A Treasury of Irish Poetry in the English TongueStopford Augustus Brooke, Thomas William Rolleston Macmillan, 1900 - 578 sider |
Fra bogen
Resultater 1-5 af 73
Side xxii
... It is the weak against the strong , independence against tutelage , the love of one's own land in her hour of sorrow and danger . And all these motives are vivid in Irish poetry . It is a poor country xxii INTRODUCTION.
... It is the weak against the strong , independence against tutelage , the love of one's own land in her hour of sorrow and danger . And all these motives are vivid in Irish poetry . It is a poor country xxii INTRODUCTION.
Side xxxvii
... Hour of Night When He Who Adores Thee After the Battle . • . • . • The Light of Other Days On Music . Echo . As Slow our Ship No , Not More Welcome • My Birthday • The Night before Larry was Stretched Johnny , I Hardly Knew Ye The ...
... Hour of Night When He Who Adores Thee After the Battle . • . • . • The Light of Other Days On Music . Echo . As Slow our Ship No , Not More Welcome • My Birthday • The Night before Larry was Stretched Johnny , I Hardly Knew Ye The ...
Side 5
... hour it is come , And I must die for love and the height of loyalty : I thought it was no harm to embrace her in my arms , Or take her from her parents ; but she's a dear maid to me . Adieu , my loving father , and you , my tender ...
... hour it is come , And I must die for love and the height of loyalty : I thought it was no harm to embrace her in my arms , Or take her from her parents ; but she's a dear maid to me . Adieu , my loving father , and you , my tender ...
Side 18
... hour , I'm sure : The earth could not show such a damsel , I know , As that little girl , the pride of the world , Called nice little Jenny from Ballinasloe . I said to her : ' Darling this is a nice morning ; The birds sing enchanting ...
... hour , I'm sure : The earth could not show such a damsel , I know , As that little girl , the pride of the world , Called nice little Jenny from Ballinasloe . I said to her : ' Darling this is a nice morning ; The birds sing enchanting ...
Side 19
... hour I saw that sweet flower , My dear little Jenny from Ballinasloe ! THE BOYNE WATER Sir Charles Gavan Duffy rightly observes that these fragments of the original Boyne Water ' are far more racy and spirited than the song by Colonel ...
... hour I saw that sweet flower , My dear little Jenny from Ballinasloe ! THE BOYNE WATER Sir Charles Gavan Duffy rightly observes that these fragments of the original Boyne Water ' are far more racy and spirited than the song by Colonel ...
Indhold
1 | |
45 | |
51 | |
64 | |
72 | |
103 | |
111 | |
120 | |
249 | |
330 | |
340 | |
380 | |
451 | |
470 | |
482 | |
488 | |
133 | |
139 | |
151 | |
188 | |
200 | |
498 | |
534 | |
552 | |
575 | |
Andre udgaver - Se alle
Almindelige termer og sætninger
ancient race ballad Ballinasloe beauty bonnie green woods born boys brave breath bright Céad míle fáilte Celtic Charles Gavan Duffy County County Tipperary dark dead dear death died dreams Dublin Duffy Eileen aroon English Erin eyes fáilte fair fairy Fenian friends Gaelic George Darley GERALD GRIFFIN girl golden gone grave hand heart Heaven hills hurroo Ireland Irish Irish poetry Karaman King Kottabos land light Limerick literature live lonely maid mountain Nation ne'er never night o'er pale passion poems poetic poetry poets prose Rapparees Rory rose round Samuel Ferguson Shan Van Vocht sigh sing Siubhail sleep smile soft Soggarth aroon song sorrow soul spirit stars sweet sword T. W. ROLLESTON tears thee There's thou thought Trinity College Turloughmore Twas verse voice wave weep Widow Machree wild wind woods of Killeevy young Young Ireland
Populære passager
Side 55 - And still upon that face I look, And think 'twill smile again ; And still the thought I will not brook, That I must look in vain ! But when I speak— thou dost not say, What thou ne'er left'st unsaid ; And now I feel, as well I may, Sweet Mary ! thou art dead ! III.
Side 369 - Or going up with music On cold starry nights, To sup with the Queen Of the gay Northern Lights. They stole little Bridget For seven years long; When she came down again Her friends were all gone.
Side 47 - Music, oh how faint, how weak, Language fades before thy spell ! Why should Feeling ever speak, When thou canst breathe her soul so well ? Friendship's balmy words may feign, Love's are ev'n more false than they ; Oh ! 'tis only music's strain Can sweetly soothe, and not betray.
Side 499 - And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
Side 249 - All day long, in unrest, To and fro do I move. The very soul within my breast Is wasted for you, love! The heart ... in my bosom faints To think of you, my Queen, My life of life, my saint of saints, My Dark Rosaleen!
Side 225 - Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near, The church where we were wed, Mary : I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest; For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast.
Side 46 - Oft, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me : The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken ; The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken ! Thus, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me.
Side 250 - I could kneel all night in prayer, To heal your many ills! And one . . . beamy smile from you Would float like light between My toils and me, my own, my true, My Dark Rosaleen! My fond Rosaleen! Would give me life and soul anew, A second life, a soul anew, My Dark Rosaleen!
Side 73 - I've heard bells tolling Old Adrian's mole in, Their thunder rolling From the Vatican, And cymbals glorious Swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets Of Notre Dame; But thy sounds were sweeter Than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, Pealing solemnly.
Side 54 - We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!