Francis Ledwidge

Rating: 5
Rating: 5

Francis Ledwidge Biography

Francis Edward Ledwidge was an Irish war poet from County Meath. Sometimes known as the "poet of the blackbirds", he was killed in action at the Battle of Passchendaele during World War I.

Early Life

Ledwidge was born at Janeville, Slane, in Ireland, the eighth of nine children in a poverty-stricken family. His parents, Patrick Ledwidge (the Ledwidge family, from Shropshire, was granted land in Meath after the Norman invasion) and wife Anne Lynch (1853–1926), believed in giving their children the best education they could afford. But when Francis was only five his father Patrick died prematurely, which forced his wife and the children out to work at an early age. Francis left the local national school aged thirteen, and while he continued to self-educate himself, he worked at ...

Francis Ledwidge Comments

Charles Zult 01 March 2016

Nice

3 3 Reply
Kelly 17 February 2019

I just discovered this gentleman. " Soliloquy" particularly touches me. His intuition—maybe anxiety—is astounding, especially in that his almost premonitory poems bespeak his demise.

2 0 Reply
Caitlin 12 October 2018

I think that Francis Ledwidge was very interesting and i think that he had a hard childhood. His poems are very passionate.

3 1 Reply
Thomas 03 May 2018

Last week, I visited his monument in Belgium. It gave me goosebumps. Than I went home and had with my wife while she was drinking Nesquick chocolate milk. But after all he ain't too bad. Some poems are pretty and others are gruell. Next week I go to London, to go to the hookers. because my wife doens't give good succ.

4 8 Reply
Amy Elliott 04 February 2018

Good poet I'm currently learning about him

5 2 Reply
Dave Keech 15 December 2017

Brilliant poet and true Irish patriot. R.I.P Francis

4 4 Reply

The Best Poem Of Francis Ledwidge

Soliloquy

When I was young I had a care
Lest I should cheat me of my share
Of that which makes it sweet to strive
For life, and dying still survive,
A name in sunshine written higher
Than lark or poet dare aspire.

But I grew weary doing well.
Besides, 'twas sweeter in that hell,
Down with the loud banditti people
Who robbed the orchards, climbed the steeple
For jackdaws' eyes and made the cock
Crow ere 'twas daylight on the clock.
I was so very bad the neighbours
Spoke of me at their daily labours.

And now I'm drinking wine in France,
The helpless child of circumstance.
To-morrow will be loud with war,
How will I be accounted for?

It is too late now to retrieve
A fallen dream, too late to grieve
A name unmade, but not too late
To thank the gods for what is great;
A keen-edged sword, a soldier's heart,
Is greater than a poet's art.
And greater than a poet's fame
A little grave that has no name.

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Francis Ledwidge Popularity

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