Little sisters, the birds,We must praise God, you and I—You with songs that fill the sky;I, with halting words.All things tell His praise,Woods and waters thereof sing,Summer, winter, autumn, spring,And the nights and days.Yea, and cold and heat,And the sun, and stars, and moon,Sea with her monotonous tune,Rain and hail and sleet.And the winds of heaven,And the solemn hills of blue,And the brown earth and the dew,And the thunder even,And the flowers' sweet breath,—All things make one glorious voice;Life with fleeting pains and joysAnd our brother—Death.Little flowers of air,With your feathers soft and sleekAnd your bright brown eyes and meek,He hath made you fair.He hath taught to youSkill to weave on tree and thatchNests where happy mothers hatchSpeckled eggs of blue.And hath children given:When the soft heads overbrimThe brown nests; then thank ye HimIn the clouds of heaven.Also in your lives,Live His laws who loveth you.Husbands, be ye kind and true;Be homekeeping wives.Love not gossiping;Stay at home and keep the nest;Fly not here and there in questOf the newest thing.Live as brethren live;Love be in each heart and mouth;Be not envious, be not wroth,Be not slow to give.When ye build the nestQuarrel not o'er straw or wool;He who hath, be bountifulTo the neediest.Be not puffed or vainOf your beauty or your worth,Of your children or your birth,Or the praise you gain.Eat not greedily:Sometimes, for sweet mercy's sake,Worm or insect spare to take;Let it crawl or fly.See ye sing not nearTo our church on holy day,Lest the human-folk should strayFrom their prayer to hear.Now depart in peace,In God's name I bless each one;May your days be long i' the sunAnd your joys increase.And remember me,Your poor brother Francis, whoLoveth you, and thanketh youFor this courtesy.Sometimes when ye sing,Name my name, that He may takePity for the dear song's sakeOn my shortcoming.
Little sisters, the birds,We must praise God, you and I—You with songs that fill the sky;I, with halting words.All things tell His praise,Woods and waters thereof sing,Summer, winter, autumn, spring,And the nights and days.Yea, and cold and heat,And the sun, and stars, and moon,Sea with her monotonous tune,Rain and hail and sleet.And the winds of heaven,And the solemn hills of blue,And the brown earth and the dew,And the thunder even,And the flowers' sweet breath,—All things make one glorious voice;Life with fleeting pains and joysAnd our brother—Death.Little flowers of air,With your feathers soft and sleekAnd your bright brown eyes and meek,He hath made you fair.He hath taught to youSkill to weave on tree and thatchNests where happy mothers hatchSpeckled eggs of blue.And hath children given:When the soft heads overbrimThe brown nests; then thank ye HimIn the clouds of heaven.Also in your lives,Live His laws who loveth you.Husbands, be ye kind and true;Be homekeeping wives.Love not gossiping;Stay at home and keep the nest;Fly not here and there in questOf the newest thing.Live as brethren live;Love be in each heart and mouth;Be not envious, be not wroth,Be not slow to give.When ye build the nestQuarrel not o'er straw or wool;He who hath, be bountifulTo the neediest.Be not puffed or vainOf your beauty or your worth,Of your children or your birth,Or the praise you gain.Eat not greedily:Sometimes, for sweet mercy's sake,Worm or insect spare to take;Let it crawl or fly.See ye sing not nearTo our church on holy day,Lest the human-folk should strayFrom their prayer to hear.Now depart in peace,In God's name I bless each one;May your days be long i' the sunAnd your joys increase.And remember me,Your poor brother Francis, whoLoveth you, and thanketh youFor this courtesy.Sometimes when ye sing,Name my name, that He may takePity for the dear song's sakeOn my shortcoming.
Little sisters, the birds,We must praise God, you and I—You with songs that fill the sky;I, with halting words.
All things tell His praise,Woods and waters thereof sing,Summer, winter, autumn, spring,And the nights and days.
Yea, and cold and heat,And the sun, and stars, and moon,Sea with her monotonous tune,Rain and hail and sleet.
And the winds of heaven,And the solemn hills of blue,And the brown earth and the dew,And the thunder even,
And the flowers' sweet breath,—All things make one glorious voice;Life with fleeting pains and joysAnd our brother—Death.
Little flowers of air,With your feathers soft and sleekAnd your bright brown eyes and meek,He hath made you fair.
He hath taught to youSkill to weave on tree and thatchNests where happy mothers hatchSpeckled eggs of blue.
And hath children given:When the soft heads overbrimThe brown nests; then thank ye HimIn the clouds of heaven.
Also in your lives,Live His laws who loveth you.Husbands, be ye kind and true;Be homekeeping wives.
Love not gossiping;Stay at home and keep the nest;Fly not here and there in questOf the newest thing.
Live as brethren live;Love be in each heart and mouth;Be not envious, be not wroth,Be not slow to give.
When ye build the nestQuarrel not o'er straw or wool;He who hath, be bountifulTo the neediest.
Be not puffed or vainOf your beauty or your worth,Of your children or your birth,Or the praise you gain.
Eat not greedily:Sometimes, for sweet mercy's sake,Worm or insect spare to take;Let it crawl or fly.
See ye sing not nearTo our church on holy day,Lest the human-folk should strayFrom their prayer to hear.
Now depart in peace,In God's name I bless each one;May your days be long i' the sunAnd your joys increase.
And remember me,Your poor brother Francis, whoLoveth you, and thanketh youFor this courtesy.
Sometimes when ye sing,Name my name, that He may takePity for the dear song's sakeOn my shortcoming.
Katharine Tynan Hinkson
All in the April morning,April airs were abroad;The sheep with their little lambsPassed me by on the road.The sheep with their little lambsPassed me by on the road;All in the April evening,I thought on the Lamb of God.The lambs were weary, and cryingWith a weak human cry,I thought on the Lamb of GodGoing meekly to die.Up in the blue, blue mountainsDewy pastures are sweet:Rest for the little bodies,Rest for the little feet.Rest for the Lamb of GodUp on the hill-top green,Only a cross of shameTwo 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.
All in the April morning,April airs were abroad;The sheep with their little lambsPassed me by on the road.The sheep with their little lambsPassed me by on the road;All in the April evening,I thought on the Lamb of God.The lambs were weary, and cryingWith a weak human cry,I thought on the Lamb of GodGoing meekly to die.Up in the blue, blue mountainsDewy pastures are sweet:Rest for the little bodies,Rest for the little feet.Rest for the Lamb of GodUp on the hill-top green,Only a cross of shameTwo 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.
