By W. B. Yeats
In 1895 the thirty-year-old W.B. Yeats, already demonstrated as one among Ireland's prime poets and folklorists, released this extraordinary number of Irish verse as a part of his crusade to set up a convention of Irish poetry healthy for the sunrise of a brand new age in Ireland's historical past. This Routledge Classics version, entire with a particularly commissioned advent via acclaimed author and critic John Banville, is vital interpreting for all who relish solid literature.
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Additional resources for A Book of Irish Verse
The priests are on the ocean green. They march along the deep. There’s wine from the royal Pope, Upon the ocean green; And Spanish ale shall give you hope, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, Shall give you health, and help, and hope, My Dark Rosaleen! Over hills, and through dales, Have I roamed for your sake; All yesterday I sailed with sails On river and on lake, The Erne, at its highest ﬂood, I dashed across unseen, For there was lightning in my blood, My Dark Rosaleen!
With the dance of fair maidens The evening they’ll hallow, While this heart, once so gay, Shall be cold in Cluanmeala. Jeremiah Joseph Callanan dirge of o’sullivan bear THE OUTLAW OF LOCH LENE From the Irish O, many a day have I made good ale in the glen, That came not of stream or malt;—like the brewing of men. My bed was the ground; my roof, the greenwood above, And the wealth that I sought one far kind glance from my love. Alas! on that night when the horses I drove from the ﬁeld, That I was not near from terror my angel to shield.
Beside the wave in Donegal, In Antrim’s glens, or fair Dromore, Or Killillee. Or where the sunny waters fall At Assaroe, near Erna’s shore, This could not be. On Derry’s plains—in rich Drumclieﬀ— Throughout Armagh the Great, renowned In olden years, No day could pass but woman’s grief Would rain upon the burial-ground Fresh ﬂoods of tears! —from Shannon, Boyne, and Suir, From high Dunluce’s castle-walls, From Lissadill, Would ﬂock alike both rich and poor, One wail would rise from Cruachan’s halls To Tara’s hill; And some would come from Barrow-side, And many a maid would leave her home, On Leitrim’s plains, And by melodious Banna’s tide, And by the Mourne and Erne, to come And swell thy strains!
A Book of Irish Verse by W. B. Yeats