The Boatman Of Kinsale.

Air--An Cota Caol.


I.

His kiss is sweet, his word is kind,
His love is rich to me;
I could not in a palace find
A truer heart than he.
The eagle shelters not his nest
From hurricane and hail,
More bravely than he guards my breast--
The Boatman of Kinsale.


II.

The wind that round the Fastnet sweeps
Is not a whit more pure--
The goat that down Cnoc Sheehy leaps
Has not a foot more sure.
No firmer hand nor freer eye
E'er faced an autumn gale--
De Courcy's heart is not so high--
The Boatman of Kinsale.


III.

The brawling squires may heed him not,
The dainty stranger sneer--
But who will dare to hurt our cot
When Myles O'Hea is here?
The scarlet soldiers pass along;
They'd like, but fear to rail;
His blood is hot, his blow is strong--
The Boatman of Kinsale.


IV.

His hooker's in the Scilly van
When seines are in the foam;
But money never made the man,
Nor wealth a happy home.
So, blest with love and liberty,
While he can trim a sail,
He'll trust in God, and cling to me--
The Boatman of Kinsale.

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

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

Thomas Osborne Davis, Simple Poetry

The Burial.[1]

Thomas Osborne Davis, Simple Poetry

The Lost Path.

Thomas Osborne Davis, Simple Poetry

The West's Asleep.

Thomas Osborne Davis, Simple Poetry

English

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The Boatman Of Kinsale

His kiss is sweet, his word is kind,
His love is rich to me;
I could not in a palace find
A truer heart than he.
The eagle shelters not his nest
From hurricane and hail
More bravely than he guards my breast
The Boatman of Kinsale.

The wind that round the Fastnet sweeps
Is not a whit more pure,
The goat that down Cnoc Sheehy leaps
Has not a foot more sure.
No firmer hand nor freer eye
Eer faced an autumn gale,
De Courcys heart is not so high
The Boatman of Kinsale.

The brawling squires may heed him not,
The dainty stranger sneer,
But who will dare to hurt our cot
When Myles OHea is here?
The scarlet soldiers pass along:
Theyd like, but fear to rail:
His blood is hot, his blow is strong
The Boatman of Kinsale.

Thomas Osborne Davis

The Sack Of Baltimore.[1]

I.

The summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's hundred isles--
The summer sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles--
Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird;
And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard;
The hookers lie upon the beach; the children cease their play;
The gossips leave the little inn; the households kneel to pray--
And full of love and peace and rest--its daily labour o'er--
Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore.


II.

A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there;
No sound, except that throbbing wave in earth, or sea, or air.
The massive capes and ruined towers seem conscious of the calm;
The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm.
So still the ni...

Thomas Osborne Davis

The Seabolts Volunteers

They towed the Seabolt down the stream,
And through the harbours mouth;
She spread her wings and sailed away
To seek the sunny South.

But, ah! she met with storm on storm
Ere half her course had run;
And all her masts were torn away,
And all her boats save one.

The good old ship had settled far
Beneath her cargo line,
Her riven sides were drinking deep
The draughts of ocean brine.

There gathered round the only boat
The women pale with fear,
And trembling little ones, who clung
To those who held them dear.

Then spoke the captain, brave and true,
His voice rose oer the roar;
The boat will save us all but five,
She cannot float with more!

And backward from the side he stepped
(He had been born at sea)

Henry Lawson

The Sack Of Baltimore

The summer sun is falling soft on Carberys hundred isles,
The summer sun is gleaming still through Gabriels rough defiles;
Old Innisherkins crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird,
And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard:
The hookers lie upon the beach; the children cease their play;
The gossips leave the little inn; the households kneel to pray;
And full of love, and peace, and rest, its daily labor oer,
Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore.

A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there;
No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth, or sea, or air!
The massive capes and ruind towers seem conscious of the calm;
The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm.
So still the night, these two long barques round Du...

Thomas Osborne Davis

Oh! The Marriage.

Air--The Swaggering Jig.


I.

Oh! the marriage, the marriage,
With love and mo bhuachaill for me,
The ladies that ride in a carriage
Might envy my marriage to me;
For Eoghan^[1] is straight as a tower,
And tender, and loving, and true;
He told me more love in an hour
Than the Squires of the county could do.
Then, Oh! the marriage, etc.


II.

His hair is a shower of soft gold,
His eye is as clear as the day,
His conscience and vote were unsold
When others were carried away;
His word is as good as an oath,
And freely 'twas given to me;
Oh! sure, 'twill be happy for both
The day of our marriage to see.
Then, Oh! the marriage, etc.


III.

His kinsmen are honest an...

Thomas Osborne Davis

The Child And The Mariner

A dear old couple my grandparents were,
And kind to all dumb things; they saw in Heaven
The lamb that Jesus petted when a child;
Their faith was never draped by Doubt: to them
Death was a rainbow in Eternity,
That promised everlasting brightness soon.
An old seafaring man was he; a rough
Old man, but kind; and hairy, like the nut
Full of sweet milk. All day on shore he watched
The winds for sailors' wives, and told what ships
Enjoyed fair weather, and what ships had storms;
He watched the sky, and he could tell for sure
What afternoons would follow stormy morns,
If quiet nights would end wild afternoons.
He leapt away from scandal with a roar,
And if a whisper still possessed his mind,
He walked about and cursed it for a plague.
He took offence at Heaven ...

William Henry Davies