The Keen of the South of Ireland: As Illustrative of Irish Political and Domestic History, Manners, Music, and Superstitions (Google eBook)
Thomas Crofton Croker
Percy Society, 1844 - Laments - 108 pages
What people are saying - Write a review
We haven't found any reviews in the usual places.
Adew appears BALLADS Banshee beauty blessed BOOK OF SONGS brother Callanan Carrigaline cold Corpus Christi College county of Cork dark darling daughter dead death delight dere derlyng Do-well Dowland's Dublin Dunmanway earth Editor England's Helicon English eyes fair father feare fire flowers Fraser's Magazine grace grave grief hand hart hath heart heaven Irish Irish poetry John Dowland John Fitzgerald Keating keen keeners Knight of Glin Knight of Kerry knytte lament Leary Lirum Lord MADRIGALS mirth morning Morty Oge mourning murder never nimphes o'er O'Sullivan original peasantry PERCY SOCIETY poem poetry poor priest printed Richard Cox Say-well shew sigh sing Sir Thomas Maude sorrow soul South of Ireland stanza sweet teares thee Thomas thou Tralee translation Twas verses voice Walsh weeping wild William Witte woman words wounde wyll Wytte
Page 47 - Sleep is a reconciling, A rest that peace begets; Doth not the sun rise smiling When fair at even he sets? Rest you then, rest, sad eyes ! Melt not in weeping, While she lies sleeping Softly, now softly lies Sleeping.
Page 41 - Mirth can do with her enticing parts. Sorrow was there made fair, And Passion wise; Tears a delightful thing; Silence beyond all speech, a wisdom rare; She made her sighs to sing, And all things with so sweet a sadness move As made my heart at once both grieve and love. O fairer than aught else The world can show, leave off in time to grieve. Enough, enough; your joyful look excels: Tears kill the heart, believe. O strive not to be excellent in woe, Which only breeds your beauty's overthrow.
Page 99 - HOW hard is my fortune. And vain my repining ! The strong rope of fate For this young neck is twining. My strength is departed, My cheek sunk and sallow, While I languish in chains In the gaol of Clonmala.' No boy in the village Was ever yet milder. I'd play with a child, And my sport would be wilder ; I'd dance without tiring From morning till even, And the goal-ball I'd strike To the lightning of heaven. At my bed-foot decaying, My hurlbat is lying ; Thro...
Page 59 - Through ocean to trail him, Like a fish after slaughter— 'Tis therefore I wail him. Long may the curse Of his people pursue them : Scully that sold him, And soldier that slew him ! One glimpse of heaven's light May they see never ! May the hearthstone of hell Be their best bed...
Page 34 - Where honour Cupid's rival is, There miracles are seen of his. If Cynthia crave her ring of me, I blot her name out of the tree. If doubt do darken things held dear, Then well fare nothing once a year ! For many run, but one must win ; Fools, only, hedge the cuckoo in.
Page iii - I have caused divers of them to be translated unto me, that I might understand them, and surely they savoured of sweet wit and good invention, but skilled not of the goodly ornaments of poetry ; yet were they sprinkled with some pretty flowers of their natural device, which gave good grace and comeliness unto them...
Page 33 - Cynthia's praise, I wear her rings on holidays, In every tree I write her name, And every day I read the same. Where honour Cupid's rival is There miracles are seen of his. If Cynthia crave her ring of me, I blot her name out of the tree ; If doubt do darken things held dear, Then well-fare nothing once a year ; For many run but one must win, Fools only hedge the cuckoo in.
Page 57 - Scully ! thou false one You basely betrayed him ; In his strong hour of need When thy right hand should aid him ; He fed thee ; — he clad thee ; You had all could delight thee ; You left him ; — you sold him ; — May heaven requite thee...
Page 31 - Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen; Duty, faith, love* are roots, and ever green. His helmet now shall make a hive for bees; And lovers...
Page 4 - For the stranger now rules in the land of the Gael. Where, where are the woods that oft rung to your cheer, Where you waked the wild chase of the wolf and the deer? Can those dark heights, with ramparts all frowning and riven, Be the hills where your forests wav'd brightly in heaven? O bondsmen of Egypt, no Moses appears To light your dark steps thro