Classic Poem

Ah! liberal-handed lady, though
Round Eire's shore the generous wave
Ebbs now, in thee 'tis still at flow;
No marvel that the bard's thy slave.

A lady passionate for song,
True friend of all the bardic kind,
Who cleaves to her can scarce go wrong;
Song to her loaned doth interest find.

The good tradition holds no more
Of open-handedness to art;
On later manners men set store
And close their purse-strings and their heart.

Now that the giving spirit's gone
And wealth and art are by the ears,
That poet's mad who labours on
And gives to song his wasted years.

In ancient Ulster as of old
Dwelt Liberality of right;
Now Ulster hearts are changed and cold,
From all that province she takes flight.

She's chased from Munster; Connacht too
Gives her no welcome as of yore;
The hapless hunger-stricken crew
Know Liberality no more.

She's known no more where the wide plain
Of Leinster spreads beneath the skies;
Unless another shape she's ta'en,
That hides her from the poet's eyes.

A mist has caught her from our sight,
A druid mist that hides her o'er;
Ask but a lodging for the night
And all men turn you from the door.