A Bit O' Shamrock.

    We met her on the hillside green
    Below old Castle Blarney;
    Her name, she whispered, was Eileen,
    Her home it was Killarney.

    I see her yet, her Irish eyes
    Blue gray as seas in summer,
    And hear her welcome, on this wise,
    Vouchsafed to each new-comer:

    "I'll guide ye up the stairway steep,
    And naught will ye be missing
    O' battlement or donjon keep,
    Or blarney stone for kissing.

    "The tower that was McCarthy's pride,
    The scene o' battles thrilling,
    And where the Desmond kept his bride -
    Me fee is but a shilling.

    "Here's for ye, now, a keepsake charm" -
    Her low tones grow caressing -
    "A bit o' shamrock green and warm,
    To bring ye luck and blessing."

    The "keepsake charm" - I have it yet -
    A thing of guile and blarney;
    Each green leaf dares me to forget
    Fair Eileen o' Killarney.

Jean Blewett

Jean Blewett was a Canadian author, journalist, and poet. Born in Scotia, Ontario, she became well-known for her poetry and was awarded the part of lyrical poet at the World’s Fair in Chicago, 1893. Her notable works were often published in literary magazines. Besides poetry, Blewett also wrote stories and worked as a journalist, gaining considerable respect in both fields. She passed away in Chatham, Ontario, in 1934. Her legacy remains a significant part of Canadian literary history.

Jean Blewett

The Secret.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Earth To The Twentieth Century.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Peace.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

The Preacher Down At Coles.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Lines To A Shamrock - A Song Of Exile

A withered shamrock, yet to me 'tis fair
    As the sweet rose to other eyes might be,
Because its leaves spread in my native air,
    And the same land gave birth to it and me.

They were as plentiful as drops of dew
    In our green meadows sprinkled everywhere,
Heedless I wandered o'er them life was new,
    Now as a friend I greet thee shamrock fair

Because I dwelt with my own people then,
    Erin's bright eyes, and kindly hearts and true,
That from my cradle loved me, and again
    We'll never meet--spoken our last adieu

I am a stranger here, I have not seen
    One friendly face of all that I have known,
And my heart mourns for thee my island green,
    Because I am a stranger and alone

So thou art welcome as a friend to me,
...

Nora Pembroke

Kenmare River.

'Tis pretty to be in Ballinderry,
    'Tis pretty to be in Ballindoon,
But 'tis prettier far in County Kerry
    Coortin' under the bran' new moon,
                Aroon, Aroon!

'Twas there by the bosom of blue Killarney
    They came by the hundther' a-coortin' me;
Sure I was the one to give back their blarney,
    An' merry was I to be fancy-free.

But niver a step in the lot was lighter,
    An' divvle a boulder among the bhoys,
Than Phelim O'Shea, me dynamither,
    Me illigant arthist in clock-work toys.

'Twas all for love he would bring his figgers
    Of iminent statesmen, in toy machines,
An' hould me hand as he pulled the thriggers
    An' scattered the thraytors to smithereens.

An' to see the Queen in her Crystial Pallus

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

Two Seanichies

(For Aedh)


'Tis the queerest trade we have, the two of us that go about,
I that do the talkin', and the little lad that sings,
We to tell the story of a Land you ought to know about,--
The wonder land of Erin and the memories it brings.

Sure it is a wonder land, richer than the books it is,
Full of magic stories and a hopeful heart of song;
Faith, and near the mountains and the sunny lakes and brooks it is,
Like the olden seanichies, the pair of us belong.

Far and broad our journeyin' , up and down the land we go,
Today among the mountains and tomorrow by the sea;
Pleasant are the roads with us, and to a welcome grand we go,
Erin wins the heart of you, whoever you may be.

Erin's heart will capture you, if you will but listen now,
Great she ...

Michael Earls

St. Patrick's Day.

    There's an Isle, a green Isle, set in the sea,
    Here's to the Saint that blessed it!
    And here's to the billows wild and free
    That for centuries have caressed it!

    Here's to the day when the men that roam
    Send longing eyes o'er the water!
    Here's to the land that still spells home
    To each loyal son and daughter!

    Here's to old Ireland - fair, I ween,
    With the blue skies stretched above her!
    Here's to her shamrock warm and green,
    And here's to the hearts that love her!

Jean Blewett

Oh The Shamrock.

    Thro' Erin's Isle,
    To sport awhile,
As Love and Valor wandered,
    With Wit, the sprite,
    Whose quiver bright
A thousand arrows squandered.
    Where'er they pass,
    A triple grass^[1]
Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming.
    As softly green
    As emeralds seen
Thro' purest crystal gleaming.
Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!
    Chosen leaf.
    Of Bard and Chief,
Old Erin's native Shamrock!

    Says Valor, "See,
    "They spring for me,
"Those leafy gems of morning!"--
    Says Love, "No, no,
    "For me they grow,
"My fragrant path adorning."
    But Wit perceives
    The triple leaves,
And cries, "Oh! do not sever
    "A type, that blends
    "Three godlike ...

Thomas Moore

Nora To David Herbison.

There's a place in the North where the bonnie broom grows,
Where winding through green meadows the silver Maine flows,
Every lark as it soars and sings that sweet spot knows;
                For the mate for whom it sings,
                Till the clear blue heaven rings,
Is brooding on its nest mid the daisies in the grass;
                And that psalmist sweet, the thrush,
                And the linnet in the bush,
Tell the children all their secrets in song as they pass.

Oh brightly shines the sun there where wee birdies sing,
A glamour's o'er the buds in the green lap of spring,
In happy, happy laughter children's voices ring!
                Like some fair enchanted ground,
                In memory it is found,
Where my childhood's golden hours of happine...

Nora Pembroke