Tipperary

    (New version.)

    I'm not going to Tipperary for I've better work to do,
    I am dreaming of a new device to catch each German crew;
    And when we've chased them thro' the deep, Ach Gott! what fun there'll be
    Rounding up the Teuton "subs" in the blue and vasty sea.
        So, good-bye, Tipperary! Farewell, Slieve-na-mon!
        I leave you for a season to chase the murderous Hun;
        Von Tirpitz knows their hiding-place and I'll find out, too,
        So, good-bye, Tipperary, till we've caught each pirate crew.

    Then I'll go to Tipperary with its hills of emerald green,
    Where the skies are full of splendor and each peasant girl a queen;
    Where the men know naught but honor and where duty is their goal;
    Where the shadows from the mountains are but sunlight to the soul.
        So, good-bye, Tipperary, till we've rounded up each crew,
        Then I'll turn my face to greet you for to you I'll e'er be true;
        So I'm off to chase the pirates and the ocean aisles to sweep,
        Ach Himmel, Tipperary! there'll be fun upon the deep.

    For Rev. J. B. Bollard.

Thomas O'Hagan

Thomas O'Hagan was a Canadian poet and essayist born on March 6, 1855, in Toronto, Ontario. He was noted for his contributions to Canadian literature and his involvement in educational initiatives. His works often reflected themes of Irish heritage and identity. O'Hagan's dedication to literature and education earned him a distinguished place in Canada's cultural history. He passed away on March 1, 1939.

Thomas O'Hagan

God's New Year's Gift

Thomas O'Hagan, Simple Poetry

The Kaiser's "Place In The Sun"

Thomas O'Hagan, Simple Poetry

Achilles' Tomb

Thomas O'Hagan, Simple Poetry

The Kaiser's Bhoys

Thomas O'Hagan, 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.

Tipperary.

I.

Let Britain boast her British hosts,
About them all right little care we;
Not British seas nor British coasts
Can match the Man of Tipperary!


II.

Tall is his form, his heart is warm,
His spirit light as any fairy--
His wrath is fearful as the storm
That sweeps the Hills of Tipperary!


III.

Lead him to fight for native land,
His is no courage cold and wary;
The troops live not on earth would stand
The headlong charge of Tipperary!


IV.

Yet meet him in his cabin rude,
Or dancing with his dark-haired Mary,
You'd swear they knew no other mood
But Mirth and Love in Tipperary!


V.

You're free to share his scanty meal,
His plighted word he'll never vary--
...

Thomas Osborne Davis

Tipperary Days

Oh, weren't they the fine boys! You never saw the beat of them,
Singing all together with their throats bronze-bare;
Fighting-fit and mirth-mad, music in the feet of them,
Swinging on to glory and the wrath out there.
Laughing by and chaffing by, frolic in the smiles of them,
On the road, the white road, all the afternoon;
Strangers in a strange land, miles and miles and miles of them,
Battle-bound and heart-high, and singing this tune:

    It's a long way to Tipperary,
    It's a long way to go;
    It's a long way to Tipperary,
    And the sweetest girl I know.
    Good-bye, Piccadilly,
    Farewell, Lester Square:
    It's a long, long way to Tipperary,
    But my heart's right there.

"Come, Yvonne and Juliette! Come, Mimi, and cheer for ...

Robert William Service

The Vow Of Tipperary.

I.

From Carrick streets to Shannon shore,
From Slievenamon to Ballindeary,
From Longford Pass to Gaillte Mór,
Come hear The Vow of Tipperary.


II.

Too long we fought for Britain's cause,
And of our blood were never chary;
She paid us back with tyrant laws,
And thinned The Homes of Tipperary.


III.

Too long with rash and single arm,
The peasant strove to guard his eyrie,
Till Irish blood bedewed each farm,
And Ireland wept for Tipperary.


IV.

But never more we'll lift a hand--
We swear by God and Virgin Mary!
Except in war for Native Land,
And that's The Vow of Tipperary!

Thomas Osborne Davis

Tim The Dragoon (From 'Troy Town')

Be aisy an' list to a chune
That's sung of bowld Tim the Dragoon--
    Sure, 'twas he'd niver miss
    To be stalin' a kiss,
Or a brace, by the light of the moon--
                Aroon--
Wid a wink at the Man in the Moon!

Rest his sowl where the daisies grow thick;
For he's gone from the land of the quick:
    But he's still makin' love
    To the leddies above,
An' be jabbers! he'll tache 'em the thrick--
                Avick--
Niver doubt but he'll tache 'em the thrick!

'Tis by Tim the dear saints'll set sthore,
And 'ull thrate him to whisky galore:
    For they 've only to sip
    But the tip of his lip
An' bedad! they'll be askin' for more--
                Asthore--
By the powers, they'll be shoutin' 'Ancore!'

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

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 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