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By W. B. Yeats

In 1895 the thirty-year-old W.B. Yeats, already proven as one among Ireland's top poets and folklorists, released this remarkable number 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, entire with a especially commissioned advent through acclaimed author and critic John Banville, is key examining for all who savour reliable literature.

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You, and only you, Soggarth aroon! And for this I was true to you, Soggarth aroon, In love they’ll never shake, When for old Ireland’s sake, We a true part did take, Soggarth aroon! John Banim 17 18 james clarence mangan DARK ROSALEEN From the Irish O my Dark Rosaleen, Do not sigh, do not weep! The priests are on the ocean green. They march along the deep. There’s wine from the royal Pope, Upon the ocean green; And Spanish ale shall give you hope, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, Shall give you health, and help, and hope, My Dark Rosaleen!

Theirs were not souls wherein dull Time Could domicile Decay or house Decrepitude! lament for the princes of tyrone and tyrconnell They passed from Earth ere Manhood’s prime, Ere years had power to dim their brows Or chill their blood. And who can marvel o’er thy grief, Or who can blame thy flowing tears, That knows their source? O’Donnell, Dunnasava’s chief, Cut off amid his vernal years, Lies here a corse Beside his brother Cathbar, whom Tirconnell of the Helmets mourns In deep despair— For valour, truth, and comely bloom, For all that greatens and adorns A peerless pair.

Tis thy voice from the kingdom of souls Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear. Thomas Moore THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE Not a drum was heard, not a funeral-note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O’er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. the convict of clonmell No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

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