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Sweet Peggy round her car, sir, Has strings of ducks and geese, But the scores of hearts she slaughters By far outnumber these, While she among her poultry sits, Just like a turtle dove, Well worth the cage, I do engage, Of the blooming god of love! While she sits in her low-back car The lovers come near and far, And envy the chicken That Peggy is pickin', As she sits in the low-backed car. O I'd rather own that car, sir, With Peggy by my side, Than a coach and four, and gold galore, And a lady for my bride. O my heart would beat high At her glance and her sigh, Though it beat in a low-backed car!

Look out look out across the sea That girds thy emerald shore, A ship of war is bound for thee, But with no warlike store ; Her thunder sleeps 'tis Mercy's breath That wafts her o'er the sea ; She goes not forth to deal out death, But bears new life to thee! Blind dogs won't bark at the moon, Nor fiddles be played by the wind. What will you do, love, when waves divide us, And friends may chide us For being fond?

And I'll pray for thee on the stormy ocean, In deep devotion That's what I'll do! And I, abiding 'neath sultry skies, Should think other eyes Were as bright as thine? But that heart of thine should another share it I could not bear it! What would I do? Widow Machree, Faith it ruins your looks, that same dirty black gown, Och hone! How altered your air With that close cap you wear, 'Tis destroying your hair That should be flowing free ; Be no longer a churl Of its black silken curl, Och hone!

Widow Machree, now the summer is come, Och hone! Widow Machree, When everything smiles, should a beauty look glum? See, the birds go in pairs, And the rabbits and hares Why, even the bears Now in couples agree And the mute little fish, Though they can't spake, they wish Och hone! Widow Machree, To be poking the fire all alone is a sin, Och hone! Sure the shovel and tongs To each other belongs, While the kettle sings songs Full of family glee!

Yet alone with your cup, Like a hermit you sup, Och hone! And how do you know, with the comforts I've towld, Och hone! Widow Machree, But you're keeping some poor fellow out in the cowld? With such sins on your head Sure your peace would be fled, Could you sleep in your bed Without thinking to see Some ghost or some sprite That would wake you at night, Crying, " Och hone!

And, with my advice, faith, I wish you'd take me. You'd have me to desire Then to stir up the fire ; And sure Hope is no liar In whisp'ring to me That the ghosts would depart When you'd me near your heart, Och hone! Through woods they pass, till near the path a little streamlet roll'd, Still Time went on: Her form within the star-bright wave she view'd with fond delight ; She linger' d long and when she rose old Time was out of sight. With beating heart she eager sought the moonlit beach so fair ; But Time had pass'd ; her love was gone, and all was silence there.

Philomel, I've listened oft To thy lay, nigh weeping willow: Have you been, etc. If poets' prayers can banish cares, No cares shall come to Garnavilla ; Joy's bright rays shall gild her days, And dove-like peace perch on her pillow. Lovely maid of Garnavilla! Beauty, grace, and virtue wait On lovely Kate of Garnavilla.

Ease makes the sons of labor glad, Ease travels with the merry lad Who whistles by his wagon ; With me she prattles all day long, And choruses my simple song, And shares my foaming flagon. The lamp of life is soon burnt out ; Then who'd for riches make a rout, Except a doating blockhead? When Charon takes 'em both aboard, Of equal worth's the miser's hoard And spendthrift's empty pocket.

In such a scurvy world as this We must not hope for perfect bliss, And length of life together ; We have no moral liberty At will to live, at will to die, In fair or stormy weather. To a soul that's exhausted, or sterile, or dry, The juice of the grape may be wanted ; But mine is revived by a love-beaming eye, And with fancy's gay flow'rets enchanted. Yield the odors of love, for the vapors of wine, And Chloe's kind kiss for a bottle!

Adown the leafy lane we two Loitered and laughed, and laughed and loitered more, And talked of "gentle folk" and fairy lore. Till, one by one, from out the vaulted blue, The diamond stars came softly forth to view. Adown the leafy lane we two Saw figures flitting 'mong the quicken trees, Tall Finian forms, holding high revelries, And dogs, like Bran in sinew and in thew, Chased shadowy deer the vista'd woodlands through.

Adown the leafy lane no more We two go loitering in the Autumn eves, When merry reapers tie the golden sheaves, And kine come lowing to the cottage door, Where ready pails await the milky store. Astoireen, no, far, far away, Secluded lies that golden-memoried lane, Where ceaseless flows the bright and sparkling Main Through scenes of beauty to the storied Neagh Here by the Hudson's banks we two grow gray. I would speak a word with Father Green. And the gloomy chamber's chill and bare, With a vested Priest in a lonely chair. The youth has knelt to tell his sins.

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At "mea culpa" he beats his breast And in broken murmurs he speaks the rest. With fiery glare and with fury hoarse, Instead of blessing, he breathed a curse: Good people who live in peace and joy, Breathe a prayer and a tear for the Croppy boy.

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A gallant barque, she topped the wave, and fearless hearts were we, With guns and pikes and bayonets, a stalwart company. And by the old castle's foot we went, with three right hearty cheers, And waved aloft our green cockades, for we were Volunteers, Volunteers! Oh, we were in our prime that day, stout Irish Volun- teers. Our voices o'er the water struck the hollow mountains round Young Freedom, struggling at her birth, might utter such a sound.

Oh, were our hands but with our hearts in the trench at Bunker's Hill! Our ship cleared out for Quebec ; but thither little bent, Up some New England river, to run her keel we meant ; So we took a course due north as round the old Black Head we steered, Till Ireland bore southwest by south, and Fingal's rock appeared.

Then on the poop stood Webster, while the ship hung flutteringly, About to take her tack across the wide, wide ocean sea He pointed to th' Atlantic: Haul down these British badges, for Freedom rules the waves Rules the waves! A hundred days, with adverse wind, we kept our course afar, On the hundredth day came bearing down a British sloop of war. When they spied our flag they fired a gun, but as they neared us fast, Old Andrew Jackson went aloft and nailed it to the mast To the mast! A soldier was old Jackson, and he made our colors fast.

Patrick Henry was our captain, as brave as ever sailed. Then the boarders o'er the bulwarks, like shuttlecocks, we cast ; One close discharge from all our guns cut down the tapering mast.

George's Cross is trailing in the sea How d'ye like the greeting and the handsel of the Free? How like you, lads, the greeting of the men who will be free? With dropping fire we sang, " Good-night, and fare ye well, brave tars! So into Boston port we sailed, beneath the Stripes and Stars.

So off we went trippin' it, up an' down steppin' it Herself and Myself on the back of the doore ; Till Molly God bless her! Says Herself to Myself: I looked at my woman a song she was hummin' As old as the hills, so I gave her a pogue ; 'Twas like our old courtin', half sarious, half sportin'? When Molly was young, an" when hoops were in vogue.

When she'd say to Myself: On, ev'ry mountaineer, Strangers to flight and fear! Rush to the standard of dauntless Red Hugh! Bonnaught and gallowglass, Throng from each mountain pass ; On for old Erin, " O'Donnell Aboo 1 " Princely O'Neill to our aid is advancing With many a chieftain and warrior clan, A thousand proud steeds in his vanguard are prancing 'Neath the borderers brave from the banks of the Bann ; Many a heart shall quail Under its coat of mail ; Deeply the merciless foeman shall rue, When on his ear shall ring, Borne on the breezes' wing, Tir Council's dread war-cry, " O'Donnell Aboo!

