William Drennan (1754 – 1820), a physician, poet, educationalist and political radical, was one of the chief architects of the Society of United Irishmen. He is also known as the first to refer in print to Ireland as "the emerald isle" in his poem "When Erin first rose".
Born in Belfast in 1754, William was son to Reverend Thomas Drennan ... more »
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William Drennan Poems
When Erin First Rose
When Erin first rose from the dark swelling flood, God bless'd the green island and saw it was good; The em'rald of Europe, it sparkled and shone,
The Wake of William Orr
Here our murdered brother lies - Wake him not with women's cries; Mourn the way that manhood ought; Sit in silent trance of thought.
My Country! Shall I mourn, or Bless, Thy tame and wretched happiness? 'Tis true! The vast atlantic tide
The Wild Geese
How solemn sad by Shannon's flood The blush of morning sun appears! To men who gave for us their blood, Ah! what can woman give but tears?
Who took me from my mother's arms, And, smiling at her soft alarms, Showed me the world and Nature's charms?
O Sweeter Than The Flagrant Flower
O sweeter than the fragrant flower, At evening's dewy close, The will, united with the power, To succour human woes!
Charity to Man
Oh, sweeter than the sweetest flower, At ev'ning's dewy close, The will, united with the power To succour human woes!
A Song from the Irish
Branch of the sweet and early rose, That in the purest beauty grows, So passing sweet to smell and sight, On whom shalt thou bestow delight?
Comments about William Drennan
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
When Erin First Rose
When Erin first rose from the dark swelling flood,
God bless'd the green island and saw it was good;
The em'rald of Europe, it sparkled and shone,
In the ring of the world the most precious stone.
In her sun, in her soil, in her station thrice blest,
With her back towards Britain, her face to the West,
Erin stands proudly insular, on her steep shore,
And strikes her high harp 'mid the ocean's deep roar.
But when its soft tones seem to mourn and to weep,
The dark chain of silence is thrown o'er the deep;
At the thought of the past the tears gush from her ...