their rain shayed nor sadness, Neath the waters where no wave Ever gave gloom to gladness, One of these his bride became, Still his fame forced him forward, But he vowed to greet her lips, And his ships came from Norwood, Once on board he bade them sail, Passed to the pale, Lillo's breaking, And with one bound make their course, To the Norse of quick speaking, O'er the salt sea then they rode, And abode sweet the story, Till the seventh glade year ends, With her friends great in glory, Rurad then ran out, Once more, on the whore salt sea faring, Speeding forth his ships to reach To the bright far beach of Errin, Warped and wrong the royal will, Solemn still is promised spoken, He should have gone to the maid, As he said, no pledge have broken, When the Prince of Toured's name, Unto Mured's borders came, Around the shore fell his fame, A sound arose of sad acclaim, Twas the sweet voiced women's song, Born along in music's motion, Following Rurad's fleeing sail, Or whale of wave-worn ocean, Sailing in Bronzeboat they came, No flank frame made by mortal, Those nine maidens, fair and fierce, Till their peers, all binns portal, Dye and dread the deed then done, There by one mid the water, Rurad's son, Her own she slew, Vengeance knew, sweet and slaughter, Then appraising high her hand, Forth she cast him on the strand, Shrank the shore, and shattering foam, From King Rurad's welcome home. End of Seemaden's Vengeance, This recording is in the public domain, Song of male doing, By Thomas William Rolliston, From the Book of Irish Poetry, Part One, Read for LibraVox.org, Recording by Elaine Conway, England. There are veils that lift, There are bars that fall, There are lights that beacon, And winds that call, Goodbye, there are hurrying feet, And who dare not wait for the hours on us, The hour of fate, the circling hour Of the flaming gate. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, I fare, Fare they shine through the burning zone, The rainbow gleams of a world unknown. Goodbye, and at all to follow, To seek, to dare, When step by step in the evening air, Floats down to meet us, the cloudy stare. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, The cloudy stare of the brig, O dread, is the dizzy path that our feet must tread. Goodbye, O children of time, O nights and days, That gather and wander and stand and gaze, And wheeling stars in your lonely ways. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, The music calls and the gates unclose, Onward and onward the world away goes. Goodbye, we die in the bliss of a great new birth, O fading phantoms of pain and birth, O fading loves of the old green earth. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. End of the song of Mel doing, This recording is in the public domain, The Island of Sleep, by William Butler Yates. From the book of Irish poetry, part one, Read for LiborVox.org, Recording by Elaine Conway, England. Fled foam underneath us and round us, A wandering and milky smoke, High as the saddle-gearth, Covering away from our glance the tide, And those that fled, and that followed. From the foam-pale distance broke, The immortal desire of immortals, We saw in their faces and sighed, I'm used on the chase with the Fenyans, And Bran, Sigolan, Loma, And never a song sang ne'er, And over my fingertips came now the sliding of tears, And sweeping of mist-cold hair, And now the warmth of sighs, And after the quiver of lips, Where we days-long or hours-long in riding, When rolled in a grizzly peace, An isle lay level before us, With dripping hazel and oak, And we stood on a seaside we saw not, For whiter than new-washed fleece, Fled foam underneath us, And round us, a wandering and milky smoke, And we rode on the plains of the sea's edge, The sea's edge, barren and grey, Grey sand on the green of the grasses, And over the dripping trees, Dripping and doubling landward, As though they were hasten away, Like an army of old men, Longing for rest, from the moan of the seas, But the trees grew taller and closer, Immense in their wrinkling bark, Dropping, a murmurous dropping, Old silence and that one sound, For no live creature lived there, No weasels moved in the dark, Long sighs arose in our spirits, Beneath us bubbled the ground, And the ears of the horse went sinking away In the hollow night, Fall as drift from a sailor