The Fiddler Of Dooney

When I play on my fiddle in Dooney,
Folk dance like a wave of the sea;
My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet,
My brother in Moharabuiee.

I passed my brother and cousin:
They read in their books of prayer;
I read in my book of songs
I bought at the Sligo fair.

When we come at the end of time,
To Peter sitting in state,
He will smile on the three old spirits,
But call me first through the gate;

For the good are always the merry,
Save by an evil chance,
And the merry love the fiddle
And the merry love to dance:

And when the folk there spy me,
They will all come up to me,
With Here is the fiddler of Dooney!
And dance like a wave of the sea.

William Butler Yeats

William Butler Yeats was an Irish poet, dramatist, prose writer, and one of the foremost figures of 20th-century literature. A pillar of both the Irish and British literary establishments, in his later years he served as an Irish Senator for two terms. Yeats was a driving force behind the Irish Literary Revival and was co-founder of the Abbey Theatre. In 1923, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature.

William Butler Yeats

The Coming Of Wisdom With Time

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Quarrel In Old Age

William Butler Yeats, Simple Poetry

He Tells Of The Perfect Beauty

William Butler Yeats, Simple Poetry

Long-Legged Fly

William Butler Yeats, Simple Poetry

English

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To Ireland In The Coming Times

Know, that I would accounted be
True brother of a company
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You waves, though you dance by my feet like children
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i(When) I i(was) a boy i(with never) a i(crack in my heart.)

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The Host Of The Air

ODriscoll drove with a song,
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From the tall and the tufted reeds
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At the coming of night tide,
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Under The Round Tower

Although Id lie lapped up in linen
A deal Id sweat and little earn
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Cried the beggar, Billy Byrne;
Stretch bones till the daylight come
On great-grandfathers battered tomb.

Upon a grey old battered tombstone
In Glendalough beside the stream,
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Of golden king and silver lady,
Bellowing up and bellowing round,
Till toes mastered a sweet measure,
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Until they pranced upon the top.

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Three Marching Songs

Remember all those renowned generations,
They left their bodies to fatten the wolves,
They left their homesteads to fatten the foxes,
Fled to far countries, or sheltered themselves
In cavern, crevice, or hole,
Defending Ireland's soul.
i(Be still, be still, what can be said?
My father sang that song,
But time amends old wrong,
All that is finished, let it fade.)
Remember all those renowned generations,
Remember all that have sunk in their blood,
Remember all that have died on the scaffold,
Remember all that have fled, that have stood,
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On an old,tambourine.
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But time amends old wrong,
And all that's finished, let it fade.)
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