All in the April morning,April airs were abroad;The sheep with their little lambsPassed me by on the road.
The sheep with their little lambsPassed me by on the road;All in the April evening,I thought on the Lamb of God.
The lambs were weary, and cryingWith a weak human cry,I thought on the Lamb of GodGoing meekly to die.
Up in the blue, blue mountainsDewy pastures are sweet:Rest for the little bodies,Rest for the little feet.
Rest for the Lamb of GodUp on the hill-top green,Only a cross of shameTwo 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.
Katharine Tynan Hinkson
Here in the garden-bed,Hoeing the celery,Wonders the Lord has madePass ever before me.I saw the young birds build,And swallows come and go,And summer grow and gild,And winter die in snow.Many a thing I note,And store it in my mind;For all my ragged coat,That scarce will stop the wind.I light my pipe and draw,And, leaning on my spade,I marvel with much aweO'er all the Lord hath made.Now, here's a curious thing:Upon the first of March,The crow goes house-building,In the elms and in the larch.And be it shine or snow,Though many winds carouse,That day the artful crowBegins to build his house.But then—the wonder's big!—If Sunday fall that dayNor straw, nor scraw, nor twig,Till Monday will he lay.His black wings to his side,He'll drone upon his perch,Subdued and holy-eyed,As though he were at church.The crow's a gentlemanNot greatly to my mind,He'll steal what seeds he can,And all you hide he'll find.Yet though he's bully and sneak,To small birds bird of prey—He counts the days of the week,And keeps the Sabbath day.
Here in the garden-bed,Hoeing the celery,Wonders the Lord has madePass ever before me.I saw the young birds build,And swallows come and go,And summer grow and gild,And winter die in snow.Many a thing I note,And store it in my mind;For all my ragged coat,That scarce will stop the wind.I light my pipe and draw,And, leaning on my spade,I marvel with much aweO'er all the Lord hath made.Now, here's a curious thing:Upon the first of March,The crow goes house-building,In the elms and in the larch.And be it shine or snow,Though many winds carouse,That day the artful crowBegins to build his house.But then—the wonder's big!—If Sunday fall that dayNor straw, nor scraw, nor twig,Till Monday will he lay.His black wings to his side,He'll drone upon his perch,Subdued and holy-eyed,As though he were at church.The crow's a gentlemanNot greatly to my mind,He'll steal what seeds he can,And all you hide he'll find.Yet though he's bully and sneak,To small birds bird of prey—He counts the days of the week,And keeps the Sabbath day.
Here in the garden-bed,Hoeing the celery,Wonders the Lord has madePass ever before me.I saw the young birds build,And swallows come and go,And summer grow and gild,And winter die in snow.
Many a thing I note,And store it in my mind;For all my ragged coat,That scarce will stop the wind.I light my pipe and draw,And, leaning on my spade,I marvel with much aweO'er all the Lord hath made.
Now, here's a curious thing:Upon the first of March,The crow goes house-building,In the elms and in the larch.And be it shine or snow,Though many winds carouse,That day the artful crowBegins to build his house.
But then—the wonder's big!—If Sunday fall that dayNor straw, nor scraw, nor twig,Till Monday will he lay.His black wings to his side,He'll drone upon his perch,Subdued and holy-eyed,As though he were at church.
The crow's a gentlemanNot greatly to my mind,He'll steal what seeds he can,And all you hide he'll find.Yet though he's bully and sneak,To small birds bird of prey—He counts the days of the week,And keeps the Sabbath day.
Katharine Tynan Hinkson
Rose o' the world, she came to my bedAnd changed the dreams of my heart and head:For joy of mine she left grief of hersAnd garlanded me with a crown of furze.Rose o' the world, they go out and in,And watch me dream and my mother spin:And they pity the tears on my sleeping faceWhile my soul's away in a fairy place.Rose o' the world, they have words galore,And wide's the swing of my mother's door:But soft they speak of my darkened eyes,But what do they know, who are all so wise?Rose o' the world, the pain you giveIs worth all days that a man may live:Worth all shy prayers that the colleens sayOn the night that darkens the wedding day.Rose o' the world, what man would wedWhen he might dream of your face instead?Might go to his grave with the blessed painOf hungering after your face again?Rose o' the world, they may talk their fill,For dreams are good, and my life stands stillWhile their lives' red ashes the gossips stir,But my fiddle knows: and I talk to her.
Rose o' the world, she came to my bedAnd changed the dreams of my heart and head:For joy of mine she left grief of hersAnd garlanded me with a crown of furze.Rose o' the world, they go out and in,And watch me dream and my mother spin:And they pity the tears on my sleeping faceWhile my soul's away in a fairy place.Rose o' the world, they have words galore,And wide's the swing of my mother's door:But soft they speak of my darkened eyes,But what do they know, who are all so wise?Rose o' the world, the pain you giveIs worth all days that a man may live:Worth all shy prayers that the colleens sayOn the night that darkens the wedding day.Rose o' the world, what man would wedWhen he might dream of your face instead?Might go to his grave with the blessed painOf hungering after your face again?Rose o' the world, they may talk their fill,For dreams are good, and my life stands stillWhile their lives' red ashes the gossips stir,But my fiddle knows: and I talk to her.
Rose o' the world, she came to my bedAnd changed the dreams of my heart and head:For joy of mine she left grief of hersAnd garlanded me with a crown of furze.
Rose o' the world, they go out and in,And watch me dream and my mother spin:And they pity the tears on my sleeping faceWhile my soul's away in a fairy place.
Rose o' the world, they have words galore,And wide's the swing of my mother's door:But soft they speak of my darkened eyes,But what do they know, who are all so wise?
Rose o' the world, the pain you giveIs worth all days that a man may live:Worth all shy prayers that the colleens sayOn the night that darkens the wedding day.
Rose o' the world, what man would wedWhen he might dream of your face instead?Might go to his grave with the blessed painOf hungering after your face again?
Rose o' the world, they may talk their fill,For dreams are good, and my life stands stillWhile their lives' red ashes the gossips stir,But my fiddle knows: and I talk to her.
