Owen O'Néill

    If poesy have truth at all,
        If some great lion of the Gael
    Shall rule the lovely land of Fál;
        O yellow mast and roaring sail!
    Carry the leadership for me,
    Writ in this letter, o'er the sea
        To great O'Néill.

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

The College Of Surgeons (The Rocky Road To Dublin)

James Stephens, Simple Poetry

Anthony O'Daly

James Stephens, Simple Poetry

The Cow (The Adventures Of Seumas Beg)

James Stephens, Simple Poetry

Sean O'Cosgair

James Stephens, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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Egan O'Rahilly

    Here in a distant place I hold my tongue;
    I am O'Rahilly:
    When I was young,
    Who now am young no more,
    I did not eat things picked up from the shore.
    The periwinkle, and the tough dogfish
    At even-time have got into my dish!
    The great, where are they now! the great had said,
    This is not seemly, bring to him instead
    That which serves his and serves our dignity,
    And that was done.

    I am O'Rahilly:
    Here in a distant place I hold my tongue,
    Who once said all his say, when he was young!

James Stephens

Odell

    My mind is sad and weary thinking how
        The griffins of the Gael went over the sea
    From noble Eiré, and are fighting now
        In France and Flanders and in Germany.

    If they, 'mid whom I sported without dread,
        Were home I would not mind what foe might do,
    Or fear tax-man Odell would seize my bed
        To pay the hearth-rate that is overdue.

    I pray to Him who, in the haughty hour
        Of Babel, threw confusion on each tongue,
    That I may see our princes back in power,
        And see Odell, the tax-collector, hung.

James Stephens

Written In A Blank Leaf Of Macpherson's Ossian

Oft have I caught, upon a fitful breeze,
Fragments of far-off melodies,
With ear not coveting the whole,
A part so charmed the pensive soul.
While a dark storm before my sight
Was yielding, on a mountain height
Loose vapours have I watched, that won
Prismatic colours from the sun;
Nor felt a wish that heaven would show
The image of its perfect bow.
What need, then, of these finished Strains?
Away with counterfeit Remains!
An abbey in its lone recess,
A temple of the wilderness,
Wrecks though they be, announce with feeling
The majesty of honest dealing.
Spirit of Ossian! if imbound
In language thou may'st yet be found,
If aught (entrusted to the pen
Or floating on the tongues of men,
Albeit shattered and impaired)
Subsist thy dignity to...

William Wordsworth

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

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

O'Bruaidar

    I will sing no more songs: the pride of my country I sang
        Through forty long years of good rhyme, without any avail;
    And no one cared even as much as the half of a hang
        For the song or the singer, so here is an end to the tale.

    If a person should think I complain and have not got the cause,
        Let him bring his eyes here and take a good look at my hand,
    Let him say if a goose-quill has calloused this poor pair of paws
        Or the spade that I grip on and dig with out there in the land?

    When the great ones were safe and renowned and were rooted and tough,
        Though my mind went to them and took joy in the fortune of those,
    And pride in their pride and their fame, they gave little enough,
        Not as much as two boots f...

James Stephens