Make the false Saxon feel Erin's avenging steel! Strike for your country, " O'Donnell Aboo! When queenly Slievenamon puts her verdant vesture on And smiles to hear the news the breezes bring ; When the sun begins to glance on the rivulets that dance Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring! Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring-time of the year, When the mists are rising from the lea, When the golden vale is smiling with a beauty all beguiling And the Sair goes crooning to the sea ; When the shadows and the showers only multiply the flowers That the lavish hand of May will fling ; When in unfrequented ways, fairy music softly plays Ah!

Brother, wert thou born of it! As thy shadow life doth stand Twining round its rosy band, Did an Irish mother's hand Guide thee in the morn of it? Did a father's first command Teach thee love or scorn of it? Thou who tread 'st its fertile breast, Dost thou feel a glow for it? Thou of all its charms possest, Living on its first and best, Art thou but a thankless guest Or a traitor foe for it, If thou lovest, vvhere's the test? Wilt thou strike a blow for it? Has the past no goading sting That can make thee rouse for it? Does thy land's reviving spring, Full of buds and blossoming, Fail to make thy cold heart cling, Breathing lover's vows for it?

Hast thou kept as thou shouldst keep Thy affections warm for it, Letting no cold feeling creep Like an ice-breath o'er the deep, Freezing to a stony sleep. Hopes the heart would form for it, Glories that like rainbows peep Through the darkening storm for it? Son of this down-trodden land, Aid us in the fight for it. We seek to make it great and grand, Its shipless bays, its naked strand, By canvas-swelling breezes fanned: Think, this dear old land is thine, And thou a traitor slave of it: Think how the Switzer leads his kine, When pale the evening star doth shine ; His song has home in every line, Freedom in every stave of it ; Think how the German loves his Rhine!

And worships every wave of it! Our own dear land is bright as theirs, But oh! So not alone beside that Bay of beauty That guards the portals of his native town, Where, like two watchful sentinels on duty, Howth and Killiney from their heights looked down, But wheresoe'er the exiled race hath drifted, By what far sea, what mighty stream beside, There shall to-day the poet's name be lifted, And Moore proclaimed its glory and its pride. They are gasping for existence where the streams of life are flowing, And they perish of the plague where the breeze of health is blowing!

Is it right, is it fair, That we perish of despair In this land, on this soil Where our destiny is set, Which we cultured with our toil, And watered with our sweat? Is this land preordained, For the present and the past And the future, to be chained, To be ravaged, to be drained, To be robbed, to be spoiled, To be hushed, to be whipt, Its soaring pinions dipt, And its every effort foiled?

Do our numbers multiply But to perish and to die? Is this all our destiny below, That our bodies, as they rot, May fertilize the spot Where the harvest of the stranger grow? If this be, indeed, our fate, Far, far better now, though late, That we seek some other land and try some other zone ; The coldest, bleakest shore Will surely yield us more Than the storehouse of the stranger that we dare not call our own.

Kindly brothers of the East, Thou great tiaraed priest, Thou sanctified Rienzi of Rome and of the earth, O thou who bear'st control Over golden Istambol Who felt for our misfortunes and helped us in our dearth, Turn here your wondering eyes, Call your wisest of the wise, Your muftis and your ministers, your men of deepest lore; Let the sagest of your sages Ope our island's mystic pages, And explain unto your highness the wonders of our shore. Waiting, sad, dejected, weary, Waiting for the May.

Spring goes by with wasted warnings, Moonlit evenings, sun -bright mornings, Summer comes, yet dark and dreary Life still ebbs away. Man is ever weary, weary, Waiting for the May. But alas for our hopes! Your barrel will soon grow all yellow with rust, That barrel whose radiance I used to admire ; But be not ashamed, though down in the dust ; 'Twas not my old rifle, but we who hung fire. Yet call us not cowards: It may have but needed one brave upward bound, Our limbs were too feeble to compass it then ; For you know that to lie very long on the ground, Corrodes the best metal in rifles or men.

Yet our masters, all crushed as we are, should beware! A bright day is coming, old rifle of mine, And trust me its morning ere long will have birth! God never made nations in serfdom to pine, Men never made rifles to lie in the earth. The summons will come, we shall answer its call, Prepared for our country to do or to die. So till that bright moment, for you and for all, Dear trusty old rifle, I bid you good-bye. MCCARTHY i ARCADIAN HIS surely is a happy lot who dwells In pleasant pastures, far removed from town, Whose life from sunrise till the sun goes down, The same unchanging peaceful story tells ; Deep in the rustic lore of fleecy fells ; Proud of the harvest he himself has sown, The spreading meadows that his hands have mown, And the great cattle that he buys and sells, For whom the placid night brings slumbers sweet, Stirred by no sound of any dancing feet, Lit by no light of any laughing eyes, Whose quiet days unmoved by vain desire, From summer's sunlight to the winter's fire, Creep slowly on, until at last he dies.

Girl of the red mouth, Love me 1 'Tis by its curve, I know, Love fashioneth his bow, And bends it ah, even so! Oh, girl of the red mouth, love me! Girl of the blue eye, Love me! Girl of the dew eye, Love me! Worlds hang for lamps on high ; And thought's world lives in thy Lustrous and tender eye Oh, girl of the blue eye, love me! Girl of the swan's neck, Love rne! Girl of the swan's neck, Love me! As a marble Greek doth grow To his steed's back of snow, Thy white neck sits thy shoulder so, Oh, girl of the swan's neck, love me! Girl of the sweet voice, Love me!

Like the echo of a bell, Like the bubbling of a well Sweeter! Love within doth dwell, Oh, girl of the low voice, love me! THE IRISH EXILE WHEN round the festive Christmas board, or by the Christmas hearth, That glorious mingled draught is poured, wine, melody, and mirth When friends long absent tell, low-toned, their joys and sorrows o'er, And hand grasps hand, and eyelids fill, and lips meet lips once more Oh, in that hour 'twere kindly done, some woman's voice would say "Forget not those who're sad to-night poor exiles, far away.

It was oh ; how the heart will cheat ; because they thought, beyond His glowing couch lay that Green Isle of which their hearts were fond ; And fancy brought old scenes of home into each well- ing eye, And through each breast poured many a thought that filled it like a sigh. And then the mother blest her son, the lover blest the maid, And then the soldier was a child, and wept the whilst he prayed, And then the student's pallid cheek flushed red as summer rose, And patriot souls forgot their grief to weep for Erin's woes.

And, oh, but then warm vows were breathed, that come what might or may, They'd right the suffering isle they loved those exiles, far away. Drank "Erin slantha gal go bragh," those exiles, far away. Then oh ; to hear the sweet old strains of Irish music rise, Like memories of home, beneath far foreign skies, Beneath the spreading calabash, beneath the trellised vine, The bright Italian myrtle bower, or dark Canadian pine Oh!

No shroud, but glory, wrapt them round ; nor prayer, nor tear had they, Save the wandering winds and the heavy clouds poor exiles, far away. Dundalk, on thy shore is often heard the roar of the boiling sea, But wilder far is the madd'ning shout that now is heard by thee ; The voice of the soldier's rage when the foe with the prize is fled, And the bursting yell of pale despair when hope itself is dead ; Then o'er that warrior-band in wrath a deathlike silence pass'd As they gazed when Sitrick's sails unfurl'd swell'd proudly to the blast.

