By Patrick Kavanagh

O stony grey soil of Monaghan

The laugh from my love you thieved;

You took the gay child of my passion

And gave me your clod-conceived.

You clogged the feet of my boyhood

And I believed that my stumble

Had the poise and stride of Apollo

And his voice my thick tongued mumble.

You told me the plough was immortal!

O green-life conquering plough!

The mandril stained, your coulter blunted

In the smooth lea-field of my brow.

You sang on steaming dunghills

A song of cowards’ brood,

You perfumed my clothes with weasel itch,

You fed me on swinish food

You flung a ditch on my vision

Of beauty, love and truth.

O stony grey soil of Monaghan

You burgled my bank of youth!

Lost the long hours of pleasure

All the women that love young men.

O can I stilll stroke the monster’s back

Or write with unpoisoned pen.

His name in these lonely verses

Or mention the dark fields where

The first gay flight of my lyric

Got caught in a peasant’s prayer.

Mullahinsa, Drummeril, Black Shanco-

Wherever I turn I see

In the stony grey soil of Monaghan

Dead loves that were born for me.

by William Ernest

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever Gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of Circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of Chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

Tim Finnegan lived in Walkin Street,
A gentle Irishman mighty odd
He had a brogue both rich and sweet,
An’ to rise in the world he carried a hod
You see he’d a sort of a tipplers way
but for the love for the liquor poor Tim was born
To help him on his way each day,
he’d a drop of the craythur every morn

Whack fol the dah now dance to yer partner
round the flure yer trotters shake
Bend an ear to the truth they tell ye,
we had lots of fun at Finnegan’s Wake

One morning Tim got rather full,
his head felt heavy which made him shake
Fell from a ladder and he broke his skull, and
they carried him home his corpse to wake
Rolled him up in a nice clean sheet,
and laid him out upon the bed
A bottle of whiskey at his feet
and a barrel of porter at his head

His friends assembled at the wake,
and Widow Finnegan called for lunch
First she brought in tay and cake,
then pipes, tobacco and whiskey punch
Biddy O’Brien began to cry,
“Such a nice clean corpse, did you ever see,
Tim, auvreem! O, why did you die?”,
“Will ye hould your gob?” said Paddy McGee

Then Maggie O’Connor took up the cry,
“O Biddy” says she “you’re wrong, I’m sure”
Biddy gave her a belt in the gob
and sent her sprawling on the floor
Then the war did soon engage,
t’was woman to woman and man to man
Shillelagh law was all the rage
and a row and a ruction soon began

Mickey Maloney ducked his head
when a bucket of whiskey flew at him
It missed, and falling on the bed,
the liquor scattered over Tim
Now the spirits new life gave the corpse, my joy!
Tim jumped like a Trojan from the bed
Cryin will ye walup each girl and boy,
t’underin’ Jaysus, do ye think I’m dead?”

by Edward Lucie-Smith
‘Your father’s gone,’ my bald headmaster said.
His shiny dome and brown tobacco jar
Splintered at once in tears. It wasn’t grief.
I cried for knowledge which was bitterer
Than any grief. For there and then I knew
That grief has its uses—that a father dead
Could bind the bully’s fist a week or two;
And then I cried for shame, then for relief.

I was a month past ten when I learnt this:
I still remember how the noise was stilled
In school-assembly when my grief came in
Some goldfish in a bowl quietly sculled
Around their shining prison on its shelf.
They were indifferent. All the other eyes
Were turned towards me. Somewhere in myself
Pride, like a goldfish, flashed a sudden fin.

By the lonely prison wall.
I heard a young girl calling
Michael they are taking you away,
For you stole Trevelyan’s corn.
So the young might see the morn.
Now a prison ship lies waiting in the bay.

Low, lie the fields of Athenry,
Where once we watched the small free birds fly.
Our love was on the wing,
We had dreams and songs to sing.
It’s so lonely round the fields of Athenry.

By the lonely prison wall.
I heard a young man calling
Nothing matters Mary when you’re free,
Against the famine and the Crown
I rebelled they ran me down
Now you must raise our child with dignity.