Nora Hopper
'Tis I go fiddling, fiddling,By weedy ways forlorn:I make the blackbird's musicEre in his breast 'tis born:The sleeping larks I wakenTwixt the midnight and the morn.No man alive has seen me,But women hear me playSometimes at door or window,Fiddling the souls away,—The child's soul and the colleen'sOut of the covering clay.None of my fairy kinsmenMake music with me now:Alone the raths I wanderOr ride the whitethorn bough;But the wild swans they know me,And the horse that draws the plough.
'Tis I go fiddling, fiddling,By weedy ways forlorn:I make the blackbird's musicEre in his breast 'tis born:The sleeping larks I wakenTwixt the midnight and the morn.No man alive has seen me,But women hear me playSometimes at door or window,Fiddling the souls away,—The child's soul and the colleen'sOut of the covering clay.None of my fairy kinsmenMake music with me now:Alone the raths I wanderOr ride the whitethorn bough;But the wild swans they know me,And the horse that draws the plough.
'Tis I go fiddling, fiddling,By weedy ways forlorn:I make the blackbird's musicEre in his breast 'tis born:The sleeping larks I wakenTwixt the midnight and the morn.
No man alive has seen me,But women hear me playSometimes at door or window,Fiddling the souls away,—The child's soul and the colleen'sOut of the covering clay.
None of my fairy kinsmenMake music with me now:Alone the raths I wanderOr ride the whitethorn bough;But the wild swans they know me,And the horse that draws the plough.
Nora Hopper
I said, my pleasure shall not move;It is not fixed in things apart:Seeking not love—but yet to love—I put my trust in mine own heart.I knew the fountain of the deepWells up with living joy, unfed;Such joys the lonely heart may keep,And love grow rich with love unwed.Still flows the ancient fount sublime;But, ah, for my heart shed tears, shed tears;Not it, but love, has scorn of time;It turns to dust beneath the years.
I said, my pleasure shall not move;It is not fixed in things apart:Seeking not love—but yet to love—I put my trust in mine own heart.I knew the fountain of the deepWells up with living joy, unfed;Such joys the lonely heart may keep,And love grow rich with love unwed.Still flows the ancient fount sublime;But, ah, for my heart shed tears, shed tears;Not it, but love, has scorn of time;It turns to dust beneath the years.
I said, my pleasure shall not move;It is not fixed in things apart:Seeking not love—but yet to love—I put my trust in mine own heart.
I knew the fountain of the deepWells up with living joy, unfed;Such joys the lonely heart may keep,And love grow rich with love unwed.
Still flows the ancient fount sublime;But, ah, for my heart shed tears, shed tears;Not it, but love, has scorn of time;It turns to dust beneath the years.
A.E.
We must pass like smoke or live within the spirit's fire;For we can no more than smoke unto the flame returnIf our thought has changed to dream, our will unto desire,As smoke we vanish though the fire may burn.Lights of infinite pity star the grey dusk of our days:Surely here is soul: with it we have eternal breath:In the fire of love we live, or pass by many ways,By unnumbered ways of dream to death.
We must pass like smoke or live within the spirit's fire;For we can no more than smoke unto the flame returnIf our thought has changed to dream, our will unto desire,As smoke we vanish though the fire may burn.Lights of infinite pity star the grey dusk of our days:Surely here is soul: with it we have eternal breath:In the fire of love we live, or pass by many ways,By unnumbered ways of dream to death.
We must pass like smoke or live within the spirit's fire;For we can no more than smoke unto the flame returnIf our thought has changed to dream, our will unto desire,As smoke we vanish though the fire may burn.
Lights of infinite pity star the grey dusk of our days:Surely here is soul: with it we have eternal breath:In the fire of love we live, or pass by many ways,By unnumbered ways of dream to death.
A.E.
Its edges foamed with amethyst and rose,Withers once more the old blue flower of day:There where the ether like a diamond glowsIts petals fade away.A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air;Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows;The great deep thrills for through it everywhereThe breath of Beauty blows.I saw how all the trembling ages past,Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath,Neared to the hour when Beauty breathes her lastAnd knows herself in death.
Its edges foamed with amethyst and rose,Withers once more the old blue flower of day:There where the ether like a diamond glowsIts petals fade away.A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air;Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows;The great deep thrills for through it everywhereThe breath of Beauty blows.I saw how all the trembling ages past,Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath,Neared to the hour when Beauty breathes her lastAnd knows herself in death.
Its edges foamed with amethyst and rose,Withers once more the old blue flower of day:There where the ether like a diamond glowsIts petals fade away.
A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air;Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows;The great deep thrills for through it everywhereThe breath of Beauty blows.
I saw how all the trembling ages past,Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath,Neared to the hour when Beauty breathes her lastAnd knows herself in death.
A.E.
What of all the will to do?It has vanished long ago,For a dream-shaft pierced it throughFrom the Unknown Archer's bow.What of all the soul to think?Some one offered it a cupFilled with a diviner drink,And the flame has burned it up.What of all the hope to climb?Only in the self we gropeTo the misty end of time:Truth has put an end to hope.What of all the heart to love?Sadder than for will or soul,No light lured it on above;Love has found itself the whole.
What of all the will to do?It has vanished long ago,For a dream-shaft pierced it throughFrom the Unknown Archer's bow.What of all the soul to think?Some one offered it a cupFilled with a diviner drink,And the flame has burned it up.What of all the hope to climb?Only in the self we gropeTo the misty end of time:Truth has put an end to hope.What of all the heart to love?Sadder than for will or soul,No light lured it on above;Love has found itself the whole.
What of all the will to do?It has vanished long ago,For a dream-shaft pierced it throughFrom the Unknown Archer's bow.
What of all the soul to think?Some one offered it a cupFilled with a diviner drink,And the flame has burned it up.
What of all the hope to climb?Only in the self we gropeTo the misty end of time:Truth has put an end to hope.
What of all the heart to love?Sadder than for will or soul,No light lured it on above;Love has found itself the whole.
A.E.
I did not deem it half so sweetTo feel thy gentle hand,As in a dream thy soul to greetAcross wide leagues of land.Untouched more near to draw to youWhere, amid radiant skies,Glimmered thy plumes of iris hue,My Bird of Paradise.Let me dream only with my heart,Love first, and after see:Know thy diviner counterpartBefore I kneel to thee.So in thy motions all expressedThy angel I may view:I shall not in thy beauty rest,But Beauty's ray on you.