And must he go? Shall Monomia's king serve in a hostile land? Oh, for one ship! A sail a sail is seen away where the skies the waters bound. There's a pause anew each searching eye is on that sail afar ; Again the cheer rings loud and high 'tis Monomia's ship of war. And well they come to free their king from robbers of the main ; His sceptre ne'er a tyrant's rod, nor his rule a tyrant's chain.

And onward towards the foe they steer a sight sub- limely grand War's stern array hath there an awe it never knows on land. Soon many a sword salutes the sun, drawn in that deadly strife, From many a heart that bounded high soon flows the tide of life.

The king the king to free the king bold Fionn hews his way, And woe to him who meets his sword on this eventful day. The king is won ; but the lion heart that sets his mas- ter free Is deeply pierced as he cuts the cord his life-blood dyes the sea. Brave Fionn's head is held on high, the Irish to appal, But they rush more fiercely to the fight, led on by young Fingall. Fingall Fingall, what dread resolve now seizes on your mind? All, all is done that valor can give way, and be re- signed.

Swiftly he rush'd, as one possess'd, 'mid all that hos- tile train, Seizing their king, with one wild bound, plung'd both into the main, Then sudden, as if by frenzy sped, two Irish chiefs as brave, The king's two brothers as quickly seized, and dash'd into the wave.

And Freedom smiled when she saw the deed, she knew the day was won ; But with that smile came a bitter tear she had lost her favorite son. With terror struck, the astonish'd Danes at every point gave way, And few were left to tell the tale of that destructive fray. There was joy that week o'er all the land, from Bann to Shannon's shore ; For they said those Danish chiefs will come to spoil our homes no more.

But ere the song of mirth went round, or toast in hut or hall, A tear was shed, and a prayer was said, for Fionn and Fingall. Can you see any sign? Is the morning light near? You are young, my brave boy ; thanks, thanks, for your hand, Help me up, till I get a last glimpse of the land Thank God, 'tis the sun that now reddens the sky, I shall see I shall see my own Land ere I die.

Green, green was the shore, though the year was near done High and haughty the capes the white surf dashed upon A gray ruined convent was down by the strand, And the sheep fed afar, on the hills of the land! One tarrieth sad and seriously Beneath the roof that mine should be ; One sitteth sibyl-like, by the sea, Chanting a grave song mournfully.

A little life I have not seen Lies by the heart that mine hath been j A cypress wreath darkles now, I ween, Upon the brow of my love in green. Ere we were born my first love was, My sires were heirs to her holy cause ; And she yet shall sit in the world's applause, A mother of men and blessed laws. I hope and strive the while I sigh, For I know my first love cannot die: From the chain of woes that loom so high Her reign shall reach to eternity. George in In- dian vales, Or spread beneath the nightless North experimental sails One in name and in fame Are the sea-divided Gaels.

One in name and in fame Are the sea-divided Gaels. In Northern Spain and Italy our brethren also dwell And brave are the traditions of their fathers that they tell: The Eagle or the Crescent in the dawn of history pales Before the advancing banners of the great Rome-con- quering Gaels. A greeting and a promise unto them all we send: Their character our charter is, their glory is our end - Their friend shall be our friend, our foe whoe'er assails The glory or the story of the sea-divided Gaels. Made morning and eclipse ; Bride was their queen of song, and unto her They prayed with fire-touched lips.

Great were their deeds, their passions, and their sports ; With clay and stone They piled on strath and shore those mystic forts, Not yet o'erthrovvn ; On cairn-crowned hills they held their council-courts ; While youths alone, With giant dogs, explored the elk resorts, And brought them down. Of these was Fin, the father of the Bard, Whose ancient song Over the clamor of all change is heard, Sweet-voiced and strong. Fin once o'ertook Granee, the golden-haired, The fleet and young ; From her the lovely, and from him the feared, The primal poet sprung. The Druid's altar and the Druid's creed We scarce can trace.

There is not left an undisputed deed Of all your race, Save your majestic song, which hath their speed, And strength, and grace; In that sole song, they live and love, and bleed It bears them on thro" space. One pupil of the past, as mighty souled As in the prime, Were the fond, fair, and beautiful, and bold They, of your song sublime! Although a righteous Heaven decrees ' 'Twixt us and Erin stormy seas 1 These lines were written in America.

And thus it comes that even I, Though weakly and unworthily, Am moved by grief To join the melancholy throng And chant the sad entombing song Above the Chief. I would not do the dead a wrong: If graves could yield a growth of song Like flowers of May, Then Mangan from the tomb might raise One of his old resurgent lays But, well-a-day! He, close beside his early friend, By the stark shepherd safely penned, Sleeps out the night ; So his weird numbers never more The sorrow of the isle shall pour, In tones of might.

Too few, too few, among our great, In camp or cloister, Church or State, Wrought as he wrought ; Too few, of all the brave we trace Among the champions of our race, Gave us his thought. He toiled to make our story stand, As from Time's reverent, Runic hand It came undecked By fancies false ; erect, alone, The monumental Arctic stone Of ages wrecked. O'er all low limits still his mind Soared catholic and unconfined, From malice free. Truth was his solitary test, His star, his chart, his east, his west j Nor is there aught In text, in ocean, or in mine, Of greater worth, or more divine Than this he sought.

With gentle hand he rectified The errors of old bardic pride, And set aright The story of our devious past. And left it, as it now must last, Full in the light. He lived apart, wrapt up in many plans ; He wooed not women, tasted not of wine; He shunned the sports and councils of the clans ; Nor ever knelt at a frequented shrine. His orisons were old poetic ranns Which the new Olamhs deem'd an evil sign ; To most he seemed one of those Pagan Khans Whose mystic vigor knows no cold decline.

He was the builder of the wondrous Towers, Which, -tall and straight and exquisitely round, Rise monumental round this isle of ours, Index-like, marking spots of holy ground. In glooming silent glens, in lowland bowers, On river banks, these Cloichteachs old abound, Where Art, enraptured, meditates long hours And Science ponders, wondering and spell-bound.

Lo, wheresoe'er these pillar-towers aspire, Heroes and holy men repose below ; The bones of some, gleaned from a pagan pyre, Others in armor lie, as for a foe; It was the mighty Master's life-desire To chronicle his great ancestors so; What holier duty, what achievement higher Remains to us, than this he thus doth show?

Doubt overhangs his fate, and faith, and birth: His works alone attest his life and love, They are the only witnesses he hath, All else Egyptian darkness covers o'er. Men called him Gobban Saor, and many a tale Yet lingers in the byways of the land, Of how he cleft the rock, and down the vale Led the bright river, childlike, in his hand ; Of how on giant ships he spread great sail And many marvels else, by him first planned, And tho' these legends fail, in Innisfail His name and Towers for centuries still shall stand. The blue lake of Devenish! I pray, if God but grant the grace, The blue lake of DevenisK , To win that dear enchanted place, Where spring bides in the apple-blossom, Beauty of Feithfailge's face.

I vex the purple dark with sighs The blue lake of Devenish Across the world my sorrow flies, A-hunger for the gray and wistful Beauty of Feithfailge's eyes. I wander far, yet find no rest The blue lake of Devenish Sore-haunted ever, and oppressed By dreams that pillow on the snow-white Beauty of Feithfailge's breast. The blue lake of Devenish, I would the red gold were my part, The blue lake of Devenish Ripe fields, and herds upon Drimart, That by my fire might shine the lovelit Beauty of Feithfailge's heart.

