O'Brien Of Ara.[1]

Air--The Piper of Blessington.


I.

Tall are the towers of O'Ceinneidigh^[2]--
Broad are the lands of MacCarrthaigh^[3]--
Desmond feeds five hundred men a-day;
Yet, here's to O'Briain^[4] of Ara!
Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar,^[5]
Down from the top of Camailte,
Clansman and kinsman are coming here
To give him the CEAD MILE FAILTE.


II.

See you the mountains look huge at eve--
So is our chieftain in battle--
Welcome he has for the fugitive,--
Uisce-beatha^[6] fighting, and cattle!
Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar,
Down from the top of Camailte
Gossip and ally are coming here
To give him the CEAD MILE FAILTE.


III.

Horses the valleys are tramping on,
Sleek from the Sacsanach manger--
Creachts the hills are encamping on,
Empty the bawns of the stranger!
Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar,
Down from the top of Camailte,
Ceithearn^[7] and buannacht are coming here
To give him the CEAD MILE FAILTE.


IV.

He has black silver from Cill-da-lua^[8]--
Rian^[9] and Cearbhall^[10] are neighbours--
'N Aonach^[11] submits with a fuililiú--
Butler is meat for our sabres!
Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar
Down from the top of Camailte,
Rian and Cearbhall are coming here
To give him the CEAD MILE FAILTE.


V.

'Tis scarce a week since through Osairghe^[12]
Chased he the Baron of Durmhagh^[13]--
Forced him five rivers to cross, or he
Had died by the sword of Red Murchadh!^[14]
Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar,
Down from the top of Camailte,
All the Ui Bhriain are coming here
To give him the CEAD MILE FAILTE.


VI.

Tall are the towers of O'Ceinneidigh--
Broad are the lands of MacCarrthaigh--
Desmond feeds five hundred men a-day;
Yet, here's to O'Briain of Ara!
Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar,
Down from the top of Camailte,
Clansman and kinsman are coming here
To give him the CEAD MILE FAILTE.

Thomas Osborne Davis

Thomas Osborne Davis was an Irish writer, poet, and politician who is best known as the chief organizer of the Young Ireland movement. He was born on October 14, 1814, in Mallow, County Cork, Ireland, and played a significant role in promoting Irish nationalism. Davis was a prolific writer who contributed greatly to Irish literature and national identity. He passed away at a young age of 30 due to scarlet fever on September 16, 1845.

Thomas Osborne Davis

Tipperary.

Thomas Osborne Davis, Simple Poetry

A Song For The Irish Militia.

Thomas Osborne Davis, Simple Poetry

The West's Asleep.

Thomas Osborne Davis, Simple Poetry

Blind Mary.

Thomas Osborne Davis, 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

The Dugannon Convention.

I.

The church of Dungannon is full to the door,
And sabre and spur clash at times on the floor,
While helmet and shako are ranged all along,
Yet no book of devotion is seen in the throng.
In the front of the altar no minister stands,
But the crimson-clad chief of these warrior bands;
And, though solemn the looks and the voices around,
You'd listen in vain for a litany's sound.
Say! what do they hear in the temple of prayer?
Oh! why in the fold has the lion his lair?


II.

Sad, wounded, and wan was the face of our isle,
By English oppression and falsehood and guile;
Yet when to invade it a foreign fleet steered,
To guard it for England the North volunteered.
From the citizen-soldiers the foe fled aghast--
Still they stood to their gun...

Thomas Osborne Davis

Clare's Dragoons.

Air--Viva la.


I.

When, on Ramillies' bloody field,
The baffled French were forced to yield,
The victor Saxon backward reeled
Before the charge of Clare's Dragoons.
The Flags we conquered in that fray
Look lone in Ypres' choir, they say,
We'll win them company to-day,
Or bravely die like Clare's Dragoons.


CHORUS.

Viva la, for Ireland's wrong!
Viva la, for Ireland's right!
Viva la, in battle throng,
For a Spanish steed, and sabre bright!


II.

The brave old lord died near the fight,
But, for each drop he lost that night,
A Saxon cavalier shall bite
The dust before Lord Clare's Dragoons.
For never, when our spurs were set,
And never, when our sabres met,
...

Thomas Osborne Davis

The Bothie of Tober-na-vuolich

A Long-Vacation Pastoral

Nunc formosissimus annus
Ite meæ felix quondam pecus, ite camenæ.


I

Socii cratera coronant.

It was the afternoon; and the sports were now at the ending.
Long had the stone been put, tree cast, and thrown the hammer;
Up the perpendicular hill, Sir Hector so called it,
Eight stout gillies had run, with speed and agility wondrous;
Run too the course on the level had been; the leaping was over:
Last in the show of dress, a novelty recently added,
Noble ladies their prizes adjudged for costume that was perfect,
Turning the clansmen about, as they stood with upraised elbows;
Bowing their eye-glassed brows, and fingering kilt and sporran.
It was four of the clock, and the sports were come to the ending,
...

Arthur Hugh Clough

The Burial.[1]

Why rings the knell of the funeral bell from a hundred village shrines?
Through broad Fingall, where hasten all those long and ordered lines?
With tear and sigh they're passing by--the matron and the maid--
Has a hero died--is a nation's pride in that cold coffin laid?
With frown and curse, behind the hearse, dark men go tramping on--
Has a tyrant died, that they cannot hide their wrath till the rites
are done?


THE CHANT.

"Ululu! ululu! high on the wind,
There's a home for the slave where no fetters can bind.
Woe, woe to his slayers!"--comes wildly along,
With the trampling of feet and the funeral song.

And now more clear
It swells on the ear;
Breathe low, and listen, 'tis solemn to hear.

"Ululu! ululu! wail for the dead....

Thomas Osborne Davis

Lament For The Death Of Eoghan Ruadh O'Neill.[1]

I.

"Did they dare, did they dare, to slay Eoghan Ruadh O'Neill?"
"Yes, they slew with poison him they feared to meet with steel."
"May God wither up their hearts! May their blood cease to flow!
May they walk in living death, who poisoned Eoghan Ruadh!"


II.

"Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter words.
From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to measure swords:
But the weapon of the Sacsanach met him on his way,
And he died at Cloch Uachtar,^[2] upon St. Leonard's day.


III.

"Wail, wail ye for the Mighty One! Wail, wail ye for the Dead!
Quench the hearth, and hold the breath--with ashes strew the head.
How tenderly we loved him! How deeply we deplore!
Holy Saviour! but to think we shall never see him mor...

Thomas Osborne Davis