Irish Love Poetry

A Lie

Death is all a lie,
Its sting is not so bad;
May the liars burn and die!
Those who believe have been had!

It's been said and wrongly so
To be dead is worst of all,
Pure nonsense, as you know
Far worse is love's gall.

Author unknown
17th Century

I prefer Robert W. Service; The Cremation of Sam McGee.

Pearl of the White Breast

By George Petrie (Translated)


THERE’S a colleen fair as May,
For a year and for a day,
I’ve sought by every way her heart to gain
There’s no art of tongue or eye
Fond youths with maidens try, 5
But I’ve tried with ceaseless sigh, yet tried in vain.

If to France or far-off Spain
She’d cross the watery main,
To see her face again the sea I’d brave.
And if ’tis Heaven’s decree 10
That mine she may not be,
May the Son of Mary me in mercy save!

O thou blooming milk-white dove,
To whom I’ve given true love,
Do not ever thus reprove my constancy. 15
There are maidens would be mine,
With wealth in hand and kine,
If my heart would but incline to turn from thee.

But a kiss with welcome bland,
And a touch of thy dear hand 20
Are all that I demand, wouldst thou not spurn;
For if not mine, dear girl,
O Snowy-Breasted Pearl!
May I never from the fair with life return!

19th Century

Leaba Shioda

Do chÛireoinn leaba duit
i Leaba Shioda
sa bhfÈar ard
faoi iomrasc·il na gcrann
is bheadh do chraiceann ann
mar shÌoda ar shÌoda
sa doircheacht
am lonnaithe na leamhan.

Craiceann a shnÌonn
go glÈineach thar do ghÈaga
mar bhainne · dh·il as cr˙iscÌnÌ
am lÛin
is trÈad gabhar ag gabh·il thar chnoc·in
do chuid gruaige
cnoc·in ar a bhfuil faillte arda
is dh· ghleann at· domhain.

Is bheadh do bheola taise
ar mhilseacht shi˙cra
tr·thnÛna is sinn ag spaisteoireacht
cois abhann
is na gaotha meala
ag sÈideadh thar an Sionna
is na fi˙isÌ ag beann˙ duit
ceann ar cheann.

Na fi˙isÌ ag Ìsli˙
a gceanna maorga
ag umhl˙ sÌos don ·illeacht
os a gcomhair
is do phriocfainn pÈire acu
mar shiogairlÌnÌ
is do mhaiseoinn do chluasa
mar bhrÌdeog.

”, chÛireoinn leaba duit
i Leaba Shioda
le hamhascarnach an lae
i ndeireadh thall
is ba mhÛr an plÈisi˙r d˙inn
bheith gÈaga ar ghÈaga
ag iomrasc·il
am lonnaithe na leamhan.

**************

Labasheedy (The Silken Bed)

I'd make a bed for you
in Labasheedy
in the tall grass
under the wrestling trees
where your skin
would be silk
in the darkness
when the moths are coming down.
Skin which glistens
shining over your limbs
like milk being poured
from jugs at dinnertime;
your hair is a herd of goats
moving over rolling hills,
hills that have high cliffs
and two ravines.

And your damp lips
would be as sweet as sugar
at evening and we walking
by the riverside
with honeyed breezes
blowing over the Shannon
and the fuchsias bowing down to you
one by one.

The fuchsias bending low
their solemn heads in obeisance to the beauty
in front of them
I would pick a pair of flowers as pendant earrings
to adorn you
like a bride in shining clothes.
O I'd make a bed for you in Labasheedy,
in the twilight hour
with evening falling slow
and what a pleasure it would be
to have our limbs entwine
wrestling
while the moths are coming down.
(Nuala NÌ Dhomhnaill)

REMEMBER THEE
by Thomas Moore

from The Poetry and Song of Ireland

Remember thee! yes, while there's life in this heart,
It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art,
More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom, and thy showers,
Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours.

Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious, and free,
First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea,
I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow,
But oh! could I love thee more deeply than now?

No, thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as it runs,
But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons -
Whose hearts, like the young of the desert bird's nest,
Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast.

Give me, my love, that billing kiss
I taught you one delicious night,
When, turning epicures in bliss,
We tried inventions of delight.

Come, gently steal my lips along,
And let your lips in murmurs move, -
Ah, no! - again - that kiss was wrong -
How can you be so dull, my love?

'Cease, cease!' the blushing girl replies -
And in her milky arms she caught me -
'How can you thus your pupil chide;
You know' twas in the dark you taught me!'

The Kiss

Give me, my love, that billing kiss
I taught you one delicious night,
When, turning epicures in bliss,
We tried inventions of delight.

Come, gently steal my lips along,
And let your lips in murmurs move, -
Ah, no! - again - that kiss was wrong -
How can you be so dull, my love?

'Cease, cease!' the blushing girl replies -
And in her milky arms she caught me -
'How can you thus your pupil chide;
You know' twas in the dark you taught me!'

Thomas Moore

Some Yeats.

The Song of Wandering Aengus
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.