T It lies beyond the night and day, Over shadowy hill, and moorland wide, And whoso enters casts care away, And wistful longings unsatisfied. There are sweet white women, a radiant throng, Swaying like flowers in a scented wind: But between us the veil of earth is strong, And my eyes to their luring eyes are blind. A blossom of fire is each beauteous bird, Scarlet and gold on melodious wings, And never so haunting a strain was heard From royal harp in the Hall of Kings. The oak spreads mighty beneath the sun In a wonderful dazzle of moonlight green O would I might hasten from tasks undone, And journey whither no grief hath been!

Were I past the mountains of opal flame, I would seek a couch of the king-fern brown, And when from its seed glad slumber came, A flock of rare dreams would flutter down. But I move without in an endless fret, While somewhere beyond earth's brink, afar, Forgotten of men, in a rose-rim set, I-Breasil shines like a beckoning star. Love waits us there not proud, nor kingly clad, Oh! No barbed arrow doth he hold for us But outstretched hands, divine and generous. Would all sad wayfarers were welcomed thus! Is it a sail you wait, Shiela? T ea, from the Wester- ing sun. Shall it bring joy or sorrow?

Oh, joy sadly won. Shall it bring peace or conflict? The pibroch in the glen And the flash and crash of battle round a host of fighting men. Green spears of Hope rise round you like grass blades after drouth, And there blows a white wind from the East, a red wind from the South, A brown wind from the West, Agra, a brown wind from the West But the black, black wind from the Northern hills, how can you love it best? What matters storm to me Now I know the fairy sleep must break and set the sleepers free! Long is our hunger for your voice the hour is draw- ing near O Dark Rose of our Passion!

The brown wind of Connacht, Still keening in the dawn The brown wind of Connacht For my true love that's gone. Oh, cold green wave of danger, Drift him a restful sleep O'er his young black head on its lowly bed, While his weary wake I keep. My Heart's Desire, my Treasure, our wooing time was brief, From the misty dawns of April till the fading of the leaf, From the first clear cuckoo calling Till the harvest gold was falling, And my store of joy was garnered at the binding of the sheaf. There came another lover, more swift than I, more strong, He bore away my little love in middle of her song ; Silent, ah me!

So in his House of Quiet she keeps her troth for aye With him, the stronger lover, until the Judgment Day: The purple mountains guard her, the valley folds her in, In dreams I see her walking with angels cleansed of sin. They are going, shy-eyed colleens and lads so straight and tall, From the purple peaks of Kerry, from the crags of wild Imaal, From the greening plains of Mayo and the glens of Donegal. They are leaving pleasant places, shores with snowy sands outspread ; Blue and lonely lakes a-stirring when the wind stirs overhead ; Tender living hearts that love them, and the graves of kindred dead.

They shall carry to the distant land a tear-drop in the eye, And some shall go uncomforted their days an end- less sigh For Kathaleen Ni Houlihan's sad face, until they die.

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So some must wander to the East, and some must wander West ; Some seek the white wastes of the North, and some a Southern nest: Yet never shall they sleep so sweet as on your mother breast. The whip of hunger scourged them from the glens and quiet moors, But there's a hunger of the heart that plenty never cures ; And they shall pine to walk again the rough road that is yours.

Within the city streets, hot, hurried, full of care, A sudden dream shall bring them a whiff of Irish air A cool air, faintly-scented, blown soft from other- where. Oh, the cabins long-deserted. Oh, the dear and kindly voices! Now their hearts are fain to ache. They are going, going, going, and we cannot bid them stay; The fields are now the strangers' where the strangers' cattle stray.

An' thinkin' long's the weary work, When I must spin, and spin, To drive the fearsome fancies out An' hold the hopeful in! Ah, sure my lad is far away! My lad who left our glen When from the soul of Ireland came A call for fightin' men ; I miss his gray eyes glancin' bright, I miss his liltin' song, And that is why, the lonesome day, I'm always thinkin' long. Full of the music they gathered at morn On your high heather hills from the lark on the wing, From the blackbird at eve on the blossoming thorn, From the little green linnet whose plaining they sing, And the joy and the hope in the heart of the spring, O Turlough MacSweeney!

Play us our Eire's most sorrowful songs, As she sits by her reeds near the wash of the wave, That the coldest may thrill at the count of her wrongs, That the sword may flash forth from the scabbard to save, And the wide land awake at the wrath of the brave, O Turlough MacSweeney!

Play as they played in that rapturous hour When the clans heard in gladness his young fiery call Who burst from the gloom of the Sassenach tower, And sped to the welcome in dear Donegal, Then on to his hailing as chieftain of all O Turlough MacSweeney! Play as they played, when, a trumpet of war, His voice for the rally, pealed up to the blue, And the Kerns from the hills and the glens and the scaur Marched after the banner of conquering Hugh Led into the fray by a piper like you, O Turlough MacSweeney!

And surely no note of such music shall fail, Wherever the speech of our Eire is heard, To foster the hope of the passionate Gael, To fan the old hatred, relentless when stirred, To strengthen our souls for the strife to be dared, O Turlough MacSweeney! May your pipes, silver-tongued, clear and sweet in their crooning, Keep the magic they captured at dawning and even From the blackbird at home, and the lark on its journey, From the thrush on its spray, and the little green linnet.

But whin and flower and bonny bird, And each sweet melody, But adds an ache to my sore heart, A stor, Gra geal mochree! For, whins may flame and flowers may bloom, And sun flood hill and plain, And birds on every bough may sing " Sweet Summer's come again ; " Yet I shall shiver for the chill That holds the heart of me My Sun has set, my Summer fled, A stor, Gra geal mochree! And all the world has weary grown, For my sad heart and me: Yet patiently through empty years My sorrow would I dree, Did you but look your love once more, A stor, Gra geal mochree!

The grass waves o'er your dear black head, The cold clay wraps you round, It's lonesome for you lying there So deep in the dark ground, Where my arms can never reach you, Where you can never see The blinding love that fills my eyes, A stor, Gra geal mochree! And soon glad Dawn shall be, When lips will meet and souls will greet, A stor, Gra geal mochree! Inver Bay on a harvest day, And the sun goin' down the sky ; When with many's a laugh the boats put off, And many's the merry cry! Till we reach away where the herrin's play, There's neither slack nor slow ; As quick as thought our nets are shot, On the thwarts, then we lie low, And many's the stave rolls over the wave, And many's the yarn is told ; The sea all white, with silver bright, The air all filled with gold 1 Mo croidhe, pronounced tnachree, my heart.

O'er Norroway it's give me sway, With a palace wide and broad, With silks and wine and jewels fine, And hundreds at my nod In robes all gay, with golden spray It's dhress me you might do; But I'd loathe your wine, your jewels fine, Your gold and your kingdom too ; For a ragged coat, in Donal's boat, It's I'd lament and sigh, And Inver Bay of a harvest day, With the sun goin' down the sky. Our bravest sons, our stoutest ones Have rushed across the say, And God He knows each wind that blows Is waftin' more away!