I did not deem it half so sweetTo feel thy gentle hand,As in a dream thy soul to greetAcross wide leagues of land.Untouched more near to draw to youWhere, amid radiant skies,Glimmered thy plumes of iris hue,My Bird of Paradise.Let me dream only with my heart,Love first, and after see:Know thy diviner counterpartBefore I kneel to thee.So in thy motions all expressedThy angel I may view:I shall not in thy beauty rest,But Beauty's ray on you.
I did not deem it half so sweetTo feel thy gentle hand,As in a dream thy soul to greetAcross wide leagues of land.
Untouched more near to draw to youWhere, amid radiant skies,Glimmered thy plumes of iris hue,My Bird of Paradise.
Let me dream only with my heart,Love first, and after see:Know thy diviner counterpartBefore I kneel to thee.
So in thy motions all expressedThy angel I may view:I shall not in thy beauty rest,But Beauty's ray on you.
A.E.
What is the love of shadowy lipsThat know not what they seek or press,From whom the lure for ever slipsAnd fails their phantom tenderness?The mystery and light of eyesThat near to mine grow dim and cold;They move afar in ancient skiesMid flame and mystic darkness rolled.O beauty, as thy heart o'erflowsIn tender yielding unto me,A vast desire awakes and growsUnto forgetfulness of thee.
What is the love of shadowy lipsThat know not what they seek or press,From whom the lure for ever slipsAnd fails their phantom tenderness?The mystery and light of eyesThat near to mine grow dim and cold;They move afar in ancient skiesMid flame and mystic darkness rolled.O beauty, as thy heart o'erflowsIn tender yielding unto me,A vast desire awakes and growsUnto forgetfulness of thee.
What is the love of shadowy lipsThat know not what they seek or press,From whom the lure for ever slipsAnd fails their phantom tenderness?
The mystery and light of eyesThat near to mine grow dim and cold;They move afar in ancient skiesMid flame and mystic darkness rolled.
O beauty, as thy heart o'erflowsIn tender yielding unto me,A vast desire awakes and growsUnto forgetfulness of thee.
A.E.
Image of beauty, when I gaze on thee,Trembling I waken to a mystery,How through one door we go to life or deathBy spirit kindled or the sensual breath.Image of beauty, when my way I go;No single joy or sorrow do I know:Elate for freedom leaps the starry power,The life which passes mourns its wasted hour.And, ah, to think how thin the veil that liesBetween the pain of hell and paradise!Where the cool grass my aching head embowersGod sings the lovely carol of the flowers.
Image of beauty, when I gaze on thee,Trembling I waken to a mystery,How through one door we go to life or deathBy spirit kindled or the sensual breath.Image of beauty, when my way I go;No single joy or sorrow do I know:Elate for freedom leaps the starry power,The life which passes mourns its wasted hour.And, ah, to think how thin the veil that liesBetween the pain of hell and paradise!Where the cool grass my aching head embowersGod sings the lovely carol of the flowers.
Image of beauty, when I gaze on thee,Trembling I waken to a mystery,How through one door we go to life or deathBy spirit kindled or the sensual breath.
Image of beauty, when my way I go;No single joy or sorrow do I know:Elate for freedom leaps the starry power,The life which passes mourns its wasted hour.
And, ah, to think how thin the veil that liesBetween the pain of hell and paradise!Where the cool grass my aching head embowersGod sings the lovely carol of the flowers.
A.E.
A cabin on the mountain side hid in a grassy nook,With door and windows open wide where friendly stars may look;The rabbit shy can patter in; the winds may enter freeWho throng around the mountain throne in living ecstasy.And when the sun sets dimmed in eve and purple fills the air,I think the sacred hazel tree is dropping berries thereFrom starry fruitage waved aloft where Connla's well o'erflows;For sure the immortal waters run through every wind that blows.I think when night towers up aloft and shakes the trembling dew,How every high and lonely thought that thrills my spirit throughIs but a shining berry dropped down through the purple air,And from the magic tree of life the fruit falls everywhere.
A cabin on the mountain side hid in a grassy nook,With door and windows open wide where friendly stars may look;The rabbit shy can patter in; the winds may enter freeWho throng around the mountain throne in living ecstasy.And when the sun sets dimmed in eve and purple fills the air,I think the sacred hazel tree is dropping berries thereFrom starry fruitage waved aloft where Connla's well o'erflows;For sure the immortal waters run through every wind that blows.I think when night towers up aloft and shakes the trembling dew,How every high and lonely thought that thrills my spirit throughIs but a shining berry dropped down through the purple air,And from the magic tree of life the fruit falls everywhere.
A cabin on the mountain side hid in a grassy nook,With door and windows open wide where friendly stars may look;The rabbit shy can patter in; the winds may enter freeWho throng around the mountain throne in living ecstasy.
And when the sun sets dimmed in eve and purple fills the air,I think the sacred hazel tree is dropping berries thereFrom starry fruitage waved aloft where Connla's well o'erflows;For sure the immortal waters run through every wind that blows.
I think when night towers up aloft and shakes the trembling dew,How every high and lonely thought that thrills my spirit throughIs but a shining berry dropped down through the purple air,And from the magic tree of life the fruit falls everywhere.
A.E.
No temple crowned the shaggy capes,No safety soothed the kind,The clouds unfabled shifted shapes,And nameless roamed the wind.The stars, the circling heights of heaven,The mountains bright with snowsLooked down, and sadly man at evenLay down and sad he rose.Till ages brought the hour again,When fell a windless morn,And, child of agonistic painAnd bliss, the Word was born.Which grew from all it gazed upon,And spread thro' soil and sphere,And shrunk the whole into the one,And fetched the farthest here.High is the summer's night, but deepThe hidden mind unfolds:Within it does an image sleepOf all that it beholds.Alas! when man with busy brow,His conquering names hath setTo planet, plant, and worm, who nowWill teach us to forget?What poet now, when wisdoms fail,Another theme shall dare—The Nameless, and remove the veilWhich hides it everywhere?
