Irish Antiquities.

According to some learned opinions
The Irish once were Carthaginians;
But trusting to more late descriptions
I'd rather say they were Egyptians.
My reason's this:--the Priests of Isis,
    When forth they marched in long array,
Employed, 'mong other grave devices,
    A Sacred Ass to lead the way;
And still the antiquarian traces
    'Mong Irish Lords this Pagan plan,
For still in all religious cases
    They put Lord Roden in the van.

Thomas Moore

Thomas Moore was an Irish poet, singer, and songwriter, celebrated for his Irish Melodies, which are now considered a staple of Irish cultural heritage. Born on May 28, 1779, in Dublin, Ireland, Moore gained fame for his lyrical songs, many of which were set to traditional Irish tunes. Not only a poet, but he was also a staunch advocate of Irish nationalism, often incorporating themes of national identity and resistance into his work. Moore's influential collection 'Irish Melodies' became popular in both Ireland and Britain and helped to define the literary output of the era. He passed away on February 25, 1852, but his legacy in Irish literature and music endures.

Thomas Moore

The Irish Slave.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Tho' The Last Glimpse Of Erin With Sorrow I See.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

I Saw The Moon Rise Clear. A Finland Love Song.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Here's The Bower.

Thomas Moore, 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.

Celts And Saxons.[1]

I.

We hate the Saxon and the Dane,
We hate the Norman men--
We cursed their greed for blood and gain,
We curse them now again.
Yet start not, Irish-born man!
If you're to Ireland true,
We heed not blood, nor creed, nor clan--
We have no curse for you.


II.

We have no curse for you or yours,
But Friendship's ready grasp,
And Faith to stand by you and yours
Unto our latest gasp--
To stand by you against all foes,
Howe'er, or whence they come,
With traitor arts, or bribes, or blows,
From England, France, or Rome.


III.

What matter that at different shrines
We pray unto one God?
What matter that at different times
Your fathers won this sod?
In fortune and in name we're bound
By stronge...

Thomas Osborne Davis

Thoughts On The Present Government Of Ireland.

Oft have I seen, in gay, equestrian pride,
Some well-rouged youth round Astley's Circus ride
Two stately steeds--standing, with graceful straddle,
Like him of Rhodes, with foot on either saddle,
While to soft tunes--some jigs and some andantes--
He steers around his light-paced Rosinantes.

So rides along, with canter smooth and pleasant,
That horseman bold, Lord Anglesea, at present;--
Papist and Protestant the coursers twain,
That lend their necks to his impartial rein,
And round the ring--each honored, as they go,
With equal pressure from his gracious toe--

To the old medley tune, half "Patrick's Day"
And half "Boyne Water," take their cantering way,
While Peel, the showman in the middle, cracks
His long-lasht whip to cheer the do...

Thomas Moore

Epistle From Erasmus On Earth To Cicero In The Shades.

Southampton.

As 'tis now, my dear Tully, some weeks since I started
By railroad for earth, having vowed ere we parted
To drop you a line by the Dead-Letter post,
Just to say how I thrive in my new line of ghost,
And how deucedly odd this live world all appears,
To a man who's been dead now for three hundred years,
I take up my pen, and with news of this earth
Hope to waken by turns both your spleen and your mirth.

In my way to these shores, taking Italy first,
Lest the change from Elysium too sudden should burst,
I forgot not to visit those haunts where of yore
You took lessons from Paetus in cookery's lore.
Turned aside from the calls of the rostrum and Muse,
To discuss the rich merits of rôtis and stews,
And preferred to all honors of triumph o...

Thomas Moore

Paddy's Metamorphosis.

About fifty years since, in the days of our daddies,
    That plan was commenced which the wise now applaud,
Of shipping off Ireland's most turbulent Paddies,
    As good raw material for settlers, abroad.
Some West-India island, whose name I forget,
    Was the region then chosen for this scheme so romantic;
And such the success the first colony met,
    That a second, soon after, set sail o'er the Atlantic.

Behold them now safe at the long-lookt-for shore,
    Sailing in between banks that the Shannon might greet,
And thinking of friends whom, but two years before,
    They had sorrowed to lose, but would soon again meet.

And, hark! from the shore a glad welcome there came--
    "Arrah, Paddy from Cork, is it you, my sweet boy?"
While Pat stood asto...

Thomas Moore

The Fudges In England. Letter VI. From Miss Biddy Fudge, To Mrs. Elizabeth ----.

How I grieve you're not with us!--pray, come, if you can,
Ere we're robbed of this dear, oratorical man,
Who combines in himself all the multiple glory
Of, Orangeman, Saint, quondam Papist and Tory;--
(Choice mixture! like that from which, duly confounded,
The best sort of brass was, in old times, compounded.)--
The sly and the saintly, the worldly and godly,
All fused down, in brogue so deliciously oddly!
In short, he's a dear--and such audiences draws,
Such loud peals of laughter and shouts of applause,
As can't but do good to the Protestant cause.

Poor dear Irish Church!--he today sketched a view
Of her history and prospect, to me at least new,
And which (if it takes as it ought) must arouse
The whole Christian w...

Thomas Moore

Irish Poets.

        Moore found the ballads of Green Isle
        Were oft obscured beneath the soil,
        As miner digging in a mine
        Finds rubbish 'mong the gold so fine,
        So Moore placed dross in the waste basket
        And enshrined jewels in casket,
        Where all may view each charming gem
        In Ireland's grand old diadem.

        In eastern lands his fame prevails
        In wondrous oriental tales,
        So full of gems his Lala Rookh,
        Hindoos and Brahmins read his book,
        And dark eyed Persian girls admire
        The beauty of his magic lyre,
        Glowing like pearls of great price
        Those distant gleams of paradise.

        He sang of Bryan Borohm's glory,
        Renowned in ancient Irish stor...

James McIntyre