Thomas Davis

(14 October 1814 – 16 September 1845 / Mallow / County Cork / Ireland)

Thomas Davis Poems

1. A Nation Once Again 8/1/2012
2. A Song For The Irish Militia 8/1/2012
3. Blind Mary 8/1/2012
4. Celts And Saxons 8/1/2012
5. Clare's Dragoons 8/1/2012
6. Fontenoy 8/1/2012
7. Lament For The Death Of Eoghan Ruadh O'Neill 8/1/2012
8. Love And War 8/1/2012
9. My Grave 8/1/2012
10. My Land 8/1/2012
11. Nationality 8/1/2012
12. O'Brien Of Ara 8/1/2012
13. O'Connell's Statue 8/1/2012
14. Oh! The Marriage 8/1/2012
15. Orange And Green Will Carry The Day 8/1/2012
16. Our Own Again 8/1/2012
17. Self-Reliance 8/1/2012
18. The Battle Eve Of The Brigade 8/1/2012
19. The Boatman Of Kinsale 8/1/2012
20. The Burial 8/1/2012
21. The Dugannon Convention 8/1/2012
22. The Flower Of Finae 8/1/2012
23. The Geraldines 5/10/2012
24. The Girl Of Dunbwy 8/1/2012
25. The Green Above The Red 8/1/2012
26. The Lost Path 8/1/2012
27. The Penal Days 8/1/2012
28. The Right Road 8/1/2012
29. The Sack Of Baltimore 8/1/2012
30. The Surprise Of Cremona 8/1/2012
31. The Vow Of Tipperary 8/1/2012
32. The West's Asleep 8/1/2012
33. Tipperary 8/1/2012
34. Tone's Grave 8/1/2012
35. We Must Not Fail 8/1/2012
Best Poem of Thomas Davis

The Green Above The Red

Full often when our fathers saw the Red above the Green,
They rose in rude but fierce array, with sabre, pike and scian,
And over many a noble town, and many a field of dead,
They proudly set the Irish Green above the English Red.

But in the end throughout the land, the shameful sight was seen-
The English Red in triumph high above the Irish Green;
But well they died in breach and field, who, as their spirits fled,
Still saw the Green maintain its place above the English Red.

And they who saw, in after times, the Red above the Green
Were withered as the ...

Read the full of The Green Above The Red

O'Connell's Statue

Chisel the likeness of The Chief,
Not in gaiety, nor grief;
Change not by your art to stone,
Ireland's laugh, or Ireland's moan.
Dark her tale, and none can tell
Its fearful chronicle so well.
Her frame is bent-her wounds are deep
Who, like him, her woes can weep?

[Hata Bildir]