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A Book of Irish Verse by W. B. Yeats

By W. B. Yeats

In 1895 the thirty-year-old W.B. Yeats, already confirmed as one in every of Ireland's best poets and folklorists, released this remarkable selection of Irish verse as a part of his crusade to set up a practice of Irish poetry healthy for the sunrise of a brand new age in Ireland's background. This Routledge Classics version, whole with a especially commissioned creation by means of acclaimed author and critic John Banville, is vital interpreting for all who take pleasure in solid literature.

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Have felt The deadly blow! What do I say? Ah, woe is me! Already we bewail in vain Their fatal fall! And Erin, once the Great and Free, Now vainly mourns her breakless chain, And iron thrall! Then, daughter of O’Donnell! dry Thine overflowing eyes, and turn Thy heart aside; For Adam’s race is born to die, And sternly the sepulchral urn Mocks human pride! Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne, Nor place thy trust in arm of clay— But on thy knees Uplift thy soul to God alone, For all things go their destined way As He decrees.

Jeremiah Joseph Callanan dirge of o’sullivan bear THE OUTLAW OF LOCH LENE From the Irish O, many a day have I made good ale in the glen, That came not of stream or malt;—like the brewing of men. My bed was the ground; my roof, the greenwood above, And the wealth that I sought one far kind glance from my love. Alas! on that night when the horses I drove from the field, That I was not near from terror my angel to shield. She stretched forth her arms,—her mantle she flung to the wind, And swam o’er Loch Lene, her outlawed lover to find.

At my bed-foot decaying, My hurlbat is lying, Through the boys of the village My goal-ball is flying; My horse ’mong the neighbours Neglected may fallow,— While I pine in my chains, In the goal of Cluanmeala. Next Sunday the patron At home will be keeping, And the young active hurlers The field will be sweeping. With the dance of fair maidens The evening they’ll hallow, While this heart, once so gay, Shall be cold in Cluanmeala. Jeremiah Joseph Callanan dirge of o’sullivan bear THE OUTLAW OF LOCH LENE From the Irish O, many a day have I made good ale in the glen, That came not of stream or malt;—like the brewing of men.

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