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Long Ireland Poems | Long Ireland Poetry

Long Ireland Poems. Below are the most popular long Ireland by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ireland poems by poem length and keyword.

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Long Poems
Long poem by Jerry T Curtis | Details |

Finn, Me and McGee

Me un Finn came  'round

In what did we found

The Pub, wid a very large lock

Aye keep the key where no one cann see

Said our find mate, Erik McJock

So, let us awl in, out spurted  Finn

Cus drinkin' is what were intendin' 

Then  McJock with  wide  eyes

Said out with a cry, "Ow much

You intend apon spendin' "

Well don't look at me

Said Wee luck Mcgee

I've been tapped out fur mo than a week

So I looked awl around and instinctively found

No one wanted teh speak

I said "Dats just fine"

And in lew of badd times

I reached  for my purse at my side,

"Bot it 'ad  large 'ole

Wer der money should go

So,I quess I'll be sayin Goodby"

"I say not so fast"

Came MacJocks voice alas

As he magically conjured da key

I'll bye you one drink, an don't be a Fink

"Cause dat awl you'd be gettin' for free

"You're a Lads lad " said Finn

As he barged 'is way in

Leadin' the mob to the bar

MacJock went 'round and set glasses down

Den Produced a very large jar

We all looked at da jar

Und we awl scratched our 'eads

In wonderin' what it moight be

Bot we was unable, for it hadn't a label

And it certainly was"t white tea

Den MacJock took the vessel

Und stringently wrestled 

Da lid dat was on wicked toight

Und as we grew near, we awl shared da fear

Dat it moightn't be enought for da night

Bot MacJock Was agreeing 

Da whot we were seein'

Was aged in an old crock

One of these be, equal to three

Of da best stuff  'e 'ad in stock

So MacJock poured the first

To quench old Finn's thirst

Then he poured one for me and the fellers 

There in my ear he said it quiet clear

"I keep the best stuff down here in the cellar"

Finn was da first

For betta or worst

To shoot down the shot

'E was eye'n

Den Wee luk McGee

Said "As long as it's free

I don't mind a bit dat I'm try'n "

The other lads, now

Pressed a glass to dier brow

In salute to dier Patron MacJock

Dey den knocked dem awl back

Gave the bar a loud whack 

While findin' it to  'ard teh talk

It went down quite easy

Din made us all queazy 

And as soon as I was able teh speak

I ask Ol' MacJock

What da heck's in dat crock

As I stilt felt the flush in me cheeks

MacJock gave a laugh, in his chair he reeled back

And gave a good slap on his knee

Then turned to pour, each member one more

Which almost knocked over McGee

McGee started off

With a wee nervous cough 

Din stuttered out a few words

"As long as you're  buyin' Dere's no use denyin'

I must let a notch out me gird

We all stood there slapin'

McGees back and laughin'

As we slowly lifted our drinks

I'll make a grand toast

Said I to our 'ost

And  gave old MacJock a wink

I said It is true

No utter wid do

Wot MacJock as dun fur us

So let's us salute 

That big tall gallute 

So din pour us another he must

Every time, dat he poured

There appeared a bit more

Of dat nectar, contained by the jar

Bot we didna take notice

Of the chance of sclerosis

There's no way we were leave'in da bar

MacJock kept on serving

Widout need of conserving

Dere seem to be plenty for awl

And he quickly would pour

Not a glass he'd ignored

When one of us lads made the call
.................................................. to be continued

Long poem by Ian Thomas Phillips | Details |

Song of Saint Patrick - part 2 - flight


One day, Maewyn was in the pasture,
	Tending his master's herds,
		When he heard spoken, clear as a spring,
	These few simple words,
			"Your ship is ready." the voice did say,
				He started then to run		
					And didn't stop to take a break
				'Til long had set the sun.

Maewyn's will was iron strong,
	His faith never fell short,
		It carried him his journey's length,
	Until he found the port,
			Out of which was chosen
				For him, back home, to sail
					-But this is just the beginning
				Of Maewyn Succet's tale.

Maewyn Succet expressed his thanks
	For arriving to the ship,
		"How kind of my creator
	To provide me with this trip!
			I see every situation
				As God's intended test
					And, in everyone that follows,
				I shall serve him at my best."

Young Maewyn Succet obtained his fare
	And boarded the vessel,
		But he was fraught with conflict,
	With which long he would wrestle,
			 But, not many hours effervesced
				After the ship embarked
					When the wind blew in, waters grew rough
				And the sky bloomed dark.

All hands were called upon the deck
	To prepare for the storm;
		The pagan fishermen and merchants
	Saw, from the deep, arise a wicked form.
			Each of them tried to appease its wrath
				With devil witchery
					Only to be swept away
				In the seething surgings of the sea

'Til Maewyn stood upon the deck
	Where others cast a curse
		And, in his heart, recited
	A simple line of verse,
			Then he spoke a loud
				A heartfelt, humble prayer.
					Before he finished giving thanks,
				Warm-winged breezes filled the air.

The ship was saved, the storm dissolved
	As quickly as it came,
		The survivors cast off their idols
	Calling Maewyn by the name,
			Father of the People (Patricus),
				Through whose faith unshaken
					Kept the people of the ship
				From being overtaken.

The passengers had a pleasant voyage
	And made it back to home,
		But Patrick had hundreds of miles,
	He still would have to roam
			Before he reached his homeland,
				With his family to reunite-
					He still had many dangers
				He yet would have to fight.

Long poem by Ian Thomas Phillips | Details |

Song of Saint Patrick - part 5 - deeds


Patrick traveled lightly, 
	He carried but his needed load
		And made himself as useful 
	As he could along the road.
			He aided all who asked him,
				Offering a hand where'er he went
					And they, pagan or not, knew in his form
				A blessing had been sent.

He made it, at last, to Ireland
	And saw that he was needed there,
		For, by the tribal rulers,
	Hope in life had been made bare;
			In his Creator's will for him,
				Patrick was most sure--
					That in his steadfast faith in God
				Would lay any problem's cure.

Patrick was a foreigner, 
	He had no wordly protection
		As he wandered through the Counties,
	Which were then tribal sections.
			Gifts and money, Patrick refused,
				For conversion God did send
					Him among the tribes and chieftains, 
				this rarely made a friend.

(Patrick never knew 
	That by the Druids long before
		A vision had been prophesied,
	A piece of their fathers' lore
			About a harsh reformer,
				From whose table would fly impiety	
					And those, who chose to follow him,
				In blindness would agree.)

Patrick preached the gospel,
	Forgiveness and mercy
		And taught the Irish people
	Of the soul lasting eternity,
			Though some would not hear or objected,
				Some could not resist-
					There were so many converts
				With no need to insist.

The people told that Patrick
	Truly loved to teach
		And time flew from his awareness
	When he started to preach,
		(He carried a gnarled staff of Ash
			Where ever he went)
				One night he preached so long,
			The stick, roots into the ground, had sent!

Once Patrick lit a fire
	Upon Slane hill in County Meath.
		Billows of smoke filled the air
	And rose above the heath,
			He did this in defiance
				Of Leoghary, who was king
					And through Patricks brave resistance,
				Christ's teachings, through, did ring:

Many pagans hauled up buckets,
	The whole hillside they drenched,
		But Patrick's Paschal fire
	But by him could be quenched.
			It was upon this hillside
				Patrick dispelled pagan divinity
					By plucking the trefoil shamrