Francis Ledwidge

(19 August 1887 – 31 July 1917 / Janeville, Slane)

Francis Ledwidge Poems

41. To One Dead 1/3/2003
42. A Soldier's Grave 4/16/2010
43. Lament For The Poets: 1916 1/3/2003
44. A Rainy Day In April 1/3/2003
45. Behind The Closed Eye 1/3/2003
46. A Little Boy In The Morning 1/3/2003
47. My Mother 1/3/2003
48. Fairies 4/16/2010
49. Soliloquy 1/3/2003

Comments about Francis Ledwidge

  • Amy Elliott (2/4/2018 6:39:00 AM)

    Good poet
    I'm currently learning about him

    1 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • Dave Keech (12/15/2017 7:16:00 AM)

    Brilliant poet and true Irish patriot.

    R.I.P Francis

  • Alan Matthews (8/17/2017 11:26:00 AM)

    Francis Ledwidge's submissions to the Drogheda Independent were, at the time, also being printed submission by submission in staves with the intention of publishing a book when the series ended. The series ended abruptly and the staves were put in to storage and ended up being dumped in 1976. One of the staves was saved and the book has finally been published in 2017 entitled Legends and Stories of the Boyne Side by Francis E. Ledwidge. available at more information is also available on facebook at thelostledwidge

  • Charles Zult (3/1/2016 12:18:00 AM)


Best Poem of Francis Ledwidge


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 ...

Read the full of Soliloquy

The Lost Ones

Somewhere is music from the linnets' bills,
And thro' the sunny flowers the bee-wings drone,
And white bells of convolvulus on hills
Of quiet May make silent ringing, blown
Hither and thither by the wind of showers,
And somewhere all the wandering birds have flown;
And the brown breath of Autumn chills the flowers.

But where are all the loves of long ago?

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