Irish Poets

Moore found the ballads of Green Isle
Were oft obscured beneath the soil,
As miner digging in a mine
Finds rubbish ’mong the gold so fine,
So Moore placed dross in the waste basket
And enshrined jewels in casket,
Where all may view each charming gem
In Ireland’s grand old diadem.

In eastern lands his fame prevails
In wondrous oriental tales,
So full of gems his Lala Rookh,
Hindus and Brahmins read his book,
And dark eyed Persian girls admire
The beauty of his magic lyre,
Glowing like pearls of great price
Those distant gleams of paradise.

He sang of Bryan Borohm’s glory,
Renowned in ancient Irish story,
And shows the wide expanded walls
Which once encircled Tara’s Halls,
When joyous harp did there resound
And Ireland’s greatest king was crowned,
All wars and tumults then did cease,
Ireland did prosper great in peace.

He sung of meeting of the waters
And of Ireland’s charming daughters,
Great minstrel from his harp both flows,
Ireland’s triumphs and her woes,
Canada doth his fame prolong
While she doth sing his great boat song,
And his own countrymen adore
The genial, witty, bright Tom Moore.

“He told them of a river whose mighty torrent gave
A freshness for a hundred leagues to ocean’s briney wave.”

Goldsmith wrote of deserted village,
Now again reduced to tillage,
Once happiest village of the plain,
The place you look for it in vain,
There but one man he doth make rich,

“I’ll fare the land to many ills a prey
Where wealth accumulates but men decay.”
While hundreds struggle in the ditch,
His honest vicar of Wakefield,
Forever he will pleasure yield.