10 Best Irish Poems

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Irish literature shows the various aspects of Ireland from its culture to history, establishing prominence for itself in both European and world literatures.

Deemed one of the oldest and richest poetry sources in Europe, Ireland has produced some of the brightest examples of poetry in both English and Gaelic languages, from the oral tradition to the contemporary 21st-century poems.

The Irish poems we have included in the following list tackle different themes but share the same renowned Irish spirit.

Let’s jump in.

10 Best Irish Poems

1. “Ecce Puer” by James Joyce

Written and published in 1932, “Ecce Puer” by James Joyce was both a celebration of the birth of Stephen James Joyce (born February 1932), James Joyce’s grandson, and a show of sorrow for the death of the poet’s father, John Stanislaus Joyce, who passed away in December 1931.

“Ecce Puer” is one of the most outstanding achievements in Irish literature.

The title, which is a Latin exclamation that literally translates to “Behold the Young Boy,” seems to address a person in the poem.

The main theme of “Ecce Puer” is the coming of new generations in the middle of joy and guilt, and how these generations connect to the past and their very own future.

 

Ecce Puer by James Joyce – 1882-1941

Of the dark past

A child is born;

With joy and grief

My heart is torn.

 

Calm in his cradle

The living lies.

May love and mercy

Unclose his eyes!

Young life is breathed

On the glass;

The world that was not

Comes to pass.

 

A child is sleeping:

An old man gone.

O, father forsaken,

Forgive your son!

READ MORE: 14 Interesting Facts About James Joyce

2. “Easter, 1916” by W. B. Yeats

William Butler Yeats, one of the best poets Ireland has ever had, has to be a part of any list that has to do with Irish poetry.

Throughout his long career in literature, W. B. Yeats often penned about politics in Ireland and its history.

“Easter, 1916” was one of such writings, where Yeats describes his mixed feelings with regards to the violent Easter Rising that took place in his homeland against British rule on Easter Monday of 1916. The uprising failed to earn Ireland’s independence.

Subsequently, most of the Irish republican leaders involved in the revolt were charged with treason and executed by the British government.

This tragic event is described by the famous last line of this poem: “A terrible beauty is born.” “Easter, 1916” was first published in 1916.

 

Easter, 1916 by William Butler Yeats

I have met them at close of day  

Coming with vivid faces

From counter or desk among grey  

Eighteenth-century houses.

 

I have passed with a nod of the head  

Or polite meaningless words,  

Or have lingered awhile and said  

Polite meaningless words,

And thought before I had done  

Of a mocking tale or a gibe  

 

To please a companion

Around the fire at the club,  

Being certain that they and I  

But lived where motley is worn:  

All changed, changed utterly:  

A terrible beauty is born.

 

That woman’s days were spent  

In ignorant good-will,

Her nights in argument

Until her voice grew shrill.

 

What voice more sweet than hers  

When, young and beautiful,  

She rode to harriers?

This man had kept a school  

And rode our wingèd horse;  

This other his helper and friend  

 

Was coming into his force;

He might have won fame in the end,  

So sensitive his nature seemed,  

So daring and sweet his thought.

 

This other man I had dreamed

A drunken, vainglorious lout.

He had done most bitter wrong

To some who are near my heart,  

Yet I number him in the song;

He, too, has resigned his part

In the casual comedy;

He, too, has been changed in his turn,  

Transformed utterly:

A terrible beauty is born.

 

Hearts with one purpose alone  

Through summer and winter seem  

Enchanted to a stone

To trouble the living stream.

 

The horse that comes from the road,  

The rider, the birds that range  

From cloud to tumbling cloud,  

Minute by minute they change;  

A shadow of cloud on the stream  

 

Changes minute by minute;  

A horse-hoof slides on the brim,  

And a horse plashes within it;  

The long-legged moor-hens dive,  

And hens to moor-cocks call;  

Minute by minute they live:  

The stone’s in the midst of all.

 

Too long a sacrifice

Can make a stone of the heart.  

O when may it suffice?

That is Heaven’s part, our part  

 

To murmur name upon name,  

As a mother names her child  

When sleep at last has come  

On limbs that had run wild.  

What is it but nightfall?

No, no, not night but death;  

Was it needless death after all?

 

For England may keep faith  

For all that is done and said.  

We know their dream; enough

To know they dreamed and are dead;  

And what if excess of love  

 

Bewildered them till they died?  

I write it out in a verse—

MacDonagh and MacBride  

And Connolly and Pearse

 

Now and in time to be,

Wherever green is worn,

Are changed, changed utterly:  

A terrible beauty is born.

3. “The Lake Isle of Innisfree” by W. B. Yeats

Originally published in 1893 as part of the collection entitled The Rose, W. B. Yeats’ “The Lake Isle of Innisfree” is a good illustration of his lyric poems during his early days as a poet.