slow drowning, The gleams of the world on the sea, And the sun, Seized on our hands and our faces, On hazel and oak leaf, the light, And the stars were blotted above us, And the whole of the world was won, Till the horse gave a whinny, For cumbers with stems of the hazel and oak, A valley flowed down from his hoofs, And there in the long grass lay, Under the starlight and shadow, A monstrous slumbering croak, Their naked and gleaming bodies poured out, And heaped in the way, And by them were arrow and hawaks, Arrow and shield and blade, And dew-blanched horns, In whose hollow a child three years old, Could sleep on a couch of rushes, And all in wrought and inlaid, And more comely than man Can make them with bronze and silver and gold, And each of the huge white creatures Was hugeer than four schoolmen, The tops of their ears were feathered, Their hands were the claw of birds, And shaking the plumes of the grasses, And the leaves of the mural glen, The breathing came from those bodies, Long, warless, grown whiter than curds, The wood was so spacious above them, That he who had stars for his flocks, Gold fund all the leaves with his fingers, Nor go from his dew-cumbered skies, So long were they sleeping, The owls had builded their nests in their locks, Filling the fibrous dimness With long generations of eyes, And over the limbs and the valley, The slow owls wandered and came, Now in a place of starfire, And now in a shadow place wide, And the chief of the huge white creatures, His knees and his soft star flame, Lay loose in the place of shadow, We drew the reins by his side, Gold in the nails of his bird-claws, Flung loosely along the dim ground, In one was a branch soft shining, With bowels more many than size, In midst of an old man's bosom, Owls ruffling and pacing around, Silled their bodies against him, Filling the shade with their eyes, And my gaze was thronged with sleepers, Known neither in the house of a can, In a realm where the handsome are many, Or in glamours by demons flung, Of faces alive with such beauty, Made known to the salt-eye of man, Yet weary with passions that faded, When the seven-fold seas were young, And I gazed on the bell-branched sleep's forebear, Far-sung by the senakis, I saw how they slumbered, grown weary, Their camping in grass is deep, Of wars with wide world, And pacing the shores of the wandering seas, Laid hands on the bell-branch and swayed it, And fed of human sleep, Snatching the born of Niam, I blew a lingering note, Came sand from those monstrous sleepers, A sound like the stirring of flies, He, shaking the fold of his lips, And heaving the pillar of his throat, Watched me with mournful wonder, Out of the wells of his eyes, I cried, come out of the shadow, Can of the veils of gold, And taliff your goodly household, And the goodly works of your hands, That we may use in the starlight, And talk of the battles of old, Your questioner, Oysin, is worthy, He comes from the Fenian lands, Half open his eyes were, And held me to all the smoke of their dreams, His lips moved slowly in answer, No answer out of them came, And he swayed in his fingers the bell-branch, Slow dropping a sound in, faint screams, Softer than snowflakes in April, And piercing the marrow like flame, Wrapped in the wave of that music, With weariness more than of earth, The moorler of my centuries filled me, And gone like a sea-covered stone, With the memories of the whole of my sorrow, And the memories of the whole of my mirth, And softness came from the starlight, And filled me full to the bone, In the roots of the grasses of the soles, I laid my body as low, And the pearl, pale neon, lay by me, Her brow on the midst of my breast, And the horse was gone in the distance, And years after years gone flow, Square leaves of the ivy moved over us, Binding us down to our rest, And a man of the many white crows he has, A century there I forgot, How the feats locked drip blood in the battle, When the fallen, unfallen lie rolled, How the falconer follows the falcon In the weeds of the herons' plot, And the names of the demons whose hammers Made armor from conwall of old, And man of the many white groziers, A century there I forgot, That the spear-shoft is made out of ashwood, The shield out of osia and hide, How the hammers spring on the anvil, On the spearhead's burning spot, How the