Ireland is a land of poets and poetry. What better way could there be to celebrate Mother’s Day, than to explore how Irish poets have immortalized mothers in lyrical words and verses over the years.

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If you have visited my blog before, my love of poetry will be no surprise. Little ditties, Irish poems, and  eloquent verses are all scrambled together in my head.

The good nuns of my Irish school days ensured rhythmic repetition of stanzas, and poems “learned off-by-heart”, created a hodge-podge of poetic bits and pieces rambling around my noggin.

And so today, I share with you my Irish poetic tribute to mothers around the world.

Here is a collection of verses both old and new, and of course, in true Irish tradition, some are nostalgic and sad.  Wistful sentimentality – it’s just part of our Irish psyche …..

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A Cradle Song

by Padraic Colum (1881 – 1972)

O men from the fields,
Come gently within.
Tread softly, softly
O men coming in!
Mavourneen is going
From me and from you,
Where Mary will fold him
With mantle of blue!
From reek of the smoke
And cold of the floor
And the peering of things
Across the half-door.
O men of the fields,
Soft, softly come thro’
Mary puts round him
Her mantle of blue.

 

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 Any Woman

by Katharine Tynan (1859 – 1931)

 

I am the pillars of the house;
The keystone of the arch am I.
Take me away, and roof and wall
Would fall to ruin me utterly.

I am the fire upon the hearth,
I am the light of the good sun,
I am the heat that warms the earth,
Which else were colder than a stone.

At me the children warm their hands;
I am their light of love alive.
Without me cold the hearthstone stands,
Nor could the precious children thrive.

I am the twist that holds together
The children in its sacred ring,
Their knot of love, from whose close tether
No lost child goes a-wandering.

I am the house from floor to roof,
I deck the walls, the board I spread;
I spin the curtains, warp and woof,
And shake the down to be their bed.

I am their wall against all danger,
Their door against the wind and snow,
Thou Whom a woman laid in a manger,
Take me not till the children grow!

 

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Song Of The Old Mother

by William Butler Yeats (1865 – 1939)

 

I rise in the dawn, and I kneel and blow
Till the seed of the fire flicker and glow;
And then I must scrub and bake and sweep
Till stars are beginning to blink and peep;
And the young lie long and dream in their bed
Of the matching of ribbons for bosom and head,
And their days go over in idleness,
And they sigh if the wind but lift a tress:
While I must work because I am old,
And the seed of the fire gets feeble and cold.

 

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My Mother Dear (The Son to his Mother)

by Samuel Lover (1797 – 1868)

 

There was a place in childhood
That I remember well,
And there a voice of sweetest tone
Bright fairy tales did tell,
And gentle words and fond embrace
Were given, with joy, to me,
When I was in that happy place
Upon my mother’s knee.

When fairy tales were ended,
“Good night,” she softly said,
And kissed and laid me down to sleep
Within my tiny bed;
And Holy words she taught me there –
Methinks I yet can see,
Her angel eyes, as close I knelt
Beside my mother’s knee.

In the sickness of my childhood,
The perils of my prime,
The sorrows of my riper years,
The cares of every time…
When doubt and danger weighed me down –
Then pleading, all for me,
It was a fervent prayer to Heaven
That bent my mother’s knee.

And can I this remember,
And e’er forget to prove
The glow of holy gratitude –
The fullness of my love?
When thou art feeble, mother,
Come rest thy arm on me.
And let thy cherished child
Support the aged mother’s knee.

 

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~ from “The Heart Of The Woman”

by W. B. Yeats (1865 – 1939)

 

“O what to me my mother’s care,
The house where I was safe and warm;
The shadowy blossom of my hair
Will hide us from the bitter storm.”

 

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~ from Dedication

by Patrick MacGill (1890 – 1963 )

 

“I speak of the old women
Who danced to yesterday’s fiddle
And dance no longer.
They sit in a quiet place and dream
And see visions
Of what is to come,
Of their issue,
Which has blossomed to manhood and womanhood –
And seeing thus
They are happy
For the day that was leaves no regrets,
And peace is theirs
And perfection.”

 

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The Mother

By Pádraig Pearse (1879 – 1916)

 

“I do not grudge them; Lord, I do not grudge
My two strong sons that I have seen go out
To break their strength and die, they and a few,
In bloody protest for a glorious thing.
They shall be spoken of among their people,
The generations shall remember them,
And call them blessed;
But I will speak their names to my own heart
In the long nights;
The little names that were familiar once
Round my dead hearth.
Lord, thou art hard on mothers:
We suffer in their coming and their going;
And tho’ I grudge them not, I weary, weary
Of the long sorrow — And yet I have my joy:
My sons were faithful, and they fought.”

