Anthony O'Daly

    Since your limbs were laid out
        The stars do not shine,
    The fish leap not out
        In the waves.
    On our meadows the dew
        Does not fall in the morn,
    For O'Daly is dead:
        Not a flower can be born,
    Not a word can be said,
        Not a tree have a leaf;
    Anthony, after you
        There is nothing to do,
    There is nothing but grief.

James Stephens

James Stephens was an Irish novelist and poet, whose literary output includes many retellings of Irish myths and fairy tales. He was born on February 9, 1880, and passed away on December 26, 1950. Notable works include 'The Crock of Gold' and 'The Demi-Gods'. Stephens also wrote several well-regarded collections of poetry, including 'The Hill of Vision' and 'Insurrections'. His work is characterized by a blend of myth, fantasy, and modernism, capturing the spirit and culture of Ireland.

James Stephens

Mount Street (The Rocky Road To Dublin)

James Stephens, Simple Poetry

The County Mayo

James Stephens, Simple Poetry

George's Street (The Rocky Road To Dublin)

James Stephens, Simple Poetry

The Devil's Bag (The Adventures Of Seumas Beg)

James Stephens, Simple Poetry

English

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His Lament For O'Daly

It was Thomas O'Daly that roused up young people and scattered them, and since death played on him, may God give him grace. The country is all sorrowful, always talking, since their man of sport died that would win the goal in all parts with his music. The swans on the water are nine times blacker than a blackberry since the man died from us that had pleasantness on the top of his fingers. His two grey eyes were like the dew of the morning    that lies on the grass. And since he was laid in the grave, the cold is getting the upper hand.

If you travel the five provinces, you would not find his equal for countenance or behaviour, for his equal never walked on land or grass. High King of Nature, you who have all powers in yourself, he that wasn't narrow-hearted, give him shelter in heaven for it!

He was the beautiful br...

Isabella Augusta, Lady Gregory

September 1913

What need you, being come to sense,
But fumble in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, until
You have dried the marrow from the bone;
For men were born to pray and save:
Romantic Irelands dead and gone,
Its with OLeary in the grave.

Yet they were of a different kind
The names that stilled your childish play,
They have gone about the world like wind,
But little time had they to pray
For whom the hangmans rope was spun,
And what, God help us, could they save:
Romantic Irelands dead and gone,
Its with OLeary in the grave.

Was it for this the wild geese spread
The grey wing upon every tide;
For this that all that blood was shed,
For this Edward Fitzgerald died,
And Robert Emmet and ...

William Butler Yeats

William O'Kelly

    The Protecting Tree
        Of the men of the land of Fál!
    What aileth thee,
        And why is it that all
    About thee grieves?

    Alas, O Tree of the Leaves!
        Here is thy rhyme:
    Thy bloom is lightened;
    And if thy fruit be withered
    Thy root hath not tightened
        At the same time.

    Not since the Gael was sold
    At Aughrim.    Not since to cold,
    Dull death went Owen Roe;
    Not since the drowning of Clann Adam in the days of Noe
        Brought men to hush,
    Has such a tale of woe come to us
        In such a rush.

    The true flower of the blood of the place is fallen:
    The true clean-wheat of the Gael is reaped.

    Destruction be upon Death,
        For he h...

James Stephens

His Lament For O'Kelly

There's no dew or grass on Cluan Leathan. The cuckoo is not to be seen on the furze; the leaves are withering and the trees complaining of the cold. There is no sun or moon in the air or in the sky, or no light in the stars coming down, with the stretching of O'Kelly in the grave.

My grief to tell it! he to be laid low; the man that did not bring grief or trouble on any heart, that would give help to those that were down.

No light on the day like there was; the fruits not growing; no children on the breast; there's no return in the grain; the plants don't blossom as they used since O'Kelly with the fair hair went away; he that used to forgive us a great share of the rent. Since the children of Usnach and Deirdre went to the grave, and Cuchulain, who as the stories tell us, would gain victory in every step he would ta...

Isabella Augusta, Lady Gregory

Inis Fál

    Now may we turn aside and dry our tears,
    And comfort us, and lay aside our fears,
    For all is gone, all comely quality,
    All gentleness and hospitality,
    All courtesy and merriment is gone;
    Our virtues all are withered every one,
    Our music vanished and our skill to sing:
    Now may we quiet us and quit our moan,
    Nothing is whole that could be broke; no thing
    Remains to us of all that was our own.

James Stephens

Fragments Of Ancient Poetry, Fragment V

Autumn is dark on the mountains;
grey mist rests on the hills. The
whirlwind is heard on the heath. Dark
rolls the river through the narrow plain.
A tree stands alone on the hill, and
marks the grave of Connal. The leaves
whirl round with the wind, and strew
the grave of the dead. At times are
seen here the ghosts of the deceased,
when the musing hunter alone stalks
slowly over the heath.

Who can reach the source of thy
race, O Connal? and who recount thy
Fathers? Thy family grew like an oak
on the mountain, which meeteth the
wind with its lofty head. But now it
is torn from the earth. Who shall supply
the place of Connal?

Here was the din of arms; and
here the groans of the dying. Mournful
are the wars of Fingal! O Connal!

James Macpherson