No temple crowned the shaggy capes,No safety soothed the kind,The clouds unfabled shifted shapes,And nameless roamed the wind.The stars, the circling heights of heaven,The mountains bright with snowsLooked down, and sadly man at evenLay down and sad he rose.Till ages brought the hour again,When fell a windless morn,And, child of agonistic painAnd bliss, the Word was born.Which grew from all it gazed upon,And spread thro' soil and sphere,And shrunk the whole into the one,And fetched the farthest here.High is the summer's night, but deepThe hidden mind unfolds:Within it does an image sleepOf all that it beholds.Alas! when man with busy brow,His conquering names hath setTo planet, plant, and worm, who nowWill teach us to forget?What poet now, when wisdoms fail,Another theme shall dare—The Nameless, and remove the veilWhich hides it everywhere?
No temple crowned the shaggy capes,No safety soothed the kind,The clouds unfabled shifted shapes,And nameless roamed the wind.
The stars, the circling heights of heaven,The mountains bright with snowsLooked down, and sadly man at evenLay down and sad he rose.
Till ages brought the hour again,When fell a windless morn,And, child of agonistic painAnd bliss, the Word was born.
Which grew from all it gazed upon,And spread thro' soil and sphere,And shrunk the whole into the one,And fetched the farthest here.
High is the summer's night, but deepThe hidden mind unfolds:Within it does an image sleepOf all that it beholds.
Alas! when man with busy brow,His conquering names hath setTo planet, plant, and worm, who nowWill teach us to forget?
What poet now, when wisdoms fail,Another theme shall dare—The Nameless, and remove the veilWhich hides it everywhere?
John Eglinton
What is that beyond thy life,And beyond all life around,Which, when thy quick brain is still,Nods to thee from the stars?Lo, it says, thou hast foundMe, the lonely, lonely one.
What is that beyond thy life,And beyond all life around,Which, when thy quick brain is still,Nods to thee from the stars?Lo, it says, thou hast foundMe, the lonely, lonely one.
What is that beyond thy life,And beyond all life around,Which, when thy quick brain is still,Nods to thee from the stars?Lo, it says, thou hast foundMe, the lonely, lonely one.
Charles Weekes
Think, the ragged turf-boy urgesO'er the dusty road his asses;Think, on sea-shore far the lonelyHeron wings along the sand;Think, in woodland under oak-boughsNow the streaming sunbeam passes;And bethink thee thou art servantTo the same all-moving hand.
Think, the ragged turf-boy urgesO'er the dusty road his asses;Think, on sea-shore far the lonelyHeron wings along the sand;Think, in woodland under oak-boughsNow the streaming sunbeam passes;And bethink thee thou art servantTo the same all-moving hand.
Think, the ragged turf-boy urgesO'er the dusty road his asses;Think, on sea-shore far the lonelyHeron wings along the sand;
Think, in woodland under oak-boughsNow the streaming sunbeam passes;And bethink thee thou art servantTo the same all-moving hand.
Charles Weekes
Ah, see the fair chivalry come, the companions of Christ!White Horsemen, who ride on white horses, the Knights of God!They, for their Lord and their Lover who sacrificedAll, save the sweetness of treading, where he first trod!These through the darkness of death, the dominion of night,Swept, and they woke in white places at morning tide:They saw with their eyes, and sang for joy of the sight,They saw with their eyes the Eyes of the Crucified.Now, whithersoever He goeth, with Him they go:White Horsemen, who ride on white horses, oh fair to see!They ride, where the Rivers of Paradise flash and flow,White Horsemen, with Christ their Captain: for ever He!
Ah, see the fair chivalry come, the companions of Christ!White Horsemen, who ride on white horses, the Knights of God!They, for their Lord and their Lover who sacrificedAll, save the sweetness of treading, where he first trod!These through the darkness of death, the dominion of night,Swept, and they woke in white places at morning tide:They saw with their eyes, and sang for joy of the sight,They saw with their eyes the Eyes of the Crucified.Now, whithersoever He goeth, with Him they go:White Horsemen, who ride on white horses, oh fair to see!They ride, where the Rivers of Paradise flash and flow,White Horsemen, with Christ their Captain: for ever He!
Ah, see the fair chivalry come, the companions of Christ!White Horsemen, who ride on white horses, the Knights of God!They, for their Lord and their Lover who sacrificedAll, save the sweetness of treading, where he first trod!
These through the darkness of death, the dominion of night,Swept, and they woke in white places at morning tide:They saw with their eyes, and sang for joy of the sight,They saw with their eyes the Eyes of the Crucified.
Now, whithersoever He goeth, with Him they go:White Horsemen, who ride on white horses, oh fair to see!They ride, where the Rivers of Paradise flash and flow,White Horsemen, with Christ their Captain: for ever He!
Lionel Johnson
Sadly the dead leaves rustle in the whistling wind,Around the weather-worn gray church, low down the vale:The Saints in golden vesture shake before the gale;The glorious windows shake, where still they dwell enshrined;Old Saints, by long dead, shrivelled hands, long since designed:There still, although the world autumnal be, and pale,Still in their golden vesture the old saints prevail;Alone with Christ, desolate else, left by mankind.Only one ancient Priest offers the sacrifice,Murmuring holy Latin immemorial:Swaying with tremulous hands the old censer full of spice,In gray, sweet incense clouds; blue, sweet clouds mystical:To him, in place of men, for he is old, sufficeMelancholy remembrances and vesperal.
Sadly the dead leaves rustle in the whistling wind,Around the weather-worn gray church, low down the vale:The Saints in golden vesture shake before the gale;The glorious windows shake, where still they dwell enshrined;Old Saints, by long dead, shrivelled hands, long since designed:There still, although the world autumnal be, and pale,Still in their golden vesture the old saints prevail;Alone with Christ, desolate else, left by mankind.Only one ancient Priest offers the sacrifice,Murmuring holy Latin immemorial:Swaying with tremulous hands the old censer full of spice,In gray, sweet incense clouds; blue, sweet clouds mystical:To him, in place of men, for he is old, sufficeMelancholy remembrances and vesperal.
Sadly the dead leaves rustle in the whistling wind,Around the weather-worn gray church, low down the vale:The Saints in golden vesture shake before the gale;The glorious windows shake, where still they dwell enshrined;Old Saints, by long dead, shrivelled hands, long since designed:There still, although the world autumnal be, and pale,Still in their golden vesture the old saints prevail;Alone with Christ, desolate else, left by mankind.Only one ancient Priest offers the sacrifice,Murmuring holy Latin immemorial:Swaying with tremulous hands the old censer full of spice,In gray, sweet incense clouds; blue, sweet clouds mystical:To him, in place of men, for he is old, sufficeMelancholy remembrances and vesperal.
