St. Patrick's Day.

    There's an Isle, a green Isle, set in the sea,
    Here's to the Saint that blessed it!
    And here's to the billows wild and free
    That for centuries have caressed it!

    Here's to the day when the men that roam
    Send longing eyes o'er the water!
    Here's to the land that still spells home
    To each loyal son and daughter!

    Here's to old Ireland - fair, I ween,
    With the blue skies stretched above her!
    Here's to her shamrock warm and green,
    And here's to the hearts that love her!

Jean Blewett

Jean Blewett was a Canadian author, journalist, and poet. Born in Scotia, Ontario, she became well-known for her poetry and was awarded the part of lyrical poet at the World’s Fair in Chicago, 1893. Her notable works were often published in literary magazines. Besides poetry, Blewett also wrote stories and worked as a journalist, gaining considerable respect in both fields. She passed away in Chatham, Ontario, in 1934. Her legacy remains a significant part of Canadian literary history.

Jean Blewett

Earth To The Twentieth Century.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

April.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

St. Andrew's Day - A Toast.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

When The Dusk Comes Down.

Jean Blewett, 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.

St. Patrick's Day.

The chilly days of March are here,
The raw, cold winds are blowing;
All nature now, is bleak and drear,
But piercing winds and frosts are going.

But frosts nor snows, nor biting blast,
Can chill the warmth within each heart,
When comes around the day at last,
To sainted mem'ry set apart.

For many centuries thy name,
St. Patrick, has been warmly bless'd,
And many more thy righteous fame
Shall animate each Christian breast.

Each Christian, and each patriot, too,
Shall celebrate for years, the day,
And show the world that they are true
To virtuous worth, long pass'd away.

Oh, Ireland! for many years
Unhappy thou hast been, and sore,
But long, we're thankful thro' our tears,
Sweet songs have sounded from thy shore.

Thomas Frederick Young

A Bit O' Shamrock.

    We met her on the hillside green
    Below old Castle Blarney;
    Her name, she whispered, was Eileen,
    Her home it was Killarney.

    I see her yet, her Irish eyes
    Blue gray as seas in summer,
    And hear her welcome, on this wise,
    Vouchsafed to each new-comer:

    "I'll guide ye up the stairway steep,
    And naught will ye be missing
    O' battlement or donjon keep,
    Or blarney stone for kissing.

    "The tower that was McCarthy's pride,
    The scene o' battles thrilling,
    And where the Desmond kept his bride -
    Me fee is but a shilling.

    "Here's for ye, now, a keepsake charm" -
    Her low tones grow caressing -
    "A bit o' shamrock green and warm,
    To bring ye luck and blessing."

Jean Blewett

For The Moore Centennial Celebration

I
Enchanter of Erin, whose magic has bound us,
Thy wand for one moment we fondly would claim,
Entranced while it summons the phantoms around us
That blush into life at the sound of thy name.

The tell-tales of memory wake from their slumbers, -
I hear the old song with its tender refrain, -
What passion lies hid in those honey-voiced numbers
What perfume of youth in each exquisite strain!

The home of my childhood comes back as a vision, -
Hark! Hark! A soft chord from its song-haunted room, -
'T is a morning of May, when the air is Elysian, -
The syringa in bud and the lilac in bloom, -

We are clustered around the "Clementi" piano, -
There were six of us then, - there are two of us now, -
She is singing - the girl with the silver soprano -
How...

Oliver Wendell Holmes

St. Patrick Of Ireland, My Dear!

A fig for St. Denis of France,
    He's a trumpery fellow to brag on;
A fig for St. George and his lance,
    Which spitted a heathenish dragon;
And the saints of the Welshman or Scot
    Are a couple of pitiful pipers,
Both of whom may just travel to pot,
    Compared with that patron of swipers,
        St. Patrick of Ireland, my dear!

He came to the Emerald Isle
    On a lump of a paving-stone mounted;
The steamboat he beat by a mile,
    Which mighty good sailing was counted.
Says he, "The salt water, I think,
    Has made me most bloodily thirsty;
So bring me a flagon of drink
    To keep down the mulligrubs, burst ye!
        Of drink that is fit for a saint!"

He preached, then, with wonderful force,
    The ignorant natives a-...

William Maginn

St. Andrew's Day - A Toast.

    Wha cares if skies be dull and gray?
    Wha heeds November weather?
    Let ilka Scot be glad to-day
    The whole wide warl' thegither.

    We're a' a prood and stubborn lot,
    And clannish - sae fowk name us -
    Ay, but with sic guid cause none ought
    Tae judge us, or tae blame us,

    For joys that are we'll pledge to-day
    A land baith fair and glowing -
    Here's tae the hames o' Canada,
    Wi' luve and peace o'erflowing!

    For joys that were, for auld lang syne,
    For tender chords that bind us,
    A toast - your hand, auld friend, in mine -
    "The land we left behind us!"

    Ho, lowlanders! Ho, hielandmen!
    We'll toast her a' thegither,
    Here's tae each bonnie loch and glen!
    Here's...

Jean Blewett

Nothing Too Good For The Irish.

    It's the Emerald Isle is the beautiful land:
        There's nothing too good for the Irish.
    O'er the whole of it, Nature, at heaven's command,
    Has scattered her charms with a prodigal hand
    From Skibbereen town to the Donegal strand;
        For there's nothing too good for the Irish.

    And it's many a hero the Irish can claim:
        There's nothing too good for the Irish.
    "Red Hugh" put his country's invaders to shame;
    Owen Roe was a fighter they never could tame;
    As a nation the Irish have glory and fame;
        For there's nothing too good for the Irish.

    And the Irish are noted for piety, too:
        There's nothing too good for the Irish.
    In the far-away time before Brian Boru,
    The faith by Saint Patrick...

W. M. MacKeracher