Low, lie the fields of Athenry,
Where once we watched the small free birds fly.
Our love was on the wing,
We had dreams and songs to sing.
It’s so lonely round the fields of Athenry.

By a lonely harbour wall
She watched the last star falling
And that prison ship sailed out against the sky
Sure she’ll wait and hope and pray
For her love in Botany Bay
It’s so lonely round the fields of Athenry.

Low, lie the fields of Athenry,
Where once we watched the small free birds fly.
Our love was on the wing,
We had dreams and songs to sing.
It’s so lonely round the fields of Athenry.

The Fields of Athenry is probably the best-known song about the Great Famine which raged over Ireland from 1845 until 1849.
The main character is awaiting transportation to the penal colony Botany Bay for stealing corn from a food depot. Whilst imprisoned his thoughts wander off to the abandoned fields of Athenry, a village just east of Galway Town.
Charles Trevelyan, the Permanent Secretary at the Treasury during most of the Famine years, was reluctant to hand out his corn and when the corn depots opened they mainly contained maize, or Indian corn. Due to its hard kernel the Irish were unable to process the maize.

When The Fields of Athenry was published in 1979 by Pete St. John the rumour was spread that the words already had been published in the 1880’s. Evidence supporting this rumour however is never produced and St. John’s claim is widely acknowledged.
Once published Paddy Reilly did a great job in distributing the song.

THE IRISH NATIONAL ANTHEM

Sinne Fianna Fáil
Atá Fá gheall ag Éirinn
Buidhean dár sluagh tar rúinn do ráinig chughainn
Fámhoídh bheírh saor
Sean-tír ár sinnsear feasta
Ní fágfar fá’n tíorán ná fa’n tráil
Anocht a theigeamh sa bhearna baoghail
Le gean ar Gaedhí chun báis nó saoghail
Le gunna sgréach: Fá lamhach na piléar
Seo Libh canaidh amhrán na bhFiann

Seo dhibh a cháirde duan oglaidh
Caithréimeach, bríoghmhar, ceolmhar
Ár dteinte cnámh go buacach táid
‘S an spéir go min réaltógach
Is fionmhar faobhrach sinn chun gleo
‘S go tiúnmhar glé roimh tigheacht do’n ló
Fa ciúnas chaoimh na h-oidhche ar seol
Seo libh, canaídh amhrán na bhFiann

Cois banta réidhe, ar árdaibh sléibhe
Ba bhuadhach ár rinnsear romhainn
Ag lámhach go tréan fá’n sár- bhrat séin
Tá thuas sa ghaoith go seolta
Ba dhúthchas riamh d’ár gcine cháidh
Gan iompáil riar ó imirt áir
‘Siubhal mar iad i gcoinnibh rámhaid
Seo libh, canaidh amhrán na bhFiann

A buidhean nach fann d’fuil Ghaoidheal is Gall
Sinn breacadh lae na saoirse
Tá sgéimhle ’s sgannradh í gcroidhthibh namhad
Roimh ranngaibh laochra ár dtíre
Ár dteinte is tréith gan spréach anois
Sin luinne ghlé san spéir anoir
‘S an bíodhbha i raon na bpiléar agaibh
Seo libh, canaidh amhrán na bhFiann

[English translation]

A Soldier’s Song

We’ll sing a song, a soldier’s song
With cheering rousing chorus
As round our blazing fires we throng
The starry heavens o’er us
Impatient for the coming fight
And as we wait the morning’s light
Here in the silence of the night
We’ll chant a soldier’s song

Chorus:
Soldiers are we
whose lives are pledged to Ireland
Some have come
from a land beyond the wave
Sworn to be free
No more our ancient sire land
Shall shelter the despot or the slave
Tonight we man the gap of danger
In Erin’s cause, come woe or weal
‘Mid cannons’ roar and rifles peal
We’ll chant a soldier’s song

In valley green, on towering crag
Our fathers fought before us
And conquered ‘neath the same old flag
That’s proudly floating o’er us
We’re children of a fighting race
That never yet has known disgrace
And as we march, the foe to face
We’ll chant a soldier’s song

Chorus Repeat

Sons of the Gael! Men of the Pale!
The long watched day is breaking
The serried ranks of Inisfail
Shall set the Tyrant quaking
Our camp fires now are burning low
See in the east a silv’ry glow
Out yonder waits the Saxon foe
So chant a soldier’s song

Chorus Repeat

(By Luke Kelly)

For What Died the Sons of Róisín, was it fame?
For What Died the Sons of Róisín, was it fame?
For what flowed Ireland’s blood in rivers,
That began when Brian chased the Dane,
And did not cease nor has not ceased,
With the brave sons of ´16,
For what died the sons of Róisín, was it fame?

