Ireland, with its rich cultural heritage, has been a wellspring of poetic expression. In this exploration, we delve into the verses of Alfred Percival Graves and Robert Dwyer Joyce, two poets who encapsulate the essence of Irish life, resilience, and history through their evocative words.
Robert Dwyer Joyce – The Blacksmith of Limerick:
Joyce takes us to the turbulent times of battle in “The Blacksmith of Limerick,” a ballad of Irish chivalry. The blacksmith, with his mighty hammer, becomes a symbol of resistance against the Dutch invaders. The verses vividly depict the courage, defiance, and the indomitable spirit of the Irish people during historical conflicts.
HE grasped his ponderous hammer, he could not stand it more,
To hear the bombshells bursting, and thundering battle’s roar;
He said, “The breach they’re mounting, the Dutchman’s
murdering crew, —
I’ll try my hammer on their heads, and see what that can do!
“Now, swarthy Ned and Moran, make up that iron well;
‘T is Sarsfield’s horse that wants the shoes, so mind not
shot or shell.”
“Ah, sure,” cried both, “the horse can wait, for
Sarsfield’s on the wall,
And where you go, we’ll follow, with you to stand or fall!”
The blacksmith raised his hammer, and rushed into the street,
His ‘prentice boys behind him, the ruthless foe to meet;
High on the breach of Limerick, with dauntless hearts they stood,
Where bombshells burst, and shot fell thick, and redly ran the blood.
“Now look you, brown-haired Moran, and mark you, swarthy Ned,
This day we’ll prove the thickness of many a Dutchman’s head!
Hurrah! upon their bloody path they’re mounting gallantly;
And now the first that tops the breach, leave him to this and me!”
The first that gained the rampart, he was a captain brave, —
A captain of the grenadiers, with blood-stained dirk and glaive;
He pointed, and he parried, but it was all in vain,
For fast through skull and helmet the hammer found his brain!
The next that topped the rampart, he was a colonel bold,
Bright, through the dust of battle, his helmet flashed with gold.
“Gold is no match for iron,” the doughty blacksmith said,
As with that ponderous hammer he cracked his foeman’s head.
“Hurrah for gallant Limerick!” black Ned and Moran cried,
As on the Dutchmen’s leaden heads their hammers well they plied.
A bombshell burst between them, — one fell without a groan,
One leaped into the lurid air and down the breach was thrown.
“Brave smith! brave smith!” cried Sarsfield, “beware the
treacherous mine!
Brave smith! brave smith! fall backward, or surely death is thine!”
The smith sprang up the rampart, and leaped the blood-stained wall,
As high into the shuddering air went foemen, breach, and all!
Up, like a red volcano, they thundered wild and high,
Spear, gun, and shattered standard, and foemen through the sky;
And dark and bloody was the shower that round the blacksmith fell;
He thought upon his ‘prentice boys, — they were avenged well.
On foemen and defenders a silence gathered down;
‘T was broken by a triumph-shout that shook the ancient town,
As out its heroes sallied, and bravely charged and slew,
And taught King William and his men what Irish hearts could do!
Down rushed the swarthy blacksmith unto the river side;
He hammered on the foe’s pontoon to sink it in the tide;
The timber it was tough and strong, it took no crack or strain;
“Mavrone! ‘t won’t break,” the blacksmith roared;
“I’ll try their heads again!”
He rushed upon the flying ranks, his hammer ne’er was slack,
For in through blood and bone it crashed, through helmet
and through jack; —
He’s ta’en a Holland captain, beside the red pontoon,
And “Wait you here,” he boldly cries; “I’ll send you back full soon!
“Dost see this gory hammer? It cracked some skulls to-day,
And yours ‘t will crack if you don’t stand and list to what I say:
Here! take it to your cursed king, and tell him softly too,
‘T would be acquainted with his skull if he were here, not you!”
The blacksmith sought his smithy, and blew his bellows strong;
He shod the steed of Sarsfield, but o’er it sang no song.
“Ochone! my boys are dead,” he cried; “their loss I’ll long deplore,
But comfort ‘s in my heart, — their graves are red with
foreign gore!”
Journeying with Joyce’s Blacksmith:
Joyce’s ballad thrusts us into the heart of battle, where the blacksmith, undeterred by the chaos, forges a path of resistance. The vivid imagery of bomb-shells bursting and the relentless pounding of the hammer evoke the intensity of the historical moment. The blacksmith’s heroic actions symbolize the resilience of the Irish people in the face of adversity.
Alfred Percival Graves – A Lullaby of the West:
In “Irish Lullaby,” Graves weaves a tender lullaby, cradling the hopes and dreams of a mother for her child. Set against the backdrop of the wind, sea, and the soothing rhythm of nature, the poem reflects the universal theme of maternal love, creating a comforting atmosphere that resonates with readers across borders.
Exploring Graves’ Lullaby:
Graves’ lullaby paints a serene picture of a mother soothing her child amidst the elements of nature. The use of onomatopoeic words like “sho hoo” adds a melodic quality to the poem, mirroring the lulling effect of the wind and waves. The repetition of the phrase “Sleep, baby dear” reinforces the comforting assurance of maternal presence.
I’ve found my bonny babe a nest
On Slumber Tree;
I’ll rock you there to rosy rest,
Asthore Machree!
Oh, lulla lo! sing all the leaves
On Slumber Tree,
Till everything that hurts or grieves
Afar must flee.
I’ve put my pretty child to float
Away from me,
Within the new moon’s silver boat
On Slumber Sea.
And when your starry sail is o’er
From Slumber Sea,
My precious one, you’ll step to shore,
On mother’s knee.
Contrasting Themes and Styles:
While Graves’ lullaby exudes tranquillity and maternal warmth, Joyce’s ballad is a pulsating narrative of bravery in the face of war. Graves employs gentle rhythms and soothing imagery, while Joyce opts for dynamic, action-packed verses. Together, they showcase the diverse spectrum of emotions and experiences embedded in Irish poetry.
Alfred Percival Graves and Robert Dwyer Joyce, through their distinctive styles, offer us glimpses into the multifaceted soul of Ireland. Whether cradling dreams in a lullaby or forging resilience in a blacksmith’s hammer, these poets echo the enduring spirit of a nation rich in history, culture, and poetic expression.
Weekly Freeman’s Journal – Saturday 20 January 1912