Lionel Johnson
A terrible and splendid trustHeartens the host of Inisfail:Their dream is of the swift sword-thrust,A lightning glory of the Gael.Croagh Patrick is the place of prayers,And Tara the assembling place:But each sweet wind of Ireland bearsThe trump of battle on its race.From Dursey Isle to Donegal,From Howth to Achill, the glad noiseRings: and the heirs of glory fall,Or victory crowns their fighting joys.A dream! a dream! an ancient dream!Yet, ere peace come to Inisfail,Some weapons on some field must gleam,Some burning glory fire the Gael.That field may lie beneath the sun,Fair for the treading of an host:That field in realms of thought be won,And armed minds do their uttermost:Some way, to faithful Inisfail,Shall come the majesty and aweOf martial truth, that must prevail,To lay on all the eternal law.
A terrible and splendid trustHeartens the host of Inisfail:Their dream is of the swift sword-thrust,A lightning glory of the Gael.Croagh Patrick is the place of prayers,And Tara the assembling place:But each sweet wind of Ireland bearsThe trump of battle on its race.From Dursey Isle to Donegal,From Howth to Achill, the glad noiseRings: and the heirs of glory fall,Or victory crowns their fighting joys.A dream! a dream! an ancient dream!Yet, ere peace come to Inisfail,Some weapons on some field must gleam,Some burning glory fire the Gael.That field may lie beneath the sun,Fair for the treading of an host:That field in realms of thought be won,And armed minds do their uttermost:Some way, to faithful Inisfail,Shall come the majesty and aweOf martial truth, that must prevail,To lay on all the eternal law.
A terrible and splendid trustHeartens the host of Inisfail:Their dream is of the swift sword-thrust,A lightning glory of the Gael.
Croagh Patrick is the place of prayers,And Tara the assembling place:But each sweet wind of Ireland bearsThe trump of battle on its race.
From Dursey Isle to Donegal,From Howth to Achill, the glad noiseRings: and the heirs of glory fall,Or victory crowns their fighting joys.
A dream! a dream! an ancient dream!Yet, ere peace come to Inisfail,Some weapons on some field must gleam,Some burning glory fire the Gael.
That field may lie beneath the sun,Fair for the treading of an host:That field in realms of thought be won,And armed minds do their uttermost:
Some way, to faithful Inisfail,Shall come the majesty and aweOf martial truth, that must prevail,To lay on all the eternal law.
Lionel Johnson
Red Wind from out the East:Red wind of blight and blood!Ah, when wilt thou have ceasedThy bitter, stormy flood?Red Wind from over sea,Scourging our holy land!What angel loosened theeOut of his iron hand?Red Wind! whose word of mightWinged thee with wings of flame?O fire of mournful night!What is thy Master's name?Red Wind! who bade thee burn,Branding our hearts? Who badeThee on and never turn,Till waste our souls were laid?Red Wind! from out the WestPour Winds of Paradise:Winds of eternal rest,That weary souls entice.Wind of the East! Red Wind!Thou scorchest the soft breathOf Paradise the kind:Red Wind of burning death!O Red Wind! hear God's voice:Hear thou, and fall, and cease.Let Inisfail rejoiceIn her Hesperian peace.
Red Wind from out the East:Red wind of blight and blood!Ah, when wilt thou have ceasedThy bitter, stormy flood?Red Wind from over sea,Scourging our holy land!What angel loosened theeOut of his iron hand?Red Wind! whose word of mightWinged thee with wings of flame?O fire of mournful night!What is thy Master's name?Red Wind! who bade thee burn,Branding our hearts? Who badeThee on and never turn,Till waste our souls were laid?Red Wind! from out the WestPour Winds of Paradise:Winds of eternal rest,That weary souls entice.Wind of the East! Red Wind!Thou scorchest the soft breathOf Paradise the kind:Red Wind of burning death!O Red Wind! hear God's voice:Hear thou, and fall, and cease.Let Inisfail rejoiceIn her Hesperian peace.
Red Wind from out the East:Red wind of blight and blood!Ah, when wilt thou have ceasedThy bitter, stormy flood?
Red Wind from over sea,Scourging our holy land!What angel loosened theeOut of his iron hand?
Red Wind! whose word of mightWinged thee with wings of flame?O fire of mournful night!What is thy Master's name?
Red Wind! who bade thee burn,Branding our hearts? Who badeThee on and never turn,Till waste our souls were laid?
Red Wind! from out the WestPour Winds of Paradise:Winds of eternal rest,That weary souls entice.
Wind of the East! Red Wind!Thou scorchest the soft breathOf Paradise the kind:Red Wind of burning death!
O Red Wind! hear God's voice:Hear thou, and fall, and cease.Let Inisfail rejoiceIn her Hesperian peace.
Lionel Johnson
Never forgetful silence fall on thee,Nor younger voices overtake thee,Nor echoes from thine ancient hills forsake thee,Old music heard by Mona of the sea:And where with moving melodies there break thee,Pastoral Conway, venerable Dee.Like music lives, nor may that music die,Still in the far, fair Gaelic places:The speech, so wistful with its kindly graces,Holy Croagh Patrick knows, and holy Hy:The speech, that wakes the soul in withered faces,And wakes remembrance of great things gone by.Like music by the desolate Land's End,Mournful forgetfulness hath broken:No more words kindred to the winds are spoken,Where upon iron cliffs whole seas expendThat strength, whereof the unalterable tokenRemains wild music, even to the world's end.
Never forgetful silence fall on thee,Nor younger voices overtake thee,Nor echoes from thine ancient hills forsake thee,Old music heard by Mona of the sea:And where with moving melodies there break thee,Pastoral Conway, venerable Dee.Like music lives, nor may that music die,Still in the far, fair Gaelic places:The speech, so wistful with its kindly graces,Holy Croagh Patrick knows, and holy Hy:The speech, that wakes the soul in withered faces,And wakes remembrance of great things gone by.Like music by the desolate Land's End,Mournful forgetfulness hath broken:No more words kindred to the winds are spoken,Where upon iron cliffs whole seas expendThat strength, whereof the unalterable tokenRemains wild music, even to the world's end.
