Ireland.

O we have loved you through cold and rain
    And pitiless frost,
Consuming our offering of blood and of brain
Gladly again and again and again,
    Though it all seemed lost,
        Ireland, Ireland!

O we will fight, fight on for you till
    Your anguish is past,
The wronged ones righted, the tyrants still. -
Though God has not saved you, yet we will,
    At the last, at the last,
        Ireland, Ireland!

O we will love you in warmth and light
    And the happy day,
When you have forgotten the terrible night,
Standing proud and beautiful bright
    For ever and aye,
        Ireland, Ireland!

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

Francis William Lauderdale Adams (27 September 1862 – 4 September 1893) was an English writer, poet, dramatist, and social reformer. His literary work often reflected his radical socialist views. Adams lived a life marred by poverty and struggles with his health, eventually committing suicide at the age of 30. Despite his brief life, his contributions to literature and social thought remain significant.

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

To The Sons Of Labour.

Francis William Lauderdale Adams, Simple Poetry

To His Love.

Francis William Lauderdale Adams, Simple Poetry

The Australian Flag.

Francis William Lauderdale Adams, Simple Poetry

To India.

Francis William Lauderdale Adams, Simple Poetry

English

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A Sorrowful Lament For Ireland

The Irish poem I give this translation of was printed in the Revue Celtique some years ago, and lately in An Fior Clairseach na h-Eireann, where a note tells us it was taken from a manuscript in the Gottingen Library, and was written by an Irish priest, Shemus Cartan, who had taken orders in France; but its date is not given. I like it for its own beauty, and because its writer does not, as so many Irish writers have done, attribute the many griefs of Ireland only to 'the horsemen of the Gall,' but also to the faults and shortcomings to which the people of a country broken up by conquest are perhaps more liable than the people of a country that has kept its own settled rule.


A SORROWFUL LAMENT FOR IRELAND.

My thoughts, alas! are without strength;
My spirit is journeying towards death;
My...

Isabella Augusta, Lady Gregory

Ireland.

Thou green isle of sorrows, I think of thee daily,
And sad are the thoughts that come into my brain,
When here, to my home, o'er the wide, rolling ocean,
Is wafted the news of thy trouble and pain.

Oh, Erin! I love thee in spite of thine errors,
And now for thee, Erin, my heart is forlorn,
Disturb'd as thou art by such various terrors,
Thou beautiful isle, where my kindred were born.

E'en now, in my thoughts, I can climb thy steep mountains,
Or roam through thy valleys, where green shamrocks grow,
Or over thy meadows, where hedges of hawthorn
Stand gracefully clipp'd, an impassable row.

And I see the thatch'd cottage, where often, the stranger,
With kind word of welcome, is met at the door;
The castle or tow'r, a shelter from danger,
When foemen i...

Thomas Frederick Young

Ireland, Ireland

Down thy valleys, Ireland, Ireland,
    Down thy valleys green and sad,
Still thy spirit wanders wailing,
    Wanders wailing, wanders mad.

Long ago that anguish took thee,
    Ireland, Ireland, green and fair,
Spoilers strong in darkness took thee,
    Broke thy heart and left thee there.

Down thy valleys, Ireland, Ireland,
    Still thy spirit wanders mad;
All too late they love that wronged thee,
    Ireland, Ireland, green and sad.

Henry John Newbolt

To Charles Parnell.

One thing we praise you for that is past praise -
    The dauntless eyes that faced the rain and night,
    The hand that never wearied in the fight,
Till, through the dark's despair, the dawn's delays,
It rose, that vision of forgotten days,
    Ireland, a nation in her right and might,
    As fearless of the lightning as the Light, -
Freedom, the noon-tide sun that shines and stays!
O brave, O pure, O hater of the wrong,
    (The wrong that is as one with England's name,
    Tyranny with cant of liberty, and shame
With boast of righteousness), to you belong
    Trust for the hate that blinds our foes like flame,
Love for the hope that makes our hearts so strong!

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

A Story. (For The Irish Delegates In Australia.)

    Do you want to hear a story
    With a nobler praise than "glory,"
Of a man who loved the right like heaven and loathed the wrong like hell?
    Then, that story let me tell you
    Once again, though it as well you
Know as I - the splendid story of the man they call Parnell!

    By the wayside of the nations,
    Lashed with whips and execrations,
Helpless, hopeless, bleeding, dying, she, the Maiden Nation, lay;
    And the burthen of dishonour
    Weighed so grievously upon her
That her very children hid their eyes and crept in shame away.

    And there as she was lying
    Helpless, hopeless, bleeding, dying,
All her high-born foes came round her, fleering, jeering, as they said:
    "What is freedom fought and won for?
    She is dead! She'...

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

Ireland.

Written for the Art Autograph during the Irish Famine, 1880.



Heartsome Ireland, winsome Ireland,
Charmer of the sun and sea,
Bright beguiler of old anguish,
How could Famine frown on thee?

As our Gulf-Stream, drawn to thee-ward,
Turns him from his northward flow,
And our wintry western headlands
Send thee summer from their snow,

Thus the main and cordial current
Of our love sets over sea, -
Tender, comely, valiant Ireland,
Songful, soulful, sorrowful Ireland, -
Streaming warm to comfort thee.


Baltimore, 1880.

Sidney Lanier