Irish poet Eoghan O'Caoimh 1656-1726 Upon the death of his Wife in 1707 and two years later his Son Art. Eoghan joined
the Priesthood and was ordained 1717. he was to become one of Erin's best writers not only of the bardic traditions from which
he was raised, but also for his deep writing on the ancestry of the Irish High Kings and the family names and places of the
clans. He died in his 66th year.
When tears bitterly lay the trace
of the image of her loving face
that dropped away sudden as a dream
of deaths silent stream.
His love, light gone upon the breeze
no moment holds where now his memories freeze
the banshee cries her wicked
drone upon the night
To gather his son Art, to his mothers sight.
Born dead to the day, His life in such disarray
wife and son prisms of the fragile clay
he wanders lonely to the
call, banished far
Like the shooting light of a falling star.
Ah! Old mother sod, how bear you the soul
to stock the fires of hell like burning coal
You waste of life, the perpetual
To bring poetic beauty to such an ending scream.
God the father, God the son
Deliver Eoghan from fates bitter run
Fill him to verse, the dialect of tone
fill his soul to bardic Bone.
Let words of love fill his lips full
the promise of the heavens, become his tool
Priest now Eoghan walks the path
far from the rages of death's wrath.
He spins the tales of ancient times
the history of the people, their grace, their crimes
The High Kings of Erin,
Tara's sweet fertile ground
Brought upon play of lip and vibrating sound.
Behold the host that here foregather
The souls soft whisper, the spread of matter
Equations all by barrier and
All that holds Erin's soil as sacred ground.
He passes on traditions old and deep
the world of the Fay's that within this land do sweep
The heritage of people,
a story old and worn
The battle of the weary, the visions torn.
Parish priest Eoghan O'Caoimh has become
the thundering voice of the heavens to some
A gentle man, that so loves
rich and full
The stories of his people, the history of you.
Beget the dream that rides the clouds
fancies far that herein enshrouds
The dialect of peoples, places, things
beat of a heart, the love that stings.
All riches, all profound
Intoned in the glory that poetry passes round
To love and be, as the stories that flee
symmetry of the garden, Life's eternal tree.
Sixty years to fill the fields
Love to love and the child it yields
Fill the vision to God's sweet face
here in death rejoin your race.