It's sore distress does them hard press, They dhrop their heads and go Oh, Sorrow's Queen, it's you has seen Their hearts big swelled with woe! Though gold they make, their hearts they break, And they sit them down and cry, For Inver Bay on a harvest day, And the sun goin' down the sky ; Oh! Inver Bay on a harvest day, And the sun goin' down the sky ; When with many's the laugh the boats put off, And many's the merry cry! A rarer bay, a fairer bay, A sweeter bay nor thee! They joined, heart and hand, in one struggle, and gave Their young blood to maintain it ; while others, Who urged on the strife, soon abandoned the brave, But they stood by their country like brothers!

When Freedom, by treachery foully betrayed, Found the friends fall away who had plighted Their faith to her cause, still one spirit prevailed In the hearts of the brothers united They clung to that cause in the midst of despair, When the tempest had terrified others ; And, like comrades in danger, endeared, as they were, They went down with the wreck like true brothers!

Cool, calm and clear, the lucid flood In which its tempering work was done, As calm, as clear, as cool of mood, Be thou whene'er it sees the sun: For country's claim, at honor's call, For outraged friend, insulted maid, At mercy's voice to bid it fall, I give my soldier-boy a blade. The eye which marked its peerless edge, The hand that weighed its balanced poise, Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge, Are gone with all their flame and noise And still the gleaming sword remains ; So, when in dust I low am laid, Remember by those heart-felt strains, I gave my soldier-boy a blade.

Inscription on an old bell. There's a bell in Moscow, While on tower and kiosk, O! He was a schoolmaster, like most of his associates. Wild-birds warbled in their bower Songs passing soft and sweet, And brilliant hues adorned each flower That bloomed beneath my feet. All sickness, feebleness, and pain, The wounded heart and tortured brain, W'ould vanish, ne'er to come again, In that serene retreat!

The Boy drew near me, smiled, and laughed, And from his quiver drew A delicately pointed shaft Whose mission I well knew. But that bright maiden raised her hand, And in a tone of high command Exclaimed, "Forbear! A band of warriors, great and brave, Are coming o'er the ocean wave ; And you shall hold the lands God gave Your sires, both hill and vale. Among them was Aldfrid, King of Northumbria, who was trained in all the learning of Erin, and who always aided and abetted the Irish in England. On leav- ing Ireland he composed a poem in the Irish language and meter, which Mangan translated " more closely than was his wont," as Mr.

I traveled its fruitful provinces round, And in every one of the five I found, Alike in church and in palace hall, Abundant apparel, and food for all. Gold and silver I found in money; Plenty of wheat and plenty of honey ; I found God's people rich in pity, Found many a feast, and many a city. I found in each great church moreo'er, Whether on island or on shore, Piety, learning, fond affection, Holy welcome and kind protection. I found in Munster, unfettered of any, Kings and queens and poets a many, Poets well-skilled in music and measure, Prosperous doings, mirth and pleasure.

I found in Connaught the just, redundance Of riches, milk in lavish abundance ; Hospitality, vigor, fame, In Cruachan's land of heroic name. I found in Ulster from hill to glen, Hardy warriors, resolute men ; Beauty that bloomed when youth was gone, And strength transmitted from sire to son. I found besides from Ara to Glea In the broad rich country of Ossorie, Sweet fruits, good laws for all and each, Great chess-players, men of truthful speech.

I found in Meath's fair principality, Virtue, vigor, and hospitality ; Candor, joyfulness, bravery, purity Ireland's bulwark and security. I found strict morals in age and youth, I found historians recording truth ; The things I sing of in verse unsmooth I found them all I have written sooth. The priests are on the ocean green, They march along the deep. Over hills and through dales Have I roamed for your sake ; All yesterday I sailed with sails On river and on lake.

The Erne, at its highest flood, I dashed across unseen, For there was lightning in my blood, My dark Rosaleen! All day long, in unrest, To and fro do I move. The very soul within my breast Is wasted for you, love! The heart in my bosom faints To think of you, my Queen, My life of life, my saint of saints, My dark Rosaleen! To hear your sweet and sad complaints, My dark Rosaleen! Woe and pain, pain and woe, Are my lot, night and noon, To see your bright face clouded so, Like to the mournful moon.

Over dews, over sands, Will I fly for your weal: Your holy delicate white hands Shall girdle me with steel. At home in your emerald bowers, From morning's dawn till e'en, You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers, My dark Rosaleen! You'll think of me through daylight's hours, My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, My dark Rosaleen!

I could scale the blue air, I could plow the high hills, Oh! I could kneel all night in prayer, To heal your many ills! And one beamy smile from you Would float like light between My toils and me, my own, my true, My dark Rosaleen! Would give me life and soul anew, A second life, a soul anew, My dark Rosaleen! It is gone in the wind. Like the swift shadows of Noon, like the dreams of the blind, Vanish the glories and pomps of the earth in the wind.

Wisdom will teach thee that nothing can tarry behind ; 1 Mangan describes this as a translation from the German of Riickert. It has, however, no German original the phrase " gone in the wind " being practically all that it possesses in common with a certain poem of Riickert's, and there the phrase is used differently. All that the genius of man hath achieved or designed Waits but its hour to be dealt with as dust by the wind. IV Say, what is Pleasure!

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A phantom, a mask undefined. An almond, whereof we can pierce but the rind. Firmans that Fortune hath signed, Only to glitter and pass on the wings of the wind. Who is the Fortunate? He who in anguish hath pined! He shall rejoice when his relics are dust in the wind! Woe to the seekers on earth for what none ever find! They and their trust shall be scattered like leaves on the wind. Happy in death are they only whose hearts have con- signed All Earth's affections and longings and cares to the wind.

VIII Pity, thou, reader! Raving of glory, like me, for the garlands I bind Garlands of Song are but gathered, and strewn in the wind. I, Abul-Namez, must rest ; for my fire hath declined, And I hear voices from Hades like bells on the wind. Think not her a ghastly hag, too hideous to be seen ; Call her not unseemly names, our matchless Kathaleen ; Young she is, and fair she is, and would be crowned a queen, Were the king's son at home here with Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan.

Sweet and mild would look her face Oh! Sore disgrace it is to see the Arbitress of thrones Vassal to a Saxoneen of cold and sapless bones! Let us pray to him who holds life's issues in his hands, Him who formed the mighty globe, with all its thou- sand lands: Girding them with sea and mountains, rivers deep, and strands, To cast a look of pity upon Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan. O where are the princes and nobles that sate At the feasts in thy halls, and drank the red wine?

O whither, thou hospitable! O where are the Dalcassians of the golden swords? The decease of Mac-Liag is recorded in the " Annals of the Four Masters," as having taken place in A great number of his poems are still in existence, but none of them has obtained a popularity so widely extended as his " Lament. And where is Donogh, King Brian's worthy son? And where is Conaing, the beautiful chief? And Kian and Core?

They have left me this night alone with my grief! And where are the chiefs with whom Brian went forth? The sons never-vanquished of Evin the brave, The great King of Osnacht, renowned for his worth, And the hosts of Baskinn from the western wave? O where is Duvlann of the swift-footed steeds? And where is Kian who was son of Molloy? And where is King Lonergan, the fame of whose deeds In the red battle-fields no time can destroy? And where is that youth of majestic height, The faith-keeping Prince of the Scots?

Even he As wide as his fame was, as great was his might, Was tributary, Kinkora, to thee! They are gone, those heroes of royal birth Who plundered no churches, and broke no trust ; 'Tis weary for me to be living on earth When they, O Kinkora, lie low in the dust.