Its three short quatrains tell about the speaker’s desire for the silence and tranquility of Innisfree, an uninhabited island in County Sligo, Ireland, near where the poet spent many summers as a child.The major theme in the poem is the conflict between nature and civilization.

In “The Lake Isle of Innisfree,” nature lets us discover the many aspects of life but civilization sets rules with which people must abide.

The poem shows us that what we value in our lives is frequently the exact opposite of what is brought with it by civilization.

 

“The Lake Isle of Innisfree” by W. B. Yeats

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

 

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

 

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

4. “Ochón! a Dhonncha” by Pádraig Ó hÉigeartaigh

Written in 1905 and published in 1906 during the Gaelic revival, the poem “Ochón! a Dhonncha” literally translates to English as “My Sorrow, Dhonncha!”

Irish poet Pádraig Ó hÉigeartaigh wrote the poem as a lament for his son who died of drowning at the age six in August of 1905.

Ó hÉigeartaigh hailed from Uíbh Ráthach, County Kerry. His poem “Ochón! a Dhonncha” holds a significant position in the literary canon of Irish poetry in the Irish language.

Irish publisher Thomas Kinsella and political activitist Patrick Pearse, both poets themselves, translated “Ochón! a Dhonncha” from Gaelic into English.

 

Ochón! a Dhonncha by Pádraig Ó hÉigeartaigh

Ochón! A Dhonncha, mo mhíle cogarach, fen bhfód so sínte;

fód an doichill ‘na luí ar do cholainn bhig, mo loma-sceimhle!

Dá mbeadh an codladh so i gCill na Dromad ort nó in uaigh san Iarthar

mo bhrón do bhogfadh, cé gur mhór mo dhochar, is ní bheinn id’ dhiaidh air.

 

Is feoite caite ‘tá na blátha scaipeadh ar do leaba chaoilse;

ba bhreá iad tamall ach thréig a dtaitneamh, níl snas ná brí iontu.

‘S tá an bláth ba ghile liom dár fhás ar ithir riamh ná a fhásfaidh choíche

ag dreo sa talamh, is go deo ní thacfaidh ag cur éirí croí orm.

 

Och, a chumannaigh! nár mhór an scrupall é an t-uisce dod’ luascadh,

gan neart id’ chuisleannaibh ná éinne i ngaire duit a thabharfadh fuarthan.

Scéal níor tugadh chugham ar bhaol mo linbh ná ar dhéine a chruatain –

ó! ‘s go raghainn go fonnmhar ar dhoimhin-lic Ifrinn chun tú a fhuascailt.

 

Tá an ré go dorcha, ní fhéadaim codladh, do shéan gach só mé.

Garbh doilbh liom an Ghaeilge oscailt – is olc an comhartha é.

Fuath liom sealad i gcomhluadar carad, bíonn a ngreann dom’ chiapadh.

Ón lá go bhfacasa go tláith ar an ngaineamh thú níor gheal an ghrian dom.

 

Och, mo mhairg! Cad a dhéanfad feasta ‘s an saol dom’ shuathadh,

gan do láimhín chailce mar leoithne i gcrannaibh ar mo mhalainn ghruama,

do bhéilín meala mar cheol na n-aingeal go binn im’ chluasaibh

á rá go cneasta liom: ‘Mo ghraidhn m’athair bocht, ná bíodh buairt ort!’

 

Ó mo chaithis é! is beag do cheapas-sa i dtráth mo dhóchais

ná beadh an leanbh so ‘na laoch mhear chalma i lár na fóirne,

a ghníomhartha gaisce ‘s a smaointe meanman ar son na Fódla –

ach an Té do dhealbhaigh de chré ar an dtalamh sinn, ní mar sin a d’ordaigh.

5. “Requiescat” by Oscar Wilde

“Requiescat” is a Latin word meaning “may he/she rest in peace.” Oscar Wilde’s short poem with this title is said to be one of the Irish writer’s most moving albeit understated pieces.

“Requiescat” speaks of a deceased loved one now six feet under the ground. Wilde’s own sister Isola, whom he was very close to, was the inspiration for this poem.

She died in 1867 at the age of nine. Her brother Oscar wrote “Requiescat” in 1881, as a touching elegy for her.

 

Requiescat by Oscar Wilde

Tread lightly, she is near

Under the snow,

Speak gently, she can hear

The daisies grow.

 

All her bright golden hair

Tarnished with rust,

She that was young and fair

Fallen to dust.

 

Lily-like, white as snow,

She hardly knew

She was a woman, so

Sweetly she grew.

 

Coffin-board, heavy stone,

Lie on her breast,

I vex my heart alone

She is at rest.

 

Peace, Peace, she cannot hear

Lyre or sonnet,

All my life’s buried here,

Heap earth upon it.

6. “Shancoduff” by Patrick Kavanagh

“Shancoduff” (“Old Black Hollow”) is Patrick Kavanagh’s first great poem. Kavanagh wrote it in 1934, using the voice of a simple farmer with a miserable farm that’s devoid of sunshine.

