A Broadside: No. 2 Sixth Year
Title
A Broadside: No. 2 Sixth Year
Subject
Ireland
Cuala Press
A Broadside
Irish Literary Revival
The Gaelic Revival
Description
PUBLISHED MONTHLY BY E. C. YEATS AT THE CUALA PRESS, CHURCHTOWN, DUNDRUM, COUNTY DUBLIN. SUBSCRIPTION TWELVE SHILLINGS A YEAR POST FREE.
300 copies only.
300 copies only.
The woodcut on page [3] has caption: "Two Tinkers". Signed by Jack B. Yeats.
Creator
E. C. Yeats
Jack B. Yeats
Publisher
Cuala Press
Date
July, 1913
Text
GRANUAILE
As through the north as I walked to view the shamrock plain
I stood awhile where Nature smiled, to view the rocks and streams,
On a matron fair I fixed my eyes beneath a fertile vale
As she sang her song it was on the wrong of poor old Granuaile.
Her head was bare and her grey hair over her eyes hung down,
Her waist and neck, her hands and feet, with iron chains were bound;
Her pensive strain and plaintive wail mingled with the evening gale,
And the song she sung with mournful air- 'I am poor old Granuaile.'
The gown she wore was stained with gore by a rufian band,
Her lips so sweet that monarchs kissed are now grown pale and wan;
The tears of grief fell from her eyes - each one as large as hail -
None could express the deep distress of poor old Granuaile.
On her harp she leaned and this exclaimed, 'My royal Brian is gone,
Who in his day he drove away the tyrants every one;
On Clontarf's plains against the Danes his faction did prevail,
Brave Brian Boru cut their lines through and freed old Granuaile.
But now, alas! I must confess avengers I have none,
There's no brave lord to wave his sword in my defence - not one;
My enemies with cruel mighty blows they do assail,
The flesh they take clean off the bones of poor old Granuaile.
These three hundred years the briny tears has flowed down from my eyes,
I may curse the day that Henry made me proud Albion's prize;
From that day down with chains I'm bound, no wonder I look pale,
My blood they did drain from every vein of poor old Granuaile.
There was a Lord came from the South, he wore a laurel crown,
Saying, 'Grania dear, be of good cheer, no longer you'll be bound.
I am the man they call great Dan, who never yet did fail,
I've got the Bill for to fulfil your wishes Granuaile.'
With blood besmeared and bathed in tears her harp she sweetly strung,
And on her chains with mournful air the rusty chord she rung.
Her voice so clear sounded on my ears, at length my strength did fail,
I went away and this did say, God help you Granuaile!
As through the north as I walked to view the shamrock plain
I stood awhile where Nature smiled, to view the rocks and streams,
On a matron fair I fixed my eyes beneath a fertile vale
As she sang her song it was on the wrong of poor old Granuaile.
Her head was bare and her grey hair over her eyes hung down,
Her waist and neck, her hands and feet, with iron chains were bound;
Her pensive strain and plaintive wail mingled with the evening gale,
And the song she sung with mournful air- 'I am poor old Granuaile.'
The gown she wore was stained with gore by a rufian band,
Her lips so sweet that monarchs kissed are now grown pale and wan;
The tears of grief fell from her eyes - each one as large as hail -
None could express the deep distress of poor old Granuaile.
On her harp she leaned and this exclaimed, 'My royal Brian is gone,
Who in his day he drove away the tyrants every one;
On Clontarf's plains against the Danes his faction did prevail,
Brave Brian Boru cut their lines through and freed old Granuaile.
But now, alas! I must confess avengers I have none,
There's no brave lord to wave his sword in my defence - not one;
My enemies with cruel mighty blows they do assail,
The flesh they take clean off the bones of poor old Granuaile.
These three hundred years the briny tears has flowed down from my eyes,
I may curse the day that Henry made me proud Albion's prize;
From that day down with chains I'm bound, no wonder I look pale,
My blood they did drain from every vein of poor old Granuaile.
There was a Lord came from the South, he wore a laurel crown,
Saying, 'Grania dear, be of good cheer, no longer you'll be bound.
I am the man they call great Dan, who never yet did fail,
I've got the Bill for to fulfil your wishes Granuaile.'
With blood besmeared and bathed in tears her harp she sweetly strung,
And on her chains with mournful air the rusty chord she rung.
Her voice so clear sounded on my ears, at length my strength did fail,
I went away and this did say, God help you Granuaile!
Original Format
Broadside
Files
Collection
Citation
E. C. Yeats and Jack B. Yeats, “A Broadside: No. 2 Sixth Year,” Linda Lear Center Digital Collections and Exhibitions, accessed April 26, 2024, https://lc-digital.conncoll.edu/items/show/1408.