Thither often, to that palace whose beauty is fled, Came Brian to ask me, and I went for his sake.

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At Tarah to-day I put and 1 place The virtue that dwells in the seraphim's love, And the virtue and grace That are in the obedience And unshaken allegiance Of all the archangels and angels above, And in the hope of the resurrection To everlasting reward and election, And in the prayers of the fathers of old, And in the truths the prophets foretold, And in the Apostles' manifold preachings, And in the confessors' faith and teachings ; And in the purity ever dwelling Within the immaculate Virgin's breast, And in the actions bright and excelling Of all good men, the just and the blest.

At Tarah to-day May God be my stay! May the strength of God now nerve me! May the power of God preserve me! May God the Almighty be near me! May God the Almighty espy me! May God the Almighty hear me! May God give me eloquent speech! May the arm of God protect me! May the wisdom of God direct me! May God give me power to teach and to preach! May the shield of God defend me! May the host of God attend me, And ward me, And guard me Against the wiles of demons and devils, Against the temptations of vices and evils, Against the bad passions and wrathful will Of the reckless mind and the wicked heart, Against every man who designs me ill, Whether leagued with others or plotting apart!

Be those my defenders, My guards against every ban And spell of smiths, and Druids, and women ; In fine against every knowledge that renders The light Heaven sends us dim in The spirit and soul of man! May Christ, I pray, Protect me to-day Against poison and fire, Against drowning and wounding ; That so, in His grace abounding, I may earn the preacher's hire! Christ as a light Illumine and guide me! Christ as a shield o'ershadow and cover me!

Christ be under me! Christ be over me! Christ be beside me, On left hand and right! Christ be before me, behind me, about me ; Christ this day be within and without me! In all who draw near me, Or see me or hear me! At Tarah to-day, in this awful hour, I call on the Holy Trinity! Salvation dwells with the Lord, With Christ, the omnipotent word. From generation to generation Grant us, O Lord, Thy grace and salvation!

Lost Siberia doth reveal Only blight and death. Blight and death alone. Night is interblent with Day. In Siberia's wastes alway The blood blackens, the heart pines. Nought is felt but dullest pain, Pain acute, yet dead ; Pain as in a dream, When years go by Funeral-paced, yet fugitive When man lives and doth not live Doth not live nor die. In Siberia's wastes Are sands and rocks. Nothing blooms of green or soft, But the snowpeaks rise aloft And the gaunt ice-blocks.

And the exile there Is one with those; They are part, and he is part, For the sands are in his heart, And the killing snows. And such doom each drees, Till, hunger-gnawn And cold-slain, he at length sinks there Yet scarce more a corpse than ere His last dreath was drawn. Up from each green leafy bosk and hollow Rose the blackbird's pleasant lay, And the soft cuckoo was sure to follow 'Twas the Dawning of the Day.

Through the perfumed air the golden Bees flew reund me, Bright fish dazzled from the sea; Till medreamt some fairy olden World spell-bound me In a trance of witcherie. Steeds pranced round anon with stateliest hous- ings, Bearing riders prankt in rich array, Like flushed revelers after wine carousings 'Twas the Dawning of the Day. Then a strain of song was chanted, And the lightly Floating sea-nymphs drew anear. Then again the shore seemed haunted By hosts brightly Clad, and wielding shield and spear! The warm skies were blush- ing In the Dawning of the Day.

Cities girt with glorious gardens, Whose immortal Habitants in robes of light Stood, methought, as angel-wardens Nigh each portal, Now arose to daze my sight. The grave, the grave is the true liberator! Griefs chase one another Around the earth's dome: In the arms of the mother Alone is our home. Woo pleasure, ye triflers! The thoughtful are wiser: Are his labors requited by slander and rancor? The grave, the grave is his sure bower-anchor! To gaze on the faces Of lost ones anew, To lock in embraces The loved and the true, Were a rapture to make even Paradise brighter.

The grave, the grave is the great reuniter,! Crown the corpse then with laurels, The conqueror's wreath, Make joyous with carols The chamber of death, And welcome the victor with cymbal and psalter The grave, the grave is the only exalter! Tell thou the world, when my bones lie whitening Amid the last homes of youth and eld, That there once was one whose veins ran lightning No eye beheld.

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, Flowed like a rill in the morning beam, Perchance not deep, but intense and rapid A mountain stream.

Tell how the Nameless, condemned 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 Betrayed in friendship, befooled in love, With spirit shipwrecked, and young hopes blasted He still, still strove. And he fell far through that pit abysmal, The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns, And pawned his soul for the Devil's dismal Stock of returns.

But yet redeemed it in days of darkness, And shapes and signs of the final wrath, When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness, Stood in 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? 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. For back to the past, though the thought bnngs woe My memory ever glides To the old, old time, long, long ago, The time of the Barmecides! To the old, old time, long, long ago, The time of the Barmecides!

Then youth was mine, and a fierce wild will And an iron arm in war, And a fleet foot high upon Ishkar's hill, When the watch-lights glimmered afar, And a barb as fiery as any I know That Khoord or Beddaween rides, Ere my friends lay low long, long ago, In the time of the Barmecides ; Ere my friends lay low long, long ago, In the time of the Barmecides. One golden goblet illumed my board, One silver dish was there ; At hand my tried Karamanian sword Lay always bright and bare.

For those were the days when the angry blow Supplanted the word tha" chides When hearts could glow long, long ago, In the time of the Barmecides ; When hearts could glow long, long ago, In the time of the Barmecides. I see rich Bagdad once again, With its turrets of Moorish mold, And the Kailif 's twice five hundred men Whose binishes flamed with gold ; I call up many a gorgeous show Which the Pall of Oblivion hides Afl passed like snow, long, long ago, With the time of the Barmecides ; All passed like snow, long, long ago, With the time of the Barmecides.

But mine eye is dim, and my beard is gray, And I bend with the weight of years May I soon go down to the House of Clay, Where slumber my Youth's compeers! For with them and the Past, though the thought wakes woe, My memory ever abides ; And I mourn for the times gone long ago For the times of the Barmecides! I mourn for the times gone long ago, For the times of the Barmecides. Oh, don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you may have cattle. I have seen and, here's my hand to you, I only say what's true A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you.

Good luck to you, don't scorn the poor, and don't be their despiser ; For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser; And death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows Then don't be stiff, and don't be proud, good Woman of Three Cows.

This ballad, which is of homely cast, was intended as a re- buke to the saucy pride of a woman in humble life who had airs of consequence, being the owner of three cows. Its au- thor's name is unknown, but its age can be determined from the language, as belonging to the early part of the seventeenth century. That it was formerly very popular in Munster may be concluded from the fact that the phrase " Easy, O woman of three cows! The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning ; Mavrone! Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house?

Yet you can give yourself these airs, O Woman of Three Cows. Oh, think of Donnel of the Ships, the Chief whom nothing daunted, See how he fell in distant Spain unchronicled, un- chanted ; He sleeps, the great O' Sullivan, where thunder can- not rouse Then ask yourself, should you be proud, good Woman of Three Cows?

Th' O'Carrols, also, famed when fame was only for the boldest, Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin's best and oldest ; Yet who so great as they of yore in battle or carouse? Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three Cows. Your neighbor's poor ; and you, it seems, are big with vain ideas, Because inagh!

