A Treasury of Irish Poetry in the English TongueStopford Augustus Brooke, Thomas William Rolleston Macmillan, 1900 - 578 sider |
Fra bogen
Resultater 1-5 af 81
Side xiii
... look for in vain among the Nation poets . After '67 , patriotic rage seldom recurs as a separate motive for poetry . There were a few Land League poets , but they were even less vigorous than the Fenians . Political indignation lasts in ...
... look for in vain among the Nation poets . After '67 , patriotic rage seldom recurs as a separate motive for poetry . There were a few Land League poets , but they were even less vigorous than the Fenians . Political indignation lasts in ...
Side xix
... look , languishes into subtleties , or dreams into commonplace . Were it possible that Irish literature should be anglicised , there would soon be no literature worth the name in Ireland . It has not been anglicised . No one can be deaf ...
... look , languishes into subtleties , or dreams into commonplace . Were it possible that Irish literature should be anglicised , there would soon be no literature worth the name in Ireland . It has not been anglicised . No one can be deaf ...
Side 7
... look on me , This villain came amongst us to disgrace our family , And by his base contrivances this villainy was planned ; If I don't get satisfaction I'll quit this Irish land . ' The lady with a tear began , and thus replied she ...
... look on me , This villain came amongst us to disgrace our family , And by his base contrivances this villainy was planned ; If I don't get satisfaction I'll quit this Irish land . ' The lady with a tear began , and thus replied she ...
Side 9
... look , And pitched his big wig to the devil ; Then sighing , he threw back his head To get a sweet drop of the bottle , And pitiful sighing , he said : Oh , the hemp will be soon round my throttle And choke my poor windpipe to death ...
... look , And pitched his big wig to the devil ; Then sighing , he threw back his head To get a sweet drop of the bottle , And pitiful sighing , he said : Oh , the hemp will be soon round my throttle And choke my poor windpipe to death ...
Side 10
... I hardly knew ye ! With drums and guns , and guns and drums The enemy nearly slew ye ; My darling dear , you look so queer , Och , Johnny , I hardly knew ye ! ' Where are your eyes that looked so mild ? 10 BOOK I Hardly Knew Ye'
... I hardly knew ye ! With drums and guns , and guns and drums The enemy nearly slew ye ; My darling dear , you look so queer , Och , Johnny , I hardly knew ye ! ' Where are your eyes that looked so mild ? 10 BOOK I Hardly Knew Ye'
Indhold
1 | |
8 | |
14 | |
21 | |
28 | |
56 | |
64 | |
90 | |
216 | |
226 | |
330 | |
364 | |
380 | |
393 | |
401 | |
448 | |
134 | |
140 | |
184 | |
188 | |
208 | |
513 | |
519 | |
534 | |
552 | |
573 | |
Andre udgaver - Se alle
Almindelige termer og sætninger
ancient ballads Ballyshannon beauty bonnie green woods born boys brave breast breath bright brow Celtic Charles Gavan Duffy Congal County County Tipperary dark Rosaleen dead dear death died dreams Dublin Duffy earth English Erin eyes face fair fairy Father Ferguson flowers friends Gael Gaelic girl gold golden gone grave hand heart heaven hills Ireland Irish literature Irish poetry Irish poets Karaman Kellach King Kottabos land light Limerick literary literature live lonely maid Mangan mountain Nation never night o'er pale passion poems poetic poetry race Rapparees rose round Samuel Ferguson shore sigh sing sleep smile soft song sorrow soul spirit stars sweet sword T. W. ROLLESTON tears Tethra thee There's thine thou Trinity College Twas verse voice W. B. Yeats wave Widow Machree wild wind woods of Killeevy young Young Ireland
Populære passager
Side 497 - WHEN YOU ARE OLD WHEN you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face...
Side 228 - The day is bright as then; The lark's loud song is in my ear, And the corn is green again; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your breath, warm on my cheek, And I still keep list'nin' for the words You never more will speak.
Side 48 - 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 230 - I'll not forget you, darling, In the land I'm goin' to : They say there's bread and work for all, And the sun shines always there— But I'll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair...
Side 56 - 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! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him — But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
Side 56 - By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
Side 253 - Woe and pain, pain and woe, Are my lot, night and noon, To see your bright face clouded so, Like to the mournful moon. But yet will I rear your throne Again in golden sheen ; 'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, My Dark Rosaleen...
Side 75 - 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 56 - Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.
Side 56 - Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him ! But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring, And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.