Verse > Padraic Colum, ed. > Anthology of Irish Verse > Index to First Lines
Padraic Colum (1881–1972).  Anthology of Irish Verse.  1922.
Index to First Lines
A bansha Peeler wint won night
Adieu to Belashanny, where I was bred and born
A fragrant prayer upon the air
Ah, had you seen the Coolun
Ah, where, Kincora! is Brian the Great?
Alas for the voyage, O High King of Heaven
All in the April evening
All that was beautiful and just
A pity beyond all telling
A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer
As I roved out on a May morning
As I was climbing Ardan Mór
A terrible and splendid trust
At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping
At the Yellow Bohereen
A voice on the winds
A woman had I seen, as I rode by
Because I used to shun
Be this the fate
Blithe the bright dawn found me
Bruadar and Smith and Glinn
By Memory inspired
Clear as air, the western waters
Come all ye lads and lassies and listen to me a while
Come buy my fine wares
Dark eyes, wonderful, strange and dear they shone
Did they dare, did they dare, to slay Eoghan Ruadh O’Neill?
Do you remember that night
Draw near to the tables, ye that wear the cloaks
Dream-fair, besides dream waters, it stands alone
Ebbing, the wave of the sea
Establish in some better way
Farewell, O Patrick Sarsfield, may luck be on your path!
Four sharp scythes sweeping—in concert keeping
From our hidden places
Get up, our Anna dear, from the weary spinning-wheel
Good neighbors, dear, be cautious
Grief on the death, it has blackened my heart
Had I a golden pound to spend
Happy the stark bare wood on the hill of Bree!
Have you been at Carrick, and saw my true-love there?
Heaven help your home to-night
He shall not hear the bittern cry
He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more of doubting
His songs were a little phrase
How hard is my fortune
How oft has the Banshee cried!
I am Raferty the Poet
I arise to-day
I dreamt last night of you, John-John
If sadly thinking, with spirits sinking
I go down from the hill in gladness
I grieve when I think on the dear happy days of my youth
I have not gathered gold
I hear an army charging upon the land
I heard the Poor Old Woman say
I hear the wind a-blowing
I invoke the land of Ireland
I know my Love by his way of walking
Iknow where I’m going
Ilie down with God, and may God lie down with me
I’ll be an otter, and I’ll let you swim
I met the Love-Talker one eve in the glen
In a quiet water’d land, a land of roses
In cavan of little lakes
In the scented bud of the morning—O
In the sleepy forest where the bluebells
In the youth of summer
I rise in the dawn, and I kneel and blow
I saw her once, one little while, and then no more
I saw the archangels in my apple-tree last night
I speak with a proud tongue of the people who were
I speak your name—a magic thing
Is there one desires to hear
It was by yonder thorn I saw the fairy host
It was early, early in the spring
I walked entranced
I walked through Ballinderry in the spring-time
I was milking in the meadow when I heard the Banshee Keening
I whispered my great sorrow
I will row my boat on Muckross Lake when the grey of the dove
July the first, of a morning clear
Let me thy properties explain
Like a sleeping swine upon the skyline
Long they pine in weary woe, the nobles of our land
Many are praised, and some are fair
May a messenger come from the High Place of God
May-day! delightful day!
Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning
My closest and dearest!
My grief! that they have laid you in the town
My heart is in woe
My heart lies light in my own breast
My love comes down from the mountain
My name it is Nell, right candid I tell
My sorrow that I am not by the little dún
Mysterious Night! When our first parent knew
Naked I saw thee
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note
Now, my son, is life for you
Now welcome, welcome, baby-boy, unto a mother’s fears
O blest unfabled Incense Tree
Oh, bad the march, the weary march
Oh, lovely Mary Donnelly, my joy, my only best
Oh, Paddy dear! and did ye hear
Oh! the French are on the say
Oh, then tell me, Shawn O’Farrall
Oh, were I at the moss-house where the birds do increase
Old lame Bridget doesn’t hear
O little green leaf on the bough, you hear the lark in morn
O my dark Rosaleen
O my land! O my love!
Once I was at a nobleman’s wedding
On Douglas Bridge I met a man
One that is ever kind said yesterday
On rainy days alone I dine
On the deck of Patrick Lynch’s boat
O to be blind!
Over here in England I’m helpin’ wi’ the hay
Over the dim blue hills
Over the wave-patterned sea-floor
O who are thou with that queenly brow
O woman of the piercing wail
Play was each, pleasure each
Pure white the shields their arms upbear
Put your head, darling, darling, darling
Righ shemus he has gone to France, and left his crown behind
Right rigorous, and so forth! Humbled
Ringleted youth of my love
See, though the oil be low more purely still and higher
Shall mine eyes behold thy glory, oh, my country?
She casts a spell, oh, casts a spell!
She lived beside the Anner
Should any enquire about Eirinn
Sleep a little, a little little
Sleep, gray brother of death
So endlessly the gray-lipped sea
Softly now the burn is rushing
Tears will betray all pride, but when ye mourn him
That angel whose charge was Eiré sang thus
The choirs of Heaven are tokened in a harp-string
The closing of an Autumn evening
The crooked paths go every way
The grand road from the mountain goes shining to the sea
The Green Hunters went ridin’
The house where I was born
The lambs on the green hills stood gazing on me
The lanky hank of a she in the inn over there
The mess-tent is full, and the glasses are set
The night before Larry was stretched
The old priest, Peter Gilligan
The purple heather is the cloak
There beams no light from thy hall to-night
There is a sheeling hidden in the wood
There’s a colleen fair as May
There’s a glad in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe
The stars up in the air
The sun of Ivera
The winter is past
The world hath conquered, the wind hath scattered like dust
They had a tale on which to gloat
They have slain you, Sean MacDermott
Think, the ragged turf-boy urges
This heart that flutters near my heart
This heritage to the race of kings
Thro’ grief and thro’ danger thy smile
To drift with every passion till my soul
To meath of the pastures
Up the airy mountain
We must pass like smoke or live within the spirit’s fire
When all were dreaming but Pastheen Power
When, like the early rose
When you were weary, roaming the wide world, over
Where glows the Irish hearth with peat
Where is my chief, my master, this bleak night, mavrone?
While going the road to sweet Athy
Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight?
Who rideth through the driving rain
With a whirl of thoughts oppress’d
With deep affection and recollection
Your sky is a hard and a dazzling blue



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