Denis J Foley Poems

In April

The pleasant sunlight paints the hills a russet golden hue,
The distant, rising mountains are garbed in brightest blue,
Sweet flow'rets gay bloom within each shaded verdant nooh
And murmuring low plaintive notes flows on the rippling brook,

The wondrous hand of Nature bedecks each floral dell,
Filled with the Heavenly odour of cowslip and daffodil.
The daisy, too, amidst the sward doth meekly raise its head,
As if to beseech the passerby upon it not to tread.

At sunset's hour what beauties are beholden to the west,
When Sol throws out his last long rays ere he slowly sinks to rest,
O'er hill and dale his mellow light now glows in splendour grand,
Reflecting on the charming scenes that strew dear Erin's land.

As the weary worker now returns - his daily labour done,
His tiring mind uplifted is, as enraptured he looks on,
On nature's gay attractions - which calls him to do his part,
As Providence for him had willed - a toiler on this earth.

Upon the land a carpet's laid of richest, brightest sheen,
The boughs made bare by winter's blast again are robed in green,
All day the feathered warblers are piping sweetest lays,
In notes of gayest harmony amid the greening sprays.

Upon the glad earth the welcome rain falls oft in gentle shower,
New life instilling in each vale, bright knoll, and sunny bower;
That parched are, but now refreshed, bloom on with beauty new,
In April mild, harbinger blist of the gladsome season due... ... ..,.

Denis J Foley,
Glounecommane.
June 29th.1916........
 

In Appreciation

There's a neat little paper THE OBSERVER its named,
Sweet Newcastle West - that spot of great fame,
Is the town it may claim as the place of its birth,
And though yet in its infancy it has well proved its worth,
For brightness and wit it may take a front place,
While true patriotic ideals its pages doth grace,
Its news column's wide are second to none,
Its hints and home recipes are to the housewives a boon,
Its hosts of advertisers good value ensure,
In a wide assortment-to please rich and poor-
While the ladies - Heav"n bless them!-with their perpetual smiles,
May from them procure the latest in fashion and style,
Its needless for me to belabour my rhyme,
Or further to lengthen those crude simple lines,
One wish from my heart - a prosperous career,
To the Weekly Observer with each passing year,
To its readers a full meazure of happiness sweet,
As time passes by on swift wings and fleet,
May they dwell in contentment in each valley and lea,
And may Erin soon enjoy blest freedom and prosperity.........

Denis J Foley,
Glouneycomane. 

On the Irishmen Executed in Dublin

They gave thee life, they gave thee all,
They nobly in thy cause did fall,
For Eire they fought, for Eire they died,
For Eire their hearts were crucified,
For thee, for thee, not only so,
For all the world they braved the blow,
In freedom's cause for truth and right,
They dared the oppressors powerful might,
They are not dead -- death`s but a dream,
There is no death for souls supreme,
Their noble deeds will roll sublime
Thro' ev'ry age and ev'ry clime,
They were not traitors to their God,
No traitors to their native sod,
Upon their souls there is no stain,
Aye! such death as theirs is not in vain.
They cannot shroud them in the tomb,
They cannot veil their souls in gloom
Their very foes upon them gaze,
And bow in homage and in praise,
Up to the God from whence they came,
Their pure born souls shot like a flame,
To shine for aye like beacons bright,
As brilliant stars to the sons of right,
Illuming the pathway to the goal
Of freedom, ideal of each patriot soul,
For thee to-day in anguish deep,
Eire's patriot sons doth sigh and weep,
For thy young hearts so cruelly sent,
Aye! 'fore the springtide of life was spent,
'Twas better ah! yes to suffer so,
Than live in thraldom here below,
May Heaven grant them sweetest rest,
Amongst His chosen one's ere blest,
And may the land for which they died,
Soon stand in glory and in pride,
A Nation grand before the world,
'Neath freedom's banner then unfurl'd

Denis J Foley,
Glounecomane,
Oct.-2nd ----1916.
 

Patrick Sarsfield

"Oh, that this was for Ireland,"
Thus sighed this valiant heart;
As lying prone on Landen's plain,
His life-blood gushing forth.
Upon a foreign soil it drips,
Alas! 'neath an alien sky;
Far, far away from Erin dear,
Destined was he to die.

The bravest soul that for her strove,
To break the galling chain;
That bound the limbs of "Dark Rosaleen"
And caused her tender heart dire pain;
Ah! gallantly he struggled hard,
Against the tyrant foe;
But luckless fare decreed otherwise,
And wrought his overthrow.

A saddened exile wandered he,
As did thousands brave and bold;
To stranger climes, 'neath freedom's flag,
The cause of liberty to uphold.
They scorned to fight the standard 'neath,
Of the vaunting conqueror vile;
Who'd wrought red rain to their love'd land,
The green robed Emerald Isle.

But 'neath the ensign of bonny France,
On many a bloody field,
They fought with noble heroic zeal,
Fore them oft the Saxon foe did'st yield.
Ah! well might England's King exclaim,
When his legions bit the dust,
"May the louse that deprived me of such subjects bold,
Forever be accursed."

They fought full well, aye nobly fell,
Ever foremost in the fray;
At Ramillies and Fontenoy,
They nobly saved the day,
Those valiant sons, the immortal "Wild Geese"
Who from their land had flown,
Alas! sleep they for aye in nameless graves,
Within the foreign loam.

In far distant fields o'er the ocean wide,
(From storied Dunkirk to Belgrade)
Lie those valorous sons of dear Erin
The immortalized Irish Brigade.
Unmarked, too, the spot where brave Sarsfield
Sleeps, with the true and the brave,
Where by the strangers heedless hands,
Was dug his lowly grave.

The Farmer

High - ho for the jolly farmer who works in the field all day,
In spring when sowing the seed, in summer at the hay,
Of troubles and cares he has his share, he, too must labour hard,
Yet he grumbles not at his lot in life, for toil brings its reward
When springtide comes with bud and reaf and all is fresh and green,
Light heartedly he rambles amid the glorious sheen;
Of woodland and meadow gay his mind rid of dull care,
He breathes into his inmost soul the sweet and balmy air.
When spring merges to summer its glories for him thrill,
Old Sol shines out above him reflecting on each rill;
When 'mid the new mown hay he stands, its sweet scent wafting by,
A portion great of Nature's bliss he may in peace enjoy.
When lutumn reigns in splendour and fields of gold"en grain
Wave in the pleasant breezes on ev'ry knoll and plain.
He may enjoy the pleasures of the glorious harvest time,
As in the workers merry toil privately he joins,
And when the winter's storm raves, he sits by his fireside
By the pleasant peat fire's glow, No gloomy thoughts abide.
Within his heart, a sense of comfort and contentment might dwell,
Too deep and solemn to describe, no pen or tongue may tell,
Hurrah for the jolly farmer who toils in the fields all day,
Who laughs and who smiles o'er his daily task his heart ever light and gay,
Regardless of the world's ways he toils that he might live
(For the riches of King or millionaire my life's portion I,d not give)

Denis J Foley,
Glounecomane,
Sept.27th.-1916
 

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