THE BANSHEE Green, in the wizard arms Of the foam-bearded Atlantic, An isle of old enchantment, A melancholy isle, Enchanted and dreaming lies; And there, by Shannon's flowing, In the moonlight, spectre-thin, The spectre Erin sits. An aged desolation, She sits by old Shannon's flowing, A mother of many children, Of children exiled and dead, In her home, with bent head, homeless, Clasping her knees she sits, Keening, keening! And at her keen the fairy-grass Trembles on dun and barrow; Around the foot of her ancient crosses The grave-grass shakes and the nettle swings; In haunted glens the meadow-sweet Flings to the night wind Her mystic mournful perfume; The sad spearmint by holy wells Breathes melancholy balm. Sometimes she lifts her head, With blue eyes tearless, And gazes athwart the reek of night Upon things long past, Upon things to come. And sometimes, when the moon Brings tempest upon the deep, And roused Atlantic thunders from his caverns in the west, The wolfhound at her feet Springs up with a mighty bay, And chords of mystery sound from the wild harp at her side, Strung from the heart of poets; And she flies on the wings of tempest With grey hair streaming: A meteor of evil omen, The spectre of hope forlorn, Keening, keening! She keens, and the strings of her wild harp shiver On the gusts of night: O'er the four waters she keens -- over Moyle she keens, O'er the Sea of Milith, and the Strait of Strongbow, And the Ocean of Columbus. And the Fianna hear, and the ghosts of her cloudy hovering heroes; And the swan, Fianoula, wails o'er the waters of Inisfail, Chanting her song of destiny, The rune of the weaving Fates. And the nations hear in the void and quaking time of night, Sad unto dawning, dirges, Solemn dirges, And snatches of bardic song; Their souls quake in the void and quaking time of night, And they dream of the weird of kings, And tyrannies moulting, sick In the dreadful wind of change. Wail no more, lonely one, mother of exiles, wail no more, Banshee of the world -- no more! Thy sorrows are the world's, thou art no more alone; Thy wrongs, the world's. -- John Todhunter

John Todhunter (1839-1916) was an Irish poet and playwright who wrote seven volumes of poetry, and several plays. He was born in Dublin, the eldest son of Thomas Harvey TODHUNTER, a Quaker merchant of English origin. He and was educated at Quaker schools in York and Mountmellick and attended Trinity College Medical School, where he studied medicine. While at Trinity, TODHUNTER won the Vice-Chancellor's prize for English Verse 1864, 1865 and 1866, and the Gold Medal of the Philosophical Society 1866 for an essay. He also clerked for William STOKES while studying. He received his Bachelor of Medicine in 1867, and his Doctorate of Medicine degree in 1871. In 1870 (one year prior to his DM) he became a Professor of English Literature at Alexandra College, Dublin. Four years later, he resigned from that position, and travelled to several places in Europe, including Egypt. He married Dora L. DIGBY in 1879. In 1881, he finally settled in London, where his home in Bedford Park, Chiswick was located in a small community of writers and artists, who included W. B. YEATS. He was involved in the founding of the Irish Literary Society there. ----- Original Message ----- From: "Jean R." <jeanrice@cet.com> To: <IRISH-IN-UK-L@rootsweb.com> Sent: Sunday, October 23, 2005 1:21 PM Subject: [UK-Irish] "The Banshee" -- John TODHUNTER (1839-1916)

