Yep, those are sad indeed... I was thinking on the order of "Bloody Orangeman" -- you know, "Oh, one Sunday morning while on me way to Mass / I met a bloody Orangman and I killed him for his pass / I killed him for his pass me boys and sent his soul to hell / and when he got back, he had a strange tale to tell...

Great stuff, Amy. Politics is one of my favourites. I'm not sure that all of this stuff is as sad as it may look. Much of Irish poetry is from the perspective of old but happy, or poor but happy, or defeated but brave. For real melancholy, go to those drinking songs! You haven't felt maudlin until you've heard a soulful drunk singing Carrickfergus, or From here to Clare.

I've heard Van Morrison singing "Carrickfergus," and that was pretty moving. That's one of my favourite Irish ballads!

Here's a really sad one, sung by that blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked, sparkling Irish tenor boyo, Anthony Kearns: GRACE As we gather in the chapel here In old Kilmainham jail, I think about the last few weeks Oh, will they say we failed? From our schooldays they have told us We must yearn for liberty, Yet all I want in this old place Is to have you here with me. Oh Grace, just hold me in your arms And let this moment linger, Then take me out at dawn and I will die; With all my love I'll place this wedding ring Upon your finger. There won't be time to share our love, For we must say goodbye. Now I know it's hard for you, my love, To ever understand The love I bear for these brave men, My love for this dear land; But when glory called me to his side Down in the GPO, I had to leave my own sick bed, To there I had to go. Oh Grace, just hold me in your arms, etc. Now as the dawn is breaking, My heart is breaking too, On this May morn as I walk out My thoughts will be of you; And I'll write some words upon the walls So everyone will know I loved so much that I could see His blood upon the rose. Oh Grace, just hold me in your arms, etc.

The Folly of being Comforted by W.B. Yeats One that is ever kind said yesterday: "Your well-belov�d's hair has threads of grey, And little shadows come about her eyes; Time can but make it easier to be wise Though now it seems impossible, and so All that you need is patience." Heart cries, "No, I have not a crumb of comfort, not a grain, Time can but make her beauty over again: Because that great nobleness of hers The fire that stirs about her, when she stirs, Burns more clearly. O she had not these ways When all the wild summer was in her gaze." O heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head, You'd know the folly of being comforted.

(I love this one! :-)) THE SCHOLARS

By Yeats again Bald heads forgetful of their sins, Old, learned, respectable bald heads Edit and annotate the lines That young men, tossing on their beds, Rhymed out in love's despair To flatter beauty's ignorant ear. All shuffle there; all cough in ink; All wear the carpet with their shoes; All think what other people think; All know the man their neighbour knows. Lord, what would they say Did their Catullus walk that way?

(I love this one! :-)) THE SCHOLARS

Sorry, Amy. You've held the fort magnificently. The Montaigne dedication you mentioned a while ago gave rise to the title of the anthology in which I discovered most of my early favourites: "Other Men's Flowers". (Montaigne said I have gathered a posy of other men's flowers, and nothing but the string that binds them is my own.") This was compiled by Field Marshal Wavell during breaks from the Second World War, from poems that he had by memory (or had at one time memorised). The amount of stuff is staggering to me (in terms of the memory feats required), but as I also tend to like the stuff I can learn, it makes for a very enjoyable anthology for me. Off-topic, but you mentioned Montaigne...

That's okay, Mark--you can get off topic any time you want, especially if you want to talk about Montaigne! I used to have a lot of poems memorized, and I seem to have a pretty good capacity for doing so if I try, but I've found as time goes on that I tend to change words slightly or get lines turned around.

A LAST CONFESSION by William Butler Yeats What lively lad most pleasured me Of all that with me lay? I answer that I gave my soul And loved in misery, But had great pleasure with a lad That I loved bodily. Flinging from his arms I laughed To think his passion such He fancied that I gave a soul Did but our bodies touch, And laughed upon his breast to think Beast gave beast as much. I gave what other women gave That stepped out of their clothes, But when this soul, its body off, Naked to naked goes, He it has found shall find therein What none other knows, And give his own and take his own And rule in his own right; And though it loved in misery Close and cling so tight, There's not a bird of day that dare Extinguish that delight.

The Irish out-Celtic the Celts...Gloomy and maudlin, though they are,they seem to wallow in it as though it were a blessing and a grace. Thanks for the Yeats and Montaigne. (Mark, the Cricket match is on!)

We are also very proud and with all of those traits combined, we've ended up a race of starving poets and musicians!

i'm so glad there are people out there who enjoy poetry. thanks for keeping this conference alive (or, better yet, bringing it back to life) *hugs*

For our Poetess-Laureate whose muse has gone on Hiatus with the men in my world, could we do less?! *hugs* (Thank you, Amy!)

*bowing graciously* Thank you, ladies!

indeed, amy, thanks so much!

A DEEP-SWORN VOW by William Butler Yeats Others because you did not keep That deep-sworn vow have been friends of mine; Yet always when I look death in the face, When I clamber to the heights of sleep, Or when I grow excited with wine, Suddenly I meet your face.

the irish verse is lovely... (especially the yeats) ...and i am moved to offer one of my own favorites (from his 'fergus and the druid')... druid: what would you, fergus? fergus: be no more king, but learn the dreaming wisdom that is yours. druid: look on my gray hair, and hollow cheeks, and upon my hands that cannot lift a sword; this body trembling, like a wind-blown reed. no woman's loved me, no man's sought my help. fergus: a king's but a foolish laborer who wastes his blood to be another's dream. druid: then take, if you must, this little bag of dreams. unloose the cord, and they will wrap around you. fergus: i see my life go drifting like a river, from change to change. i have been many things- a green drop in the surge, a gleam of light upon a sword, a fir tree on a hill, an old slave grinding at a heavy quern, a king sitting upon a chair of gold- and all of these things have been wonderful and great; but now i have grown nothing, knowing all. ah! druid, druid, how great webs of sorrow lay hidden in the small, slate-colored thing!

Thanks, Nick...very like Merlin and Arthur, is it not?! The price a druid pays for his "gifts" is far higher than any mere mortal would imagine. The celebacy would be enough to discourage most males from pursuing it in the first place! Innocence has its value. I prefer stumbling along the best I can...making mistakes, as we all do, and looking back in wisdom.