Padraic Pearse wrote this poem for his mother just before he and his brother went out to fight in the Rising of 1916.

 

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~Excerpts From The Little Irish Mother

by John O’Brien  (1878 – 1952)

 

“Have you seen the tidy cottage in the straggling, dusty street,
Where the roses swing their censers by the door?
Have you heard the happy prattle and the tramp of tiny feet
As the sturdy youngsters romp around the floor?
Did you wonder why the viree* comes to sing his sweetest song ?
Did the subtle charm of home upon you fall?
Did you puzzle why it haunted you the while you passed along?–
There’s a Little Irish Mother there; that’s all……”

 

“…..There’s a Little Irish Mother–and her head is bowed and gray,
And she’s lonesome when the evening shadows fall;
Near the fire she “do be thinkin’,” all the “childer’ are away,
And their silent pictures watch her from the wall.
For the world has claimed them from her; they are men and women
now,
In their thinning hair the tell-tale silver gleams;
But she runs her fingers, dozing, o’er a tousled baby brow–
It is “little Con” or “Bridgie” in her dreams…..”

 

“….When at last the books are balanced in the settling-up to be,
And our idols on the rubbish-heap are hurled,
Then the Judge shall call to honour–not the “stars,” it seems to me,
Who have posed behind the footlights of the world;
But the king shall doff his purple, and the queen lay by her crown,
And the great ones of the earth shall stand aside
While a Little Irish Mother in her tattered, faded gown
Shall receive the crown too long to her denied.”

 

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A Mother’s Love Is A Blessing

By Thomas P Keenan (1866 – 1927)

 

“An Irish boy was leaving
Leaving his native home
Crossing the broad Atlantic
Once more he wished to roam
And as he was leaving his mother
Who was standing on the quay
She threw her arms around his waist
And this to him did say ..

A mother’s love’s a blessing
No matter where you roam
Keep her while she’s living
You’ll miss her when she’s gone
Love her as in childhood
Though feeble, old and grey
For you’ll never miss a mother’s love
Till she’s buried beneath the clay.

And as the years go onwards
I’ll settle down in life
And choose a nice young colleen
And take her for my wife
And as the babes grow older
And climb around my knee
I’ll teach them the very same lesson
That my mother taught to me.

A mother’s love’s a blessing
No matter where you roam
Keep her while she’s living
You’ll miss her when she’s gone
Love her as in childhood
Though feeble, old and grey
For you’ll never miss a mother’s love
Till she’s buried beneath the clay.”

 

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Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ral

(That’s an Irish Lullaby)

by James Royce Shannon (1881 – 1946)

 

“Over In Killarney,
Many years ago,
My Mother sang a song to me
In tones so sweet and low;
Just a simple little ditty,
In her good old Irish way,
And I’d give the world to hear her sing
That song of hers today.

Chorus
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Too-ra-loo-ra-li,
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, hush now, don’t you cry!
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Too-ra-loo-ra-li,
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, that’s an Irish lullaby.

Oft, in dreams I wander
To that cot again.
I feel her arms a-hugging me
As when she held me then.
And I hear her voice a humming
To me as in days of yore,
When she used to rock me fast asleep
Outside the bedroom door.

Chorus

Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Too-ra-loo-ra-li,
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, hush now, don’t you cry!
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Too-ra-loo-ra-li,
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, that’s an Irish lullaby.

Oh I can hear that music
I can hear that song
Filling me with memories
Of a mother’s love so strong
Its melody still haunts me
These many years gone bye
Too ra loo ra loo ral
Until the day I die.”

 

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When All The Other Were Away At Mass

By Seamus Heaney (1939 – 2013)

 

“When all the others were away at Mass
I was all hers as we peeled potatoes.
They broke the silence, let fall one by one
Like solder weeping off the soldering iron:
Cold comforts set between us, things to share
Gleaming in a bucket of clean water.
And again let fall…….”

~ From New Selected Poems 1966-1987, Faber and Faber Ltd.

 

This poem recently topped an RTÉ poll which sought to find the best loved Irish poem of the last century.  This beautiful piece recalls a morning of the poet’s youth, shared with his mother, while peeling potatoes. You can read the complete poem and learn more about this great honor for the late Seamus Heaney here.

For more Irish blessings and sayings about mothers, why not check out my post ‘Wise Old Words From Ireland For Mother’s Day’.

And so, I wish you all a very happy Mother’s Day. Have a lovely day celebrating the loving caring mothers in your life.

Slán agus beannacht,

(Goodbye and blessings),

 

Irish American Mom