Post some nice irish poems as I am taking part in recitation

THE CAT AND THE MOON

by: W. B. Yeats (1865-1939)

HE cat went here and there
And the moon spun round like a top,
And the nearest kin of the moon,
The creeping cat, looked up.
Black Minnaloushe stared at the moon,
For, wander and wail as he would,
The pure cold light in the sky
Troubled his animal blood.
Minnaloushe runs in the grass
Lifting his delicate feet.
Do you dance, Minnaloushe, do you dance?
When two close kindred meet,
What better than call a dance?
Maybe the moon may learn,
Tired of that courtly fashion,
A new dance turn.
Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
From moonlit place to place,
The sacred moon overhead
Has taken a new phase.
Does Minnaloushe know that his pupils
Will pass from change to change,
And that from round to crescent,
From crescent to round they range?
Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
Alone, important and wise,
And lifts to the changing moon
His changing eyes.

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>>8604227
‘There’s a woman in the country
I do not mention her name
who breaks wind
like a stone from a sling.’
-Anonymous, 9th century

>>8604259
Joycean

>>8604247
Always loved this one.

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>>8604227
those are Orangeutans, not Irish

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>>8604227
I and Pangur Bán my cat,
‘Tis a like task we are at:
Hunting mice is his delight,
Hunting words I sit all night.

Better far than praise of men
‘Tis to sit with book and pen;
Pangur bears me no ill-will,
He too plies his simple skill.

‘Tis a merry task to see
At our tasks how glad are we,
When at home we sit and find
Entertainment to our mind.

Oftentimes a mouse will stray
In the hero Pangur’s way;
Oftentimes my keen thought set
Takes a meaning in its net.

‘Gainst the wall he sets his eye
Full and fierce and sharp and sly;
‘Gainst the wall of knowledge I
All my little wisdom try.

When a mouse darts from its den,
O how glad is Pangur then!
O what gladness do I prove
When I solve the doubts I love!

So in peace our task we ply,
Pangur Bán, my cat, and I;
In our arts we find our bliss,
I have mine and he has his.

Practice every day has made
Pangur perfect in his trade;
I get wisdom day and night
Turning darkness into light.

-Anonymous, 9th Century

>>8604278
Oh mein gott, this is just a fucking unrelated pic I had on my hard drive.
It was little related, but really please do not give a single fuck about it.

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>>8604286
just post a picture of are sersh next time

Hello potato
We will never be hungry
Time for a drink now

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>>8604227
Bitter is the wind tonight,
It tosses the sea’s white tresses;
I do not fear the fierce warriors of Norway,
Who only travel the quiet seas.”

-Anonymous, 9th century

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Go deo deo arís ní raghad go Caiseal,
Ag díol ná ag reic mo shláinte,
Ná ar mharagadh na saoire im shuí cois balla,
Im scaoinse ar leataoibh sráide,
Bodairí na tíre ag teacht ar a gcapaill,
Dá fhiafraí an bhfuilim hírálta,
"Ó téanam chun siúil tá an cúrsa fada"
Seo ar siúl an Spailpín Fánach.

Im Spailpín Fánach fágadh mise,
Ag seasadh ar mo shláinte,
Ag siúl an drúchta go moch ar maidin,
‘S ag bailiú galair ráithe,
Ní fheicfear corrán im’ láimh chun bainte,
Súiste ná feac beag rainne,
Ach bratacha na bhFranncach os cionn mo leapan,
Is píce agam chun sáite.

Mó chúig céad slán chun dúiche m’athar,
‘Gus chun an oileáin ghrámhair,
Is chun buachaill na Cúlach os díobh nár mhiste,
In aimsir chasta an ghárda,
Ach anois ó táimse im chadhan bhocht dhealbh,
Imeasc na ndúichí fáin seo,
‘Sé mo chumha croí mar fuair mé an ghairm,
Bheith riamh im Spailpín Fánach.

Is ró-bhreá is cuimhin liom mo dhaoine bheith sealad,
Thiar ag droichead Gháile,
Fé bhuaí, fé chaoraí, fé laoi bheaga gheala,
Agus capaill ann le h-áireamh,
Acht b’é toil Chríost é gur cuireadh sinn asta,
‘S go ndeaghamhar i leath ár sláinte,
‘S gurbh é bhris mo chroí i ngach tír dá rachainn,
"Call here, you Spailpín Fánach."

you'll be fine with this opie

>>8604314
Shit, that's one fine language.

