Thomas Davis - Poems
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Classic Poetry Series Thomas Davis - poems - Publication Date: 2012 Publisher: Poemhunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive Thomas Davis(14 October 1814 – 16 September 1845) Thomas Davis was born in the town of Mallow in the county of Cork, the son of a Welsh father, a surgeon in the Royal Artillery, and an Irish mother. His father died one month after his birth and his mother moved to Warrington Place near Mount Street bridge in Dublin. In 1830, they moved to 67 Lower Baggot Street. He attended school in Lower Mount Street before studying in Trinity College, Dublin. He graduated in Law and received an Arts degree in 1836, precursory to his being called to the Irish Bar in 1838. <b>Writings</b> He established The Nation newspaper with Charles Gavan Duffy and John Blake Dillon. He dedicated his life to Irish nationalism. He wrote some stirring nationalistic ballads, originally contributed to The Nation, and afterwards republished as Spirit of the Nation, as well as a memoir of Curran, the Irish lawyer and orator, prefixed to an edition of his speeches, and a history of King James II's parliament of 1689; and he had formed many literary plans which were brought to naught by his death, from tuberculosis, in 1845 at the age of 30. He is buried in Mount Jerome Cemetery, Dublin. He himself was a Protestant, but preached unity between Catholics and Protestants. To Davis, it was not blood that made a person Irish, but the willingness to be part of the Irish nation. Although the Saxon and Dane were, Davis asserted, objects of unpopularity, their descendants would be Irish if they simply allowed themselves to be. He was to the fore of Irish nationalist thinking and it has been noted by later nationalist heroes, such as Padraig Pearse, that while Wolfe Tone laid out the basic premise that Ireland as a nation must be free, Davis was the one who built this idea up promoting the Irish identity. He is the author of the famous Irish rebel song A Nation Once Again. He also wrote the Lament for Owen Roe O'Neill. www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 1 A Nation Once Again When boyhood's fire was in my blood I read of ancient freemen For Greece and Rome who bravely stood, THREE HUNDRED MEN AND THREE MEN. And then I prayed I yet might see Our fetters rent in twain, And Ireland, long a province, be A NATION ONCE AGAIN. And, from that time, through wildest woe, That hope has shone, a far light; Nor could love's brightest summer glow Outshine that solemn starlight: It seemed to watch above my head In forum, field and fane; Its angel voice sang round my bed, 'A NATION ONCE AGAIN.' It whispered, too, that 'freedom's ark And service high and holy, Would be profaned by feelings dark And passions vain or lowly: For freedom comes from God's right hand, And needs a godly train; And righteous men must make our land A NATION ONCE AGAIN.' So, as I grew from boy to man, I bent me to that bidding- My spirit of each selfish plan And cruel passion ridding; For, thus I hoped some day to aid- Oh! can such hope be vain? - When my dear country shall be made A NATION ONCE AGAIN. Thomas Davis www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 2 A Song For The Irish Militia The tribune's tongue and poet's pen May sow the seed in prostrate men; But 'tis the soldier's sword alone Can reap the crop so bravely sown! No more I'll sing nor idly pine, But train my soul to lead a line A soldier's life's the life for me A soldier's death, so Ireland's free! No foe would fear your thunder words, If 'twere not for your lightning swords If tyrants yield when millions pray, 'Tis less they link in war array; Nor peace itself is safe, but when The sword is sheathed by fighting men A soldier's life's the life for me A soldier's death, so Ireland's free! The rifle brown and sabre bright Can freely speak and nobly write What prophets preached the truth so well As HOFER, BRIAN, BRUCE, and TELL? God guard the creed these heroes taught- That blood-bought Freedom's cheaply bought A soldier's life's the life for me A soldier's death, so Ireland's free! Then, welcome be the bivouac, The hardy stand, and fierce attack, Where pikes will tame their carbineers, And rifles thin their bay'neteers, And every field the island through Will show 'what