Anna Johnston MacManus
Biography of Anna Johnston MacManus
Anna Johnston MacManus (3 December 1866 – 21 April 1902) was an Irish writer and poet. She is best-known for the ballad Roddy McCorley and the Song of Ciabhán; the latter was set to music by Ivor Gurney.
She and Alice Milligan published two nationalist publications, The Northern Patriot and (later) The Shan Van Vocht, which was published from 1896 monthly until 1899.
Anna Johnston MacManus's Works:
* The Four Winds of Eirinn (1902) - poems
* The Passionate Hearts (1903) - poems
* In the Celtic Past (1904) - stories
* We Sang for Ireland: Poems of Ethna Carbery, Séamus MacManus, Alice Milligan (1950) - poetry
Anna Johnston MacManus Poems
I know a purple moorland where a blue loch lies, Where the lonely plover circles, and the peewit cries,
The Green Woods Of Truagh
In the green woods of Truagh we met without fear, Your kiss on my lips, and your voice in my ear,
The Heathery Hill
I MIND it well, and I see it yet In a halo of sunset glory, When I climbed knee-deep through the gorse and fern To keep my tryst with Rory.
The Song Of Ciabhan
To the Isle of Peace I turn our prow: No angry seas Shall fright you now;
Beannacht leat! I hold your hand in mine, I say The parting words this parting day–
A Ballad Of Galway
The market place is all astir, The sombre streets are gay, And lo! a stately galleon Lies anchored in the Bay–
A New Year’s Song (1898)
What shall the year bring, fraught with omen, What shall the core of its message be? Tramp of battle, and bright swords flashing,
The steeds of the Black Wind race Frost-shod and fleet, Where you hide from my love your face, And stay your feet:
Here is the road that you must climb with me, This road that winds between the hill and sea, And leads to where our quiet home shall be.
O, Páistín Fionn , but it vexed her sore, The day you turned from your mother's door
Shiela Ní Gara
SHIELA NÍ GARA, it is lonesome where you bide, With the plover circling over and the sagans spreading wide,
The Curse Of Mora
The fretted fires of Mora Blew o'er him in the night, He thrills no more at loving, Nor weeps for lost delight,
The Sad Song Of Finian
I was sent adrift on the waves of the world, Ochón! ochón! All for the sake of the yellow-curled Slender girl that I wished my own.
The Shadow House Of Lugh
Dream-fair, beside dream waters, it stands alone: A winging thought of Lugh made its corner stone:
Now that the gates are shut on all I cherished,
O wistful Love, I pray,
Blow no more haunting scents of roses perished,
About my lonely way.
Take from me memory of happy laughter,
Of kisses more than kind:
And that I may not meet his eyes hereafter,
I pray thee strike me blind.