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Take a blessing from my heart to the land of my birth,
And the fair hills of Eirè, O!
And to all that yet survive of Eibhear's tribe on earth,
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
In that land so delightful the wild thrush's lay
Seems to pour a lament forth for Eirè's decay.
Alas, alas! why pine I a thousand miles away
From the fair hills of Eirè, O!
The soil is rich and soft, the air is mild and bland,
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
Her barest rock is greener to me than this rude land;
O, the fair hills of Eirè, O!
Her woods are tall and straight, grove rising over grove,
Trees flourish in her glens below and on her heights above;
Ah! in heart and in soul I shall ever, ever love
The fair hills of Eirè, O!
p.73

A noble tribe, moreover, are the now hapless Gael,
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
A tribe in battle's hour unused to shrink or fail,
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
For this is my lament in bitterness outpoured
To see them slain or scattered by the Saxon sword;
O, woe of woes! to see a foreign spoiler horde
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
Broad and tall rise the cruachs in the golden morning glow
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
O'er her smooth grass for ever sweet cream and honey flow
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
Oh, I long, I am pining, again to behold
The land that belongs to the brave Gael of old!
Far dearer to my heart than a gift of gems or gold
Are the fair hills of Eirè, O!
The dewdrops lie bright 'mid the grass and yellow corn
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
The sweet-scented apples blush redly in the morn
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
The water-cress and sorrel fill the vales below,
The streamlets are hushed till the evening breezes blow,
While the waves of the Suir, noble river! ever flow
'Neath the fair hills of Eirè, O!
A fruitful clime is Eirè, through valley, meadow, plain,
And the fair hills of Eirè, O!
The very bread of life is in the yellow grain
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
Far dearer unto me than the tones music yields
Is the lowing of the kine and the calves in her fields,
In the sunlight that shone long ago on the shields
Of the Gaels, on the fair hills of Eirè, O!

>>8604247
>HE cat
Perfect amalgam of two great 80s cartoons fo sho. BY THE POWER OF GREYSKULL GIVE ME SIGHT BEYOND SIGHT.

>>8604355
fuck off retard

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>>8604314
>Croppie songs
>Not Aislinge
pleb detected

Tráthnóinín déanach i gcéin cois leasa dom
Táimse im' chodhladh is ná dúistear mé
Sea dhearcas lem' thaobh an spéirbhean mhaisiúil
Táimse im' chodhladh is ná dúistear mé
Ba bhachallach péarlach dréimreach barrachas
A carnfholt craobhach ag titim léi ar bhaillechrith
'S í ag caitheamh na saighead trím thaobh do chealg mé
Táimse im' chodhladh is ná dúistear mé

Is mó buachaillín óg a thógadh go ceannasach
Táimse im' chodhladh is ná dúistear mé
Do cuireadh le foirmeart anonn thar farraige
Táimse im' chodhladh is ná dúistear mé
Go bheicfeadh an lá a mbeidh ár ar Shasanaigh
Ughaim ar a ndroim is iad ag treabhadh is ag branar dúinn
Gan mise a bheith ann mura dteannam an maide leo
Táimse im' chodhladh is ná dúistear mé

Ba bhachallach péarlach dréimreach barrachas
A carnfholt craobhach ag titim léi ar bhaillechrith
'S í ag caitheamh na saighead trím thaobh do chealg mé
Táimse im' chodhladh is ná dúistear mé
Táimse im' chodhladh is ná dúistear mé

>>8604352
>Spelling Éire wrong literally every time
wtf

>>8604376
what the fug, I got that from a university site for Cork as well
shameful

>>8604368
s-sorry mo chara I just remembered stumbling through it for the Irish aural in secondary

>>8604285
came here to post this
best little panther, thank god for marginalia
>>8604227
if you want something short and contemporary, this one relies upon delivery though it'd be better if you're a grill btw

Would You Jump Into My Grave As Quick? - Paula Meehan

Would you jump into my grave as quick?
my granny would ask when one of us took
her chair by the fire. You, woman,
done up to the nines, red lips a come on,
your breath reeking of drink
and your black eye on my man tonight
in a Dublin bar, think
first of the steep drop, the six dark feet.

>>8604407
Sadly, I'm a guy btw. Rather would prefer something older as my soul is far away from postmodern standards (t. fucking romanticist having to be extremely patient and tolerant)

>>8604421
James Clarence Mangan then?

The Nameless One

ROLL forth, my song, like the rushing river,
That sweeps along to the mighty sea;
God will inspire me while I deliver
My soul of thee!