Irishmen can do! ' A soldier's life's the life for me A soldier's death so Ireland's free! Yet, 'tis not strength and 'tis not steel Alone can make the English reel; But wisdom, working day by day, www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 3 Till comes the time for passion's sway The patient dint and powder shock, Can blast an empire like a rock. A soldier's life's the life for me A soldier's death, so Ireland's free! The tribune's tongue and poet's pen May sow the seed in slavish men; But 'tis the soldier's sword alone Can reap the harvest when 'tis grown. No more I'll sing, no more I'll pine, But train my soul to lead a line A soldier's life's the life for me A soldier's death, so Ireland's free. Thomas Davis www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 4 Blind Mary There flows from her spirit such love and delight, That the face of Blind Mary is radiant with light- As the gleam from a homestead through darkness will show Or the moon glimmer soft through the fast falling snow. Yet there's a keen sorrow comes o'er her at times, As an Indian might feel in our northerly climes! And she talks of the sunset, like parting of friends, And the starlight, as love, that not changes nor ends. Ah! grieve not, sweet maiden, for star or for sun, For the mountains that tower or the rivers that run- For beauty and grandeur, and glory, and light, Are seen by the spirit, and not by the sight. In vain for the thoughtless are sunburst and shade, In vain for the heartless flowers blossom and fade; While the darkness that seems your sweet being to bound Is one of the guardians, an Eden around! Thomas Davis www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 5 Celts And Saxons We hate the Saxon and the Dane, We hate the Norman men- We cursed their greed for blood and gain, We curse them now again. Yet start not, Irish-born man! If you're to Ireland true, We heed not blood, nor creed, nor clan We have no curse for you. We have no curse for you or yours, But Friendship's ready grasp, And Faith to stand by you and yours Unto our latest gasp- To stand by you against all foes, Howe'er, or whence they come, With traitor arts, or bribes, or blows, From England, France, or Rome. What matter that at different shrines We pray unto one God? What matter that at different times Your fathers won this sod? In fortune and in name we're bound By stronger links than steel; And neither can be safe nor sound But in the other's weal. As Nubian rocks, and Ethiop sand Long drifting down the Nile, Built up old Egypt's fertile land For many a hundred mile, So Pagan clans to Ireland came, And clans of Christendom, Yet joined their wisdom and their fame To build a nation from. Here came the brown Phoenician, The man of trade and toil- Here came the proud Milesian, www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 6 A hungering for spoil; And the Firbolg and the Cymry, And the hard, enduring Dane, And the iron Lords of Normandy, With the Saxons in their train. And oh! it were a gallant deed To show before mankind, How every race and every creed Might be by love combined- Might be combined, yet not forget The fountains whence they rose, As, filled by many a rivulet, The stately Shannon flows. Nor would we wreak our ancient feud On Belgian or on Dane, Nor visit in a hostile mood The hearths of Gaul or Spain; But long as on our country lies The Anglo-Norman yoke, Their tyranny we'll stigmatize, And God's revenge invoke. We do not hate, we never cursed, Nor spoke a foeman's word Against a man in Ireland nursed, Howe'er we thought he erred; So start not, Irish-born man, If you're to Ireland true, We heed not race, nor creed, nor clan, We've hearts and hands for you. Thomas Davis www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 7 Clare's Dragoons When, on Ramillies' bloody field, The baffled French were forced to yield, The victor Saxon backward reeled Before the charge of Clare's Dragoons. The Flags we conquered in that fray Look lone in Ypres' choir, they say, We'll win them company to-day, Or bravely die like Clare's Dragoons. CHORUS. Viva la, for Ireland's wrong! Viva la, for Ireland's right! Viva la, in battle throng, For a Spanish steed, and sabre bright! The brave old lord died near the fight, But, for each dropp he lost that night, A Saxon cavalier shall bite The dust before Lord Clare's Dragoons.