AVRAN Now, there you go ; you still, of course, keep up your scornful bearing, And I'm too poor to hinder you ; but, by the cloak I'm wearing, If I had but four cows myself, even though you were my spouse, I'd thwack you well, to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows. Night, I guess too, must be on the wane, Strass and gass l are grown so still. Here I sit, with coffee in my cup Ah! Twenty years ago, alas! For the night, or morn, is wet and cold, And my fire is dwindling rather low: I had fire enough when young and bold Twenty golden years ago.

I don't feel well at all somehow: Few in Weimar dream how bad I am ; Floods of tears grow common with me now High-Dutch floods, that reason cannot dam. Doctors think I'll neither live nor thrive If I mope at home so. I don't know Am I living now? Everyone can apply worldwide. There is no participation fee. For all informations and the application form click www. The National College of Art and Design provides an extensive range of part-time courses including non-credit and award bearing courses offering progression.

Information and an application form is available to view and download from the college website life-long learning link at www. For further information, please contact Seliena Coyle at 01 or email cead ncad. Writing for Publishing is the title of a new educational initiative being spearheaded by The Manuscript Publisher and designed specifically for authors, writers, independent publishers. It is a creative writing course for the modern publishing age, emphasising the all-important connection between writing and publishing: Prospective authors and writers will learn how to develop their writing skills with a view to getting published.

They will learn to seek out, identify and take advantages of writing and publishing opportunities that present themselves. A complete course outline, including contact details and how to book a group seminar or presentation is available from the Writing for Publishing website — www. Wexford County Council Arts Tenders. Full details are available at www. Dunamaise Arts Centre Seeks Director.

Applications must be made by the submission of a letter of application plus appropriate C. The letter of application must be concise and state the particular skills, qualities and commitment of the applicant. The information supplied in the C. Only those applicants who reach the required standard as set out herein will be called for interview. All applications must be submitted as referred to above. Each applicant must submit four 4 hard copies of both the letter of application and the C. Please note only hard copy applications will be considered. Candidates should allow sufficient time for postal applications to reach their destination.

Closing date for applications is 5pm on Friday 12th October Late applications will not be opened or considered. Interviews will take place during week commencing 22nd October The successful applicant will be responsible for the day-to-day running and development of the Studio, including access, education, artistic programmes, financial management, fundraising and preparing grant applications. Full time 1 year contract. Apply by email to info print. For job description, please see www. Describing Architecture Call for Submissions. The Architectural Association of Ireland has launched its open call submission for its annual exhibition exploring architectural representation and its role in creating and designing built space.

Opening Wednesday 3rd October, 6. The deadline for submissions is Monday 17th September at 6pm www. The Irish Museums Association would like to invite submissions of papers for its upcoming IMA Forum — Photographic Collections, of interest to curators, archivists and researchers using collections. Submissions may cover a variety of topics relating to the management and history of photographic collections. These include original research; digitisation; case studies; history of collections; education; care and conservation. The purpose of this forum is to give you a chance to share your findings, debate and engage with others working with photographic collections in museums, galleries and cultural institutions.

This half-day event will comprise up to six presentations with allocated time for discussion. Click here office irishmuseums. If you are interested in taking part in this exhibition please email: Sponsored by UCD Research and delivered via an open access online platform, the e-journal will feature new research and analysis across a wide range of Irish management and policy topics. The first issue of the journal is edited by a team from UCD and IADT, and submissions are peer reviewed by an international panel of academics.

We hope the launch of this journal will highlight the excellent research underway across our third level institutions and by those working in the sector, and provide a valuable resource for students, academics, practitioners and policy makers. More details on the call for papers including submission guidelines can be found on http: Innovation Dublin Call for Events.

The festival provides a platform for debate and discussion about innovation and an opportunity to discover the huge range of innovative creativity activity happening in the city region. The Call for Events is now open to communities, business, universities and organisations to take advantage of this unique opportunity to showcase their innovation.

All activities are welcomed — indoor or outdoor, through the medium of theatre, film, exhibitions, conferences, workshops, masterclasses, bootcamps, debates, interactive dialogues, online events and tours — the list is endless. Darkness and light, the hunter and its prey, blood-shed and death or sustenance and life — these are just some of the themes associated with this time of year, coinciding with the pagan festival of Samhain. We are looking for work in any discipline which reflects any of these themes.

Artists will be in charge of the transport, installation and deinstallation of their work. Applicants must submit proposals by email to: We look forward to hearing from you. Please let us know if you need anything clarified: The Mill Theatre Call for Illustrators. This season we will celebrate the wonderful art of illustration. A remarkably visual writer, grew out of a tradition where illustration formed a significant part of both serial and book. His works inspired many artists to recreate scenes and characters.

Illustration has enriched the world of art and literature. Indeed, many illustrations from childhood stories remain safely tucked in our minds ready to appear surreptitiously when memories are jogged. If you are an illustrator and would like to submit work, please check out our Gallery Page on www. The Archisle project connects photographic archives, contemporary practice and experiences of island cultures and geographies through the development of a space for creative discourse between Jersey and international practitioners.

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Archisle is currently inviting applications for the position of Photographer in Residence launching in The residency provides the following key benefits and opportunities:. A key focus of the Archisle project is to engage the residency programme with Jersey culture and community through audience and participatory involvement. In addition to the commission and exhibition of work responding to the cultural context of the island of Jersey, the resident will be contracted to teach photography one day per week or equivalent over the six month duration of the project.

This teaching will be delivered in a workshop format to a range of educational and community groups. Applications are therefore encouraged from practitioners possessing the desire, enthusiasm and a proven ability to impart technical skills and develop critical understanding of contemporary photography across a diverse range of participants. Applicants are requested to submit: Applications may be made by post or email to: For email applications total file size must be no larger than 5 MB.

Your app has a whole list of features and can be used for promoting exhibitions, selling your artwork and has a whole range of features that enables you to stay in touch with your collectors and galleries. The app comes with a full CMS system so if you do multiple exhibitions in a year you can update and relaunch your app each time. We are delighted to offer member of Visual Artists Ireland an opportunity to win their very own Android app built and hosted free for a year. Your app can have any or all of the features available on Appmaker. To enter just email us your name, address to vacompetition appmaker.

The exhibition features national and international artists working in current media.

  • Aliens in the Prime of Their Lives: Stories;
  • Plain Jane.
  • Fools Eye;
  • Activist Business Ethics?

Included in the show, is an installation by Castlebar based artist Isabela Basombrio Hoban. The exhibition will be open daily throughout the festival from pm at the Market Venue. Abridged 0 - Abridged 0 — Once a Railroad explores the destruction of the dream. Once we built a railroad and now what is left? What dreams are there still to dream? And the only lines we lay take us up from the void and lead us back down again. Once the future blinded us, strident as a mid-day sun, now the tempered day is old, stooped and shuffles. Once we built a railroad guided by a dream, and what is left?

People stark as death, anxious with absence, on crowded paths murky with limitation. No longer hearing the warning whispers or seeing the signals, voided in a theatre of happy endings and perfect fates. Not a future here, so what is left? Burned out stars left to linger in a dusty limbo. Gone are the soft watermarks of the dream. A maximum of 3 poems may be submitted of any length. Art can be up to A4 size and can be in any media. It should be at least dpi. Submissions can be emailed to abridged ymail.