For What Died the Sons of Róisín, was it greed?
For What Died the Sons of Róisín, was it greed?
Was it greed that drove Wolfe Tone to a paupers death in a cell of cold wet stone?
Will German, French or Dutch inscribe the epitaph of Emmet?
When we have sold enough of Ireland to be but strangers in it.
For What Died the Sons of Róisín, was it greed?

To whom do we owe our allegiance today?
To whom do we owe our allegiance today?
To those brave men who fought and died that Róisín live again with pride?
Her sons at home to work and sing,
Her youth to dance and make her valleys ring,
Or the faceless men who for Mark and Dollar,
Betray her to the highest bidder,
To whom do we owe our allegiance today?

For what suffer our patriots today?
For what suffer our patriots today?
They have a language problem, so they say,
How to write “No Trespass” must grieve their heart full sore,
We got rid of one strange language now we are faced with many, many more,
For what suffer our patriots today?

By G. W. Mainhood

I understand what true pain is.
Waking up without a soul;
Existing forever, but always alone.

I know where sorrow is born.
In icy depths of man’s empty heart;
His spirit of love to tear apart.

I see misery in every face.
Knowing no mercy, nor joy, nor peace;
Only death can bring them ease.

I hear loathing in every word.
Every breath a burning pain;
Lies, deceit, and wraths disdain.

I feel hate inside mankind.
Rotting filth, disease, decay;
In their defence, nothing to say.

I taste the rotting flesh of sin.
Toxic putrescence, bitter and vile;
Evil by nature, the mind of a child.

I am the truth in all that you feel.
My humanity stolen, compassion is gone;
I am that which you know is wrong.

I am in misery and darkness complete.
Knowing no other than that of my soul;
Destined for solitude, I am always alone.

Original: Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer …
Translation: Rudolph was a four-hooved ungulate,

Original: Had a very shiny nose …
Translation: Who, incidentally, possessed a nasal appendage of a maroon lustre.

Original: And if you ever saw him …
Translation: Consequently, if circumstances were to present themselves that he ever came into your view,

Original: You would even say it glows …
Translation: You would most undoubtedly remark at to its illuminary qualities.

Original: All of the other reindeer …
Translation: The multitude of other members of the population in his ecological community,

Original: Used to laugh and call him names …
Translation: Had previously teased, chuckled boisterously, and dubbed him unspeakable pseudonyms — the objective of which was to lower his self-esteem and make him miserable.

Original: They never let poor Rudolph join in any reindeer games …
Translation: They also excluded him from participation in leisure activities consistent with their species.

Original: Then one foggy Christmas eve …
Translation: However, on the twenty-fourth of December in an unspecified year…

Original: Santa came to say …
Translation: A mythological, supernatural being inherent to western culture (who symbolizes the Christmas attitude and allegedly brings gifts to children) arrived through the supersaturated, humid air.

Original: Rudolph, with your nose so bright …
Translation: He formally invited Rudolph, due to his extraordinary nasal characteristic.

Original: Won’t you guide my sleigh tonight?
Translation: To stand at the forefront of his snow vehicle with the express purpose that he navigate through the nocturnal mist.

Original: Then all the reindeer loved him …
Translation: At that point, the multitude of other members of the population in his ecological community who had previously teased, chuckled boisterously, and dubbed him unspeakable pseudonyms, reversed their disposition toward Rudolph to a more congenial, amicable relationship.

Original: And they shouted out with glee …
Translation: They consequently exclaimed with great exaltation and fervour,

Original: Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer …
Translation: Rudolph, the antlered mammal with a maroon nasal appendage,

Original: You’ll go down in history!
Translation: You shall most certainly be recorded in the annals of time, and your memory will be preserved for posterity!