Tell thou the world, when my bones lie whitening
Amid the last homes of youth and eld,
That once there was one whose veins ran lightning
No eye beheld.

Tell how his boyhood was one drear night-hour,
How shone for him, through his griefs and gloom,
No star of all heaven sends to light our
Path to the tomb.

Roll on, my song, and to after ages
Tell how, disdaining all earth can give,
He would have taught men, from wisdom's pages,
The way to live.

And tell how trampled, derided, hated,
And worn by weakness, disease, and wrong,
He fled for shelter to God, who mated
His soul with song.

--With song which alway, sublime or vapid,
Flow'd like a rill in the morning beam,
Perchance not deep, but intense and rapid--
A mountain stream.

Tell how this Nameless, condemn'd for years long
To herd with demons from hell beneath,
Saw things that made him, with groans and tears, long
For even death.

Go on to tell how, with genius wasted,
Betray'd in friendship, befool'd in love,
With spirit shipwreck'd, and young hopes blasted,
He still, still strove;

Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others
(And some whose hands should have wrought for him,
If children live not for sires and mothers),
His mind grew dim;

And he fell far through that pit abysmal,
The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns,
And pawn'd his soul for the devil's dismal
Stock of returns.

But yet redeem'd it in days of darkness,
And shapes and signs of the final wrath,
When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness,
Stood on his path.

And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow,
And want, and sickness, and houseless nights,
He bides in calmness the silent morrow,
That no ray lights.

And lives he still, then? Yes! Old and hoary
At thirty-nine, from despair and woe,
He lives, enduring what future story
Will never know.

Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble,
Deep in your bosoms: there let him dwell!
He, too, had tears for all souls in trouble,
Here and in hell.

up the ra, free are land, TÁL

by, gerry adams

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>>8604421
RAFTERY
A
F
T
E
R
Y

>>8604429
Shit, dude, it is little long, but fucking awesome. Really, length doesn't matter as I am taking part in this to get rid of my childhood trauma which disables me from public speaking.
Thanks!
>>8604437
Sorry, but I'm polish and I just take part in some recitation contest of irish poetry.

>>8604442
Mangan's always a little long, but surprisingly easy to remember because narrative. Bring a cheat sheet if they allow it, and let us know if you do well or spill your spaghetti or perogi or whatever. Best of luck.

Try Yeats as well if you're really finding the length a problem.

>>8604227

What's the logo on that windbreaker? WTC?

>>8604462
These are timberland vintage jackets. So pretty much look at the second hands, and the only thing I have found on the web that is similar is this:
http://www.rootsbk.net/jacketspullovers/vintage-timberland-weathergear-purple-olive-jacket-size-l
Sorry for offtopic.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.

I did my leaving cert poetry question on Seamus Heaney, God rest him.

>>8605001
Not that good.

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>>8604314
1. Never again will I go to Cashel,
Selling and trading my health,
Nor to the hiring-fair, sitting by the wall,
A lounger on the roadside,
The bucks of the country coming on their horses,
Asking if I’m hired,
"Oh, let’s go, the journey is long"
Off goes the Spailpín Fánach.
2. I was left as a Spailpín Fánach,
Depending on my health,
Walking the dew early in the morning,
Catching all the illnesses going around,
You’ll not see a hook in my hand for harvesting,
A flail or a short spade,
But the flag of France over my bed,
And the pike for stabbing.
3. Five hundred farewells to the land of my father,
And to the dear island,
And to the boys of Cualach because they never
feared in the troubled times on defense,
But now that I am poor, miserable and alone,
In these foreign lands,
I’m heart-broken because I got the call
to be a Spailpín Fánach.
4. I well remember my people were at one time,
Over at the bridge at Gáil,
With cattle, with sheep, with little white calves,
And plenty of horses,
But it was the will of God that we were evicted,
And we were left with only our health,
And what broke my heart everywhere I went,
"Call here, you Spailpín Fánach."

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>>8604368
As I was abroad late one evening
I am asleep and don't waken me
It happened that I noticed by my side a beautiful apparition
I am asleep and don't waken me-
Her curly, ringleted, cascading surplus of tresses fell over her trembling limbs,
As she launched the arrows that pierced me in the side.
I am sleep and don't waken me.

Arise my loyal family and take up your weapons
I am asleep and don't waken me
And level to the ground every English clown.
I am asleep and don't waken me
If only three survive, let there be shouts of triumph in all your towns;
From Carrick-on-Suir west to the banks of Dingle
Raise your blades and give the English their own treachery;
I am asleep and don't waken me.