Thank you Jean for the poem Banshee, its lovely. Years ago I was told a poem about a princess sent to Scotland to marry a King,she fell in love with his son and they fled across the sea, the king went after them and sank the boat losing both of them, My memory is fading and I would love to read this poem again, I remember it was a famous poet but sadly can't remember who, Any idea's gratefully received ----- Original Message ----- From: "Jean R." <jeanrice@cet.com> To: <IRISH-IN-UK-L@rootsweb.com> Sent: Sunday, October 23, 2005 9:21 PM Subject: [UK-Irish] "The Banshee" -- John TODHUNTER (1839-1916) > THE BANSHEE > > Green, in the wizard arms > Of the foam-bearded Atlantic, > An isle of old enchantment, > A melancholy isle, > Enchanted and dreaming lies; > And there, by Shannon's flowing, > In the moonlight, spectre-thin, > The spectre Erin sits. > > An aged desolation, > She sits by old Shannon's flowing, > A mother of many children, > Of children exiled and dead, > In her home, with bent head, homeless, > Clasping her knees she sits, > Keening, keening! > > And at her keen the fairy-grass > Trembles on dun and barrow; > Around the foot of her ancient crosses > The grave-grass shakes and the nettle swings; > In haunted glens the meadow-sweet > Flings to the night wind > Her mystic mournful perfume; > The sad spearmint by holy wells > Breathes melancholy balm. > Sometimes she lifts her head, > With blue eyes tearless, > And gazes athwart the reek of night > Upon things long past, > Upon things to come. > > And sometimes, when the moon > Brings tempest upon the deep, > And roused Atlantic thunders from his caverns in the west, > The wolfhound at her feet > Springs up with a mighty bay, > And chords of mystery sound from the wild harp at her side, > Strung from the heart of poets; > And she flies on the wings of tempest > With grey hair streaming: > A meteor of evil omen, > The spectre of hope forlorn, > Keening, keening! > > She keens, and the strings of her wild harp shiver > On the gusts of night: > O'er the four waters she keens -- over Moyle she keens, > O'er the Sea of Milith, and the Strait of Strongbow, > And the Ocean of Columbus. > > And the Fianna hear, and the ghosts of her cloudy hovering heroes; > And the swan, Fianoula, wails o'er the waters of Inisfail, > Chanting her song of destiny, > The rune of the weaving Fates. > And the nations hear in the void and quaking time of night, > Sad unto dawning, dirges, > Solemn dirges, > And snatches of bardic song; > Their souls quake in the void and quaking time of night, > And they dream of the weird of kings, > And tyrannies moulting, sick > In the dreadful wind of change. > > Wail no more, lonely one, mother of exiles, wail no more, > Banshee of the world -- no more! > Thy sorrows are the world's, thou art no more alone; > Thy wrongs, the world's. > > -- John Todhunter > > > ==== IRISH-IN-UK Mailing List ==== > The Irish-In-UK Mailing List Website: > http://www.connorsgenealogy.com/IrishUK/ > > ============================== > Search the US Census Collection. Over 140 million records added in the > last 12 months. Largest online collection in the world. Learn more: http://www.ancestry.com/s13965/rd.ashx > > > > > -- > No virus found in this incoming message. > Checked by AVG Free Edition. > Version: 7.1.361 / Virus Database: 267.12.4/146 - Release Date: 21/10/2005 > >

Hi Catherine -- Yes, "The Banshee" is one of my favorite poems. Thank you for your comments. If I come across the verses you are referring to, I will let you know. (I am glad I am not the only one whose memory is fading!!!). Jean xx ----- Original Message ----- From: "catherine" <om015b2853@blueyonder.co.uk> To: <IRISH-IN-UK-L@rootsweb.com> Sent: Monday, October 24, 2005 5:19 PM Subject: Re: [UK-Irish] "The Banshee" -- John TODHUNTER (1839-1916) > Thank you Jean for the poem Banshee, its lovely. > Years ago I was told a poem about a princess sent to Scotland to marry a > King,she fell in love with his son and they fled across the sea, the king > went after them and sank the boat losing both of them, > My memory is fading and I would love to read this poem again, I remember it > was a famous poet but sadly can't remember who, Any idea's gratefully > received > ----- Original Message ----- > From: "Jean R." <jeanrice@cet.com> > To: <IRISH-IN-UK-L@rootsweb.com> > Sent: Sunday, October 23, 2005 9:21 PM > Subject: [UK-Irish] "The Banshee" -- John TODHUNTER (1839-1916) > > > > THE BANSHEE > > > > Green, in the wizard arms > > Of the foam-bearded Atlantic, <snip>