While Kavanagh’s “Shancoduff” can be regarded as a pastoral poem, it actually focuses on nature in general. In “Shancoduff,” the poet memorializes country living and connects it with bigger themes.

It explores the speaker’s awareness of the land, his sense of both attachment and detachment, and his connection to the earth.

 

Shancoduff by Patrick Kavanagh

My black hills have never seen the sun rising,

Eternally they look north towards Armagh.

Lot’s wife would not be salt if she had been

Incurious as my black hills that are happy

When dawn whitens Glassdrummond chapel.

 

My hills hoard the bright shillings of March

While the sun searches in every pocket.

They are my Alps and I have climbed the Matterhorn

With a sheaf of hay for three perishing calves

In the field under the Big Forth of Rocksavage.

 

The sleety winds fondle the rushy beards of Shancoduff

While the cattle-drovers sheltering in the Featherna Bush

Look up and say: “Who owns them hungry hills

That the water-hen and snipe must have forsaken?

A poet? Then by heavens he must be poor.”

I hear, and is my heart not badly shaken?

7. “The Last Rose of Summer” by Thomas Moore

“The Last Rose of Summer” was written in 1805 while Thomas Moore was spending time at Jenkinstown Castle in County Kilkenny, Ireland. The poem is said to have been inspired by a species of a China rose called Rosa Old Blush, which Moore had seen in the castle.

The poet was also a well-known singer in Ireland during his time, who also went by the name Anacreon Moore.

His poem “The Last Rose of Summer” has been set to “Aisling an Óigfhear” (English: “The Young Man’s Dream”), a traditional tune transcribed in 1792.

Both the poem and the tune were published in 1813 as part of Thomas Moore’s A Selection of Irish Melodies.

 

The Last Rose of Summer by Thomas Moore

‘Tis the last rose of Summer,

Left blooming alone;

All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone;

No flower of her kindred,

No rose-bud is nigh,

To reflect back her blushes

Or give sigh for sigh!

 

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,

To pine on the stem;

Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go sleep thou with them.

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o’er the bed

Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.

 

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,

And from Love’s shining circle

The gems drop away!

When true hearts lie withered,

And fond ones are flown,

Oh! who would inhabit

This bleak world alone?

8. “What Is the Word” by Samuel Beckett

Written by the celebrated Irish poet and writer Samuel Beckett, “What Is the Word” is vastly recognized as one of Beckett’s most popular and famous poems. In 1969, Beckett was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature.

He penned his “What Is the Word” poem in 1988, when he was 83 years old, during the final days of his life confined in a hospital in Paris, France.

Exploring his toils with finding the right words to use in order to express himself and his friend’s and his own illness, “What Is the Word” is Samuel Beckett’s last and final poem. He died in the French capital in December of 1989.

 

What Is the Word by Samuel Beckett

folly –

folly for to –

for to –

what is the word –

folly from this –

all this –

folly from all this –

given –

folly given all this –

seeing –

folly seeing all this –

this –

what is the word –

this this –

this this here –

all this this here –

folly given all this –

seeing –

folly seeing all this this here –

for to –

what is the word –

see –

glimpse –

seem to glimpse –

need to seem to glimpse –

folly for to need to seem to glimpse –

what –

what is the word –

and where –

folly for to need to seem to glimpse what where –

where –

what is the word –

there –

over there –

away over there –

afar –

afar away over there –

afaint –

afaint afar away over there what –

what –

what is the word –

seeing all this –

all this this –

all this this here –

folly for to see what –

glimpse –

seem to glimpse –

need to seem to glimpse –

afaint afar away over there what –

folly for to need to seem to glimpse afaint afar away over there what –

what –

what is the word –

what is the word

9. “The Deserted Village” by Oliver Goldsmith

Published in 1770, “The Deserted Village” is a poem written by Oliver Goldsmith to attack wealthy landlords who evicted the residents of their lands.

In this poem that contains various moral and political commentaries, Goldsmith questions the attitude of city people in their quest to possess material things and a perfect “paradise” for people to live in.

The poet also describes a once beautiful and busy land that has now been deserted, thanks to the greedy landowners.

10. “Digging” by Seamus Heaney

No list of the greatest Irish poems should exist without something from Seamus Heaney, one of Ireland’s most famous and well-loved poets.

In Heaney’s poem “Digging,” he writes about his relationship with his father who was from the working class.

It shows us the sense that by heeding his calling in poetry, the poet (who was a laborer’s son) is choosing a path that is quite the opposite of his father’s, and everyone in their clan before them.

In “Digging,” the poet aims to solve this seeming conflict by using his pen as his “digging” equipment, and to carry out a different sort of digging from that which his ancestors had executed.

“Digging” by Seamus Heaney was published in 1966 as part of the collection entitled Death of a Naturalist.

 

Digging by Seamus Heaney

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.