Deadline for submissions is 19th October The Galway Music Residency is celebrating its 10 th birthday this season! To add to the year- long celebrations, the residency has designed a very special programme for their 4 th annual national tour with its first date on September 20 th in The Linenhall Arts Centre in Castlebar, Co. For an extended four dates, the tour will travel all around the country with a new friend in each destination, sharing favourite musical highlights from the decade gone by together with their audience. The quartet have played with John on numerous occasions over the years and their collaborative programmes have proven a huge hit with local Galway audiences and drawn a wider national following also.

Parker in for ConTempo and Mr. Feeley, this quintet is about exiles. Eight different experiences but all with an underlying love of the home country constantly emerging. Fans of John Feeley and ConTempo Quartet will not be disappointed with this chocolate box of a programme and newcomers will be pleasantly surprised and quickly smitten by this wonderful music from such charming and talented musicians.

The Galway Music Residency delivers a year round performance, education and community based programme of events which includes visits by the Galway Ensemble in Residence — ConTempo Quartet to local schools and universities, mini-residencies for guest artists from Ireland, Europe and other parts of the world, as well as monthly free concerts in the Town Hall Theatre, Galway on the first Tuesday of every month. For bookings, please call The programme of events is as follows:. The Theme to base your work on for this years exhibition is….. A moment in time …. We are pleased to invite you to submit work to this adjudicated exhibition which will take place in The Friary, Ballyhaunis between Oct 27th—Nov 5th.

If you know of anyone else who might be interested in submitting work, then please photocopy these Conditions of Entry along with the Entry Form for them. We look forward to seeing you on the handing in day Saturday Oct 13th pm. Best of luck to everyone from all the committee of Ballyhaunis Artists Group. Moira Stratford moirastratford gmail. The opening of the exhibition will take place on Sat 27th Oct at 2p. All interested are invited to attend - admission free. Claire Keegan was raised on a farm in Wicklow. Phil at Trinity College, Dublin.

Her second, Walk the Blue Fields, was published last May. She was also a Wingate Scholar. She lives in Wexford. The Linenhall Arts Centre, Castlebar programmes high-quality arts workshops for all the community across a range of art forms. Closing Date for receipt of applications Friday 28th September. Candidates should be available for interview on Oct 3rd, World Actors Forum seeks Project Manager.

For more details and how to apply, please visit: Tulca Internship Opportunities. In order to fulfill the curatorial vision, Tulca requires the following interns:. The Assistant to the Tulca Administrator will work on volunteer co-ordination, venue management, artist liaison and general administration. The successful candidate is required to be confident working as part of a team and have a keen interest in contemporary visual practice. The intern will be required to liaise with sponsors, artists and festival partners. The intern will be directed but will also be required to contribute to the campaign.

The successful candidate will be confident in communication and have a keen interest in contemporary art practice. The successful candidate will have an interest in working with young people and be confident in mediating art works and working as part of a team to deliver a coherent programme. The intern will be required to work towards creating a programme that is in line with the overall curatorial vision.

They shall also be required to publicise and administer the programme. The successful candidate will have some knowledge of project management and have an interest in public art in a rural context. This intern will work closely with one of the Tulca artists on the fulfillment of a public art project as part of the Galway County public art program. The intern must be interested in logistical planning and project management as well as contemporary art practice.

The successful candidate must be able to provide their own transport. All internships will begin immediately and run until 7th December. Please send your CV and Cover letter to Tulca. Little Green Street Gallery is very excited to announce our next open submission show in a new and secret location.

There are no restrictions other then black and possibly white should predominantly be used to create the piece. Also we would like to limit the show to 2D work, unfortunately we will not be able to accept sculptural work for this particular show. The show opens on Thursday September 27th at 7pm. Location of show to be announced. Please submit your interest in exhibiting in writing along with a few samples of your work and proposed idea for the show to little.

We would like to have all letters of interest in before Tuesday the 25th of September and all physical submissions into the little green street gallery before Wednesday the 26th of September. This is a free exhibition there is no submission fee IMMA: Artists must provide their own accommodation. Each studio can nominate a maximum of two artists. To apply for studio use at IMMA, the nominating studio must submit a CV, documentation and a proposal, describing the intended use of the studio, for example, working towards a project, exhibition etc.

A brief work plan should be included outlining the schedule of use over this period. Applications will be reviewed competitively and will be selected based solely on the information and documentation submitted. For further details on how to apply and conditions for studio use, please see http: CCA is pleased to announce our outbound residency programme, which allows visual arts professionals in the early stages of their careers and based in Northern Ireland to relocate to Berlin for one month.

A call for applications will be available on our website during the last week of September. Our inbound residency is by invitation only. The residencies will take place between April and September The deadline for applications is on 15th of November More information on the call can be found via www. Luas Art Competition Call for Entries. The annual Luas Art Competition is now open for entries! The competition is open to anyone aged 18 years or over and any art form is acceptable.

RPA are interested in receiving submissions of visual or written work, digital reproductions of paintings, sculpture, graphic design, comic design, photography, poetry, short stories, comedy writing or any work that can be printed flat. The closing date for entries is Friday 12th October To enter just upload an image of your entry here by 11pm on Friday 12th October in one of the following formats: For more information, please visit: We will open in a new location in the heart of the walled city in November and transition straight into programme for the UK City of Culture We are currently looking to fill these positions:.

For full job descriptions, please email apply cca-derry-londonderry. Deadline at 5pm on September 25th, www. The contract role of Film Director will involve script adaptation, casting, as well as all stages of production. The delivery date for the film will be in July Applicants should email a letter of application and C. The contract role will involve management of all stages of production including schedule, budget, crew hire etc. Applicants should reply to this ad with a letter of application and C. Dunamaise Arts Centre Consultancy: Audience Analysis and Development — Job Opportunity. A consultant will be appointed on a service contract with responsibility to research, develop and enable growth and expansion of both the audience and the client and stakeholder base of the Dunamaise Arts Centre.

For more information please see: The ideal candidate would be available most days between 10 and and 4 O'Clock. Rehearsals begin immediately upon casting. Anyone interested should contact Mick Donnellan on Ideally. Or by e-mail on mickdonnellan hotmail. It's important to call first to see if there's a time available etc. Alternatively, just turn up and we'll see what we can do. It provides an opportunity for all photographers to share images of environmental and social issues with international audiences, and to enhance our understanding of the causes, consequences and solutions to climate change and social inequality.

Selected from an open submission process, the competition will culminate with an exhibition in London in Spring , followed by a UK and international tour. Open to all photographers, the competition encourages entries that are contemporary, creative, resonant and original. Entry for registered students is free. Entrants may also pay in Euros, if required. Images are judged on impact, composition, originality and technical ability. Previous entries have examined issues such as innovation, sustainable development, biodiversity, poverty, climate change, human rights, culture, natural disasters and population growth.

During the exhibition the following prizes will be awarded: Concert and workshops with classical argentinian duo Fauaz Pesce. A passionate pursuit of their roots and of a sense of belonging, of different colours, words and intentions brought together two Argentine musicians, Miguel Pesce and Pablo Fauaz in Both members of this group have established extensive professional careers as musicians in the most important national and international festivals, playing their music in Switzerland, the Netherlands, Greece, Germany, Belgium, Italy, France, Denmark, the United States of America and Canada.