Never forgetful silence fall on thee,Nor younger voices overtake thee,Nor echoes from thine ancient hills forsake thee,Old music heard by Mona of the sea:And where with moving melodies there break thee,Pastoral Conway, venerable Dee.
Like music lives, nor may that music die,Still in the far, fair Gaelic places:The speech, so wistful with its kindly graces,Holy Croagh Patrick knows, and holy Hy:The speech, that wakes the soul in withered faces,And wakes remembrance of great things gone by.
Like music by the desolate Land's End,Mournful forgetfulness hath broken:No more words kindred to the winds are spoken,Where upon iron cliffs whole seas expendThat strength, whereof the unalterable tokenRemains wild music, even to the world's end.
Lionel Johnson
A voice on the winds,A voice on the waters,Wanders and cries:O! what are the winds?And what are the waters?Mine are your eyes.Western the winds are,And western the waters,Where the light lies:O! 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 dies:O! what are the winds?And what are the waters?/Mine are your eyes.And down the night winds,And down the night watersThe music flies:O! what are the winds?And what are the waters?Cold be the winds,And wild be the waters,So mine be your eyes.
A voice on the winds,A voice on the waters,Wanders and cries:O! what are the winds?And what are the waters?Mine are your eyes.Western the winds are,And western the waters,Where the light lies:O! 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 dies:O! what are the winds?And what are the waters?/Mine are your eyes.And down the night winds,And down the night watersThe music flies:O! what are the winds?And what are the waters?Cold be the winds,And wild be the waters,So mine be your eyes.
A voice on the winds,A voice on the waters,Wanders and cries:
O! what are the winds?And what are the waters?Mine are your eyes.
Western the winds are,And western the waters,Where the light lies:
O! 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 dies:
O! what are the winds?And what are the waters?/Mine are your eyes.
And down the night winds,And down the night watersThe music flies:
O! what are the winds?And what are the waters?Cold be the winds,And wild be the waters,So mine be your eyes.
Lionel Johnson
Can doov deelish, beside the seaI stand and stretch my hands to theeAcross the world.The riderless horses race to shoreWith thundering hoofs and shuddering, hoar,Blown manes uncurled.Can doov deelish, I cry to theeBeyond the world, beneath the sea,Thou being dead.Where hast thou hidden from the beatOf crushing hoofs and tearing feetThy dear black head?God bless the woman, whoever she be,From the tossing waves will recover theeAnd lashing wind.Who will take thee out of the wind and storm,Dry thy wet face on her bosom warmAnd 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 sport of the winds and the play of the sea.'I loved thee too well for this thing to be,O dear black head!
Can doov deelish, beside the seaI stand and stretch my hands to theeAcross the world.The riderless horses race to shoreWith thundering hoofs and shuddering, hoar,Blown manes uncurled.Can doov deelish, I cry to theeBeyond the world, beneath the sea,Thou being dead.Where hast thou hidden from the beatOf crushing hoofs and tearing feetThy dear black head?God bless the woman, whoever she be,From the tossing waves will recover theeAnd lashing wind.Who will take thee out of the wind and storm,Dry thy wet face on her bosom warmAnd 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 sport of the winds and the play of the sea.'I loved thee too well for this thing to be,O dear black head!
Can doov deelish, beside the seaI stand and stretch my hands to theeAcross the world.The riderless horses race to shoreWith thundering hoofs and shuddering, hoar,Blown manes uncurled.
Can doov deelish, I cry to theeBeyond the world, beneath the sea,Thou being dead.Where hast thou hidden from the beatOf crushing hoofs and tearing feetThy dear black head?
God bless the woman, whoever she be,From the tossing waves will recover theeAnd lashing wind.Who will take thee out of the wind and storm,Dry thy wet face on her bosom warmAnd 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 sport of the winds and the play of the sea.'I loved thee too well for this thing to be,O dear black head!
Dora Sigerson
I would I were on yonder hill,'Tis there I'd sit and cry my fill,And every tear would turn a mill,Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn.Shule, shule, shule aroon,Shule go succir, agus shule go cuin,Shule go den durrus agus eligh lum,Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn.I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel,I'll sell my only spinning-wheel,To buy for my love a sword of steel,Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn.Chorus.I'll dye my petticoats, I'll dye them red,And around the world I'll beg my bread,Until my parents shall wish me dead,Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn.Chorus.I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,I wish I had my heart again,And vainly think I'd not complain,Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn.Chorus.But now my love has gone to France,To try his fortune to advance;If he e'er come back 'tis but a chance,Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn.Chorus.
I would I were on yonder hill,'Tis there I'd sit and cry my fill,And every tear would turn a mill,Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn.Shule, shule, shule aroon,Shule go succir, agus shule go cuin,Shule go den durrus agus eligh lum,Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn.I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel,I'll sell my only spinning-wheel,To buy for my love a sword of steel,Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn.Chorus.I'll dye my petticoats, I'll dye them red,And around the world I'll beg my bread,Until my parents shall wish me dead,Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn.Chorus.I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,I wish I had my heart again,And vainly think I'd not complain,Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn.Chorus.But now my love has gone to France,To try his fortune to advance;If he e'er come back 'tis but a chance,Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn.Chorus.
I would I were on yonder hill,'Tis there I'd sit and cry my fill,And every tear would turn a mill,Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn.Shule, shule, shule aroon,Shule go succir, agus shule go cuin,Shule go den durrus agus eligh lum,Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn.
I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel,I'll sell my only spinning-wheel,To buy for my love a sword of steel,Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn.
Chorus.
I'll dye my petticoats, I'll dye them red,And around the world I'll beg my bread,Until my parents shall wish me dead,Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn.
Chorus.
I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,I wish I had my heart again,And vainly think I'd not complain,Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn.
Chorus.
But now my love has gone to France,To try his fortune to advance;If he e'er come back 'tis but a chance,Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn.
Chorus.
