Denis J Foley Poems

In Memory of Terence McSwiney

Trice, sterling, and brave, you "stand in the breach"
Ennobling, and daring, a lesson to teach,
Regardless of danger, no cowardice you show,
Embodiment of courage, fear less of lurking foe,
Nobly, heroically, at duty's call thau hast come,
Constrained not, valiantly you stand to your gun,
Endowed with rare talents-a patriot's fire,--
Modest ever, seeking no vain glory to aspire,
Candid, and fervent of purpose, undaufited, sincere,
Scion of gallant clan, who ne'er knew crwenfear,
Wortlty san of Eire,faithful, honest Gael;
ln heart and soul consumed with love for Innisfail-
Needs be thy intrepid action and noble example grand,
Earnestly may be followed each vile wrong to withstand,
Yea! such act as thine, but prove the patriot's love af Motherland

Denis J. Foley,

The Old Court Kanturk

What grand majestic pile is this,
Which tourists eyes engage
'Tis hallowed ground it stands upon,
By Dallua's lovely edge.
Surrounded by the lofty beech,
Where rook and raven sport,
In solitude and splendour towers,
The noble fam'd "Old Court"

The gentle river flowing nigh,
A requim chants alway
For the chieftains and the warriors bold,
Who have long since passed away----
For Duhallow's true hearted gallant sons,
Who by the Old Court" dreamed,
Of freedom for their native land,
Dear Erin Isle of Green.

Alas! their high hopes unrealised,
They sank into the grave;
Yea! each had strived with fervent zeal,
Their dear lov'd land to save.
But the tyrant's arm harsh and strong
Prov'd mightier than theirs,
Though the struggle yet unconsummated
Is waged adown the weary years.

'Twas Duhallow's Chief "McCarthy More"
Did raise the "Old Court" high;
In freedom's cause beneath its walls,
He hoped to fight-aye! die;
But vain the hope this structure grim,
Complete he never saw,
For a cruel ban was placed upon
His work by alien law.

Yet, but one more example sad,
Of Erin's failures, doubts and fears,
That she has patiently endured
For nigh eight hundred years.
And yet how longer still, we sigh,
Shall our poor suffering land,
Be crushed beneath the invader's feet,
And strangled by his hand?

But the dawn of a brighter era,
Now appeareth 'bove her shore;
The dark storm clouds are drifting by,
That long our Isle hung o'er.
When the cherish'd dreams of her patriot sons,
Who gave their life for thee-
Their suffering Grauna proudly enthroned,
'Mong the nations proud and free

Denis J. Foley,

The Wind in Duhallow

(Published Old Moore 1925)
(Humour competition May 21st--1932---1st Prize)
The wind in sweet Duhallow is mellow, soft, and low,
Sighing thro' the woodlands and the leafy glens below;
Sweeping o'er the bog-lands, and o'er the pleasant lea,
Ah! the soft winds of Duhallow enchanting are to me.

The sky o'er Duhallow is blue and dappled o'er,
With little fleecy clouds, like silver shrouds on some enchanted shore;
The grey mist rising, rising above the red sunset,
The sky o'er Duhallow is Heaven's parapet.

The homes of sweet Duhallow are nestling cosily,
Snug white-walled cots a sheltering 'neath the ash and beechen tree;
Within each flowery valley the little streamlets glide,
Adown the sloping hillside they rush to swell the river's tide.

The mountains of Duhallow are stern,blue,and bold,
They rise up to the sapphire sky, like sentinels they hold;
They sway all powerful 'bove the glens, the knolls, and valleys green,
Of flowery grand Duhallow, robed o'er in verdant sheen.

The rivers of Duhallow are pleasing to the view,
As they ripple gently seaward, the Alloa and Dallua,
From the borderlands of Limerick and Kerry's hillsides brown,
They roll gaily on to join in fond embrace, at charming Kanturk town.

May God's sun on Duhallow in glory e'er shine down,
May its people in contentment dwell, and ne'er know sorrow's frown;
May prosperity and happiness ne'er quit this land divine,
O! lovely fair Duhallow! O!sweet Duhallow mine.

Within my first I oftime strolled from care and sorrow free,
In my native loved Duhallow, a pronoun next will be,
The given parts transpose, then unite at your will,
To name a place that l adore amid Duhallow's hills.

(Last verse contains puzzle. Solution-Glen;Pronoun-You---(Glouney)

Denis J Foley,

Lines in Memory of T--k---

( Published Weekley Examiner 1918 )

O'er Liscarroll town of high renown there hangs a heavy pall,
With sorrow deep each heart is sore beside the grand "Old Walls"
They mourn in doleful silence for one who's passed away;
The gentle Thomas K-------- now mouldering in the clay.

Mavrone! In manhood's bloom and pride, he the debt of Nature paid,
The dreaded summons to him came-it could not be delayed;
Resigned unto his holy will his noble spirit fled,
To join the Heavenly choir in the bright dome overhead.

A sterling son of Innisfail he laboured for her weal,
With heroic patriotic mind, and honest, fervent zeal;
While the powers that be did him pursue with fiendish energy,
But sweeter far was death to him than a craven coward to be.

But now the struggle's ove€r his race of life is run,
For his it matters little since his crown of glory's won;
With Pearse and bold McDonagh and gentle Plunkett true,
Tom Ashe and Richard Coleman who died for Grauna too.

With those faithful, dauntless spirits he co-mingles now on high,
In realms of Bliss celestial in spheres beyond the sky;
Blest Freedom was their watchword-for freedom sweet they died,
Ah! long will honest Irishmen on their bravery dwell with pride.

And never by the fam'd Old Walls will the sweet memory fade,
Of this bold and pure-soul'd patriot who lies beneath the shade;
In the quiet lonely cemetery where he takes his silent rest!
May the green sod of his Motherland lay lightly on his breast.

Lines to Mr. M. J. Coakley

(Published Old Moore, 1922.)

In "Old Moores" pages of wit and lore,
Where shine bright stars just two seasons ago,
I've read your gem of sweet minstrelsy,
In desen"ed praise of Cahirmee.
Of this famous mart-yea! fam'd world-wide,
No wonder you sing of it with pride;
Round where sylvan beauty reings e'er supreme,
Robed o'er in Summer in sweetest sheen:
And when winter comes then the lofty trees,
Guard well each knoll from the biting breeze;
What scenic loveliness we may here behold,
Where ballyhoura rises gaunt and bold,
'Bove the wooded slopes and the pleasant vale,
Where nestles cosily sweet Doneraile.
There the Awbeg slumbering rolls steadily on,
Past scenes so gay, and scenes of renown,
The lordly court, ah! structure grand,
But few its equal within the land.
Avoca fair, or Killarney, pride of Innisfail,
Scarce caft surpass sweet Doneraile.
But there is one spot amid the splendour great,
it is not castle gorgeous, or large estate,
'Tis God's acre lowly where blooms the ivy green,
The secluded churchyard of Clogheen.
Your mention of it has toughed my heart,
And pierced it through with grief's sharp dart,
For within its walls lies a mothsr dear.
(Laid there to rest when spring was in the year)
Ah! since that day iny mernory haunts the scene"
And my thoughts oft linger on lone Clogheen.
I would, kind Sir, if you could relate to me,
Something of the ancient history,
Of the tattered ruin and the stony mouod,
Where acute loneliness seems to abound.
With this end in view, I pen those crude lines to you,
With best respects I now say adieu.

Denis J Foleir

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