slow-blue-eyed oxen of fin, Low-sadly at evening tide, But in dreams, mild man of the crows he has, Drive in the dust with their throngs, Moved round me of seamen or landsmen, All who are winter-tails, Came by me the cans of the red-branch, With roaring of laughter and songs, Or moved as they moved once, In love-making, Or piercing the tempest with sails, Came Blannid, came Blannid, MacNessa, Tulfurgus, Who feastward of old timeslank, Cook Barak, the traitor and warward, The spittle on his beard never dry, Dark Balor, as old as a forest, Car-born his mighty head-sunk, helpless, Men lifting the lids of his weary and deaf-making eye, And by me in soft-red raiment, The fenyons moved in lad's dreams, And grannier walking and smiling, Sold with a needle of bone, So lived I and lived not, So wrought I and wrought not, With creatures of dreams in her long-iron sleep, As a fish in the water goes dumb as a stone, End of the island of sleep. This recording is in the public domain. On the Waters of Moil by George Sigison, From the Book of Irish Poetry, Part 1, Read Philippa Vox.org, Recording by Elaine Conway, England, Translated from the Irish. Time passed pleasantly with his swan children On the lake. In the day they conversed with their kindred, And friends who had encamped around. At night they sang slow, sweet, fairy music That made sorrow sleep. This term closed. They bade farewell to all, And went forth to the Waters of Moil, Where they suffered from icy storms. Vinula, covering her young brothers with her wing, sang, Life is weary here, great the snowing here, Night is dreary here, Bleak the blowing here. On a day they saw a fairy calf-caid At the river Banner, and were told that Lear, And their friends were celebrating The feast of age. Happy but for their absence, Vinula made this lay. Gay this night, Lear's royal house, Chief's carous, Mead flows a mane, Cold this night, his children roam, Chill home, the icy mane. For our mantles fair, our foined feathers, Curving round our breasts. Often silken robes we had, Purple clad we sat at feasts. For our vians here, and wine, Bitter brine and pallid sands, Offed the hazel mead they sir, In carved vessels to our hands. Now our beds are the bare rock, Smilt with shock of heavy seas. Often soft breast down we'll spread, For the bed of grateful ease. Though tears now infrost our toil, To swim, moil, we drew king wings. Often we roamed as royal wards, And our guards were sons of kings. End of On the waters of Moil. This recording is in the public domain. THE RETURN OF THE CHILDREN OF LEAR by George Sigarsson From the book of Irish poetry, Part 1, Read for LiborVox.org Recording by Elaine Conway, England In the extremity of their suffering, Frozen in Eris Sea, The brothers were inconsolable. Fionaola asked them to believe in the true God, And they were relieved, And suffered no more. At the end of their final term, They arose, and went very lightly and airily, Towards the city of their father, And thus they found the place, Void, desolate, With nought but the bare green paths, And forests of nettles, Without house, without fire, without tribes. Then the four drew close together, And thrice they raced, On high the cry of wailing. Then Fionaola spoke this lay, Strange is all this place to me, No house, no home, no gladness, As, tis thus, this place to see, Alas my heart, what sadness! I know bound no sound, no ember, No group where princes gather, Not thirst do we remember, its old days with our father, No horn, no goblet dancing, no halls of light, Each morrow, no youth, no proud steed prancing, All signs, portenda sorrow, All the void that here I see, Alas my pain grows stronger, Makes it, this night, clear to me, Its loved Lord lives no longer, City, where of old we knew, O arts of joy exerted, To fate of woe and rue, Thou art, this night, deserted, Dar cardoom and tragical, Condemned the waves to wander, Near such ill fate magical, Did mortal yet fall under, Now the city populace Gives weeds and woods its favour, No one lives who'd welcome us To this our homestead ever, End of the Return of the Children of Lear, This recording is in the public domain. The Sea Gods Address to Bran by W. M. Hennessy From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1, Read for LeopoldVox.org, Recording by Elaine Conway, England From the Early Irish to