O! the French are on the sea,Says theshan van vocht;The French are on the sea,Says theshan van vocht;O! the French are in the bay,They'll be here without delay,And the Orange will decay,Says theshan van vocht.Chorus.O! the French are in the bay,They'll be here by break of day,And the Orange will decay,Says theshan van vocht.And their camp it shall be where?Says theshan van vocht;Their camp it shall be where?Says theshan van vocht;On the Currach of Kildare,The boys they will be there,With their pikes in good repair,Says theshan van vocht.To the Currach of KildareThe boys they will repair,And Lord Edward will be there,Says theshan van vocht.Then what will the yeomen do?Says theshan van vocht;What will the yeomen do?Says theshan van vocht;Whatshouldthe yeomen doBut throw off the red and blue,And swear that they'll be trueTo theshan van vocht?Whatshouldthe yeomen doBut throw off the red and blue,And swear that they'll be trueTo theshan van vocht?And what colour will they wear?Says theshan van vocht;What colour will they wear?Says theshan van vocht;What colour should be seenWhere our fathers' homes have been,But our own immortal Green?Says theshan van vocht.What colour should be seenWhere our fathers' homes have been,But our own immortal Green?Says theshan van vocht.And will Ireland then be free?Says theshan van vocht;Will Ireland then be free?Says theshan van vocht;Yes! IrelandSHALLbe free,From the centre to the sea;Then hurra! for Liberty!Says theshan van vocht.Yes! IrelandSHALLbe free,From the centre to the sea;Then hurra! for Liberty!Says theshan van vocht.
O! the French are on the sea,Says theshan van vocht;The French are on the sea,Says theshan van vocht;O! the French are in the bay,They'll be here without delay,And the Orange will decay,Says theshan van vocht.Chorus.O! the French are in the bay,They'll be here by break of day,And the Orange will decay,Says theshan van vocht.And their camp it shall be where?Says theshan van vocht;Their camp it shall be where?Says theshan van vocht;On the Currach of Kildare,The boys they will be there,With their pikes in good repair,Says theshan van vocht.To the Currach of KildareThe boys they will repair,And Lord Edward will be there,Says theshan van vocht.Then what will the yeomen do?Says theshan van vocht;What will the yeomen do?Says theshan van vocht;Whatshouldthe yeomen doBut throw off the red and blue,And swear that they'll be trueTo theshan van vocht?Whatshouldthe yeomen doBut throw off the red and blue,And swear that they'll be trueTo theshan van vocht?And what colour will they wear?Says theshan van vocht;What colour will they wear?Says theshan van vocht;What colour should be seenWhere our fathers' homes have been,But our own immortal Green?Says theshan van vocht.What colour should be seenWhere our fathers' homes have been,But our own immortal Green?Says theshan van vocht.And will Ireland then be free?Says theshan van vocht;Will Ireland then be free?Says theshan van vocht;Yes! IrelandSHALLbe free,From the centre to the sea;Then hurra! for Liberty!Says theshan van vocht.Yes! IrelandSHALLbe free,From the centre to the sea;Then hurra! for Liberty!Says theshan van vocht.
O! the French are on the sea,Says theshan van vocht;The French are on the sea,Says theshan van vocht;O! the French are in the bay,They'll be here without delay,And the Orange will decay,Says theshan van vocht.
Chorus.
O! the French are in the bay,They'll be here by break of day,And the Orange will decay,Says theshan van vocht.
And their camp it shall be where?Says theshan van vocht;Their camp it shall be where?Says theshan van vocht;On the Currach of Kildare,The boys they will be there,With their pikes in good repair,Says theshan van vocht.
To the Currach of KildareThe boys they will repair,And Lord Edward will be there,Says theshan van vocht.
Then what will the yeomen do?Says theshan van vocht;What will the yeomen do?Says theshan van vocht;Whatshouldthe yeomen doBut throw off the red and blue,And swear that they'll be trueTo theshan van vocht?
Whatshouldthe yeomen doBut throw off the red and blue,And swear that they'll be trueTo theshan van vocht?
And what colour will they wear?Says theshan van vocht;What colour will they wear?Says theshan van vocht;What colour should be seenWhere our fathers' homes have been,But our own immortal Green?Says theshan van vocht.
What colour should be seenWhere our fathers' homes have been,But our own immortal Green?Says theshan van vocht.
And will Ireland then be free?Says theshan van vocht;Will Ireland then be free?Says theshan van vocht;Yes! IrelandSHALLbe free,From the centre to the sea;Then hurra! for Liberty!Says theshan van vocht.
Yes! IrelandSHALLbe free,From the centre to the sea;Then hurra! for Liberty!Says theshan van vocht.
THE WEARING OF THE GREEN
O Paddy dear, and did you hear the news that's going round?The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground;St. Patrick's day no more we'll keep, his colours can't be seen,For there's a bloody law agin the wearing of the green.I met with Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand,And he said, 'How's poor old Ireland, and how does she stand?'She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen,They are hanging men and women for the wearing of the green.Then if the colour we must wear be England's cruel red,Let it remind us of the blood that Ireland has shed.You may take the shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod,But 'twill take root and flourish there, though under foot 'tis trod.When law can stop the blades of grass from growing as they grow,And when the leaves in summer-time their verdure dare not show,Then I will change the colour that I wear in my caubeen,But 'till that day, please God, I'll stick to wearing of the green.
O Paddy dear, and did you hear the news that's going round?The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground;St. Patrick's day no more we'll keep, his colours can't be seen,For there's a bloody law agin the wearing of the green.I met with Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand,And he said, 'How's poor old Ireland, and how does she stand?'She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen,They are hanging men and women for the wearing of the green.Then if the colour we must wear be England's cruel red,Let it remind us of the blood that Ireland has shed.You may take the shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod,But 'twill take root and flourish there, though under foot 'tis trod.When law can stop the blades of grass from growing as they grow,And when the leaves in summer-time their verdure dare not show,Then I will change the colour that I wear in my caubeen,But 'till that day, please God, I'll stick to wearing of the green.
O Paddy dear, and did you hear the news that's going round?The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground;St. Patrick's day no more we'll keep, his colours can't be seen,For there's a bloody law agin the wearing of the green.I met with Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand,And he said, 'How's poor old Ireland, and how does she stand?'She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen,They are hanging men and women for the wearing of the green.
Then if the colour we must wear be England's cruel red,Let it remind us of the blood that Ireland has shed.You may take the shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod,But 'twill take root and flourish there, though under foot 'tis trod.When law can stop the blades of grass from growing as they grow,And when the leaves in summer-time their verdure dare not show,Then I will change the colour that I wear in my caubeen,But 'till that day, please God, I'll stick to wearing of the green.