Bran, As in his Chorical He Gly, A level of blue tides appears deep, When oh, my shadowy steeds, I lose the rain, A flowery plain my chariot seems to sweep, Yea, what to Bran uplifted On the prancing of his proud skiff, A smooth blue glancing sec, Beneath this burning chariot of two wheels, A breath of bloom delightful, Laughs for me. Bran, from his skiff side, Views the joyous onset, Of where he was retcrusted In the sunset glow, I see over all the plain Of sports-flower bedded, Of crimson-headed flowers, The faultless flow, Sea horses glisten In the ocean as yure, Far as Bran's eyes can measure, But to mine, Rivers as stream of honey bright, Are pouring, Forstoring in my land beyond the brine, Brilliant the sea, Whereon the skiff is guided, Dazzling the surf divided, By thine hand, yellow and as yure, Its white brightness fairy, It is indeed a light and airy land, The speckled salmon from the wave Out leaping, where Bran goes weeping Through the ocean's wilds, Are calves and lambs, Nor fishes of the water, This slaughter ne'er a patty of peace defiles, And though they're ceased, But one lone chariot rider, A glider o'er the full-bloomed, Pleasant plain, From countless viewless feats, And chariots golden, Thine eyes are holding By the mocking mane. Large is the plain, With happy hosts, Tis crowded, its colours in unclouded glory, Full, a stream of silver, Stairs of golden splendour, A full, free-welcome tender unto all, A joyous game, enchanting and delicious, Above the luscious wine, Is feebly played by men and gentle women, Set in session, Without transgression in the leafy shade, Along a woodland's top, That greenly bridges, Blue, airy ridges, Has thy cara swarm beneath thy very prow, Its shade in peaches, With blushing peaches, The impurpled plum, A wood where vagrant fruit and flower are breathing, With clusters of the fragrant, Breathing vine, A wood of folate, rich and golden rain, A wood without decaying or decline. We have been here since first the earth had been, Yet neither seeing, Here old age nor death, And hence we fear not any base beginning, Of mortal sinning shall cut, Short our breath, Then let not Bran relax, His steadfast rowing, The land of women shall be showing soon, Yea, even a bright, With every joyful blessing, He shall be pressing ere the rise of moon. End of the seagod's address to Bran, This recording is in the public domain. The Spear of Calta by W. M. Hennessy From the Book of Irish Poetry, Part 1, Read for LiborVox.org, Recording by Elaine Conway, England The following, nearly literal version, From the ancient tale of the Bruridin Dadurga gives an idea of the fabled weapons of the Irish heroes. The famous sword of Finn was the child of this terrible spear. What further saw is to throw, By the royal chair, A couch I saw, Three heroes sat thereon, In their first greyness, They grey-dark their robes, Grey-dark their swords, Enormous of an edge, To slice the hair on water, He who sits, Midmost of the three grasps, With both hands, The spear of fifty rivets, And so sways, And swings the weapon, Which would else give forth Its shout of conflict, That he keeps it in, With rice, essaying, To escape his hands, It doubles, darting on him, Healed to point, A cauldron at his feet, Eager as the vat, Of a king's guesthouse, In that vat, all, Hideous to look upon, A liquor black, Therein he dips, And calls the blade by times, Else all its shaft would blaze, As though a fire Had wrapped the king post Of the house in flame, Resolve me now, And say what was I saw, Not hard to say, His champion warrior is three, Ah, Senka, beauty, a son of Iliu, Dub Thak, the fierce Ulydion, Atacop, and Goibnen, son of the Ugnech, And the spear, In hands of Dirt Thak, Is the famous Lon of Calta, Son of Oedekar, Which asked some wizard, Of the two after Danan, Roald, To battle at Moitura, And they are lost, Found after, and these motions Of the spear, And sudden sallies, Hard to be restrained, Affect it oft, as blood of enemies, Is ripe for spilling, At a cauldron, then, Full of which brewed, Needs must be at hand, To quench it, When the homicidal act, Is by its blade expected, Quench it not, It blazes up, Even in the holder's hand, And through the holder, And the door planks through, Flies forth to sate itself in massacre, And of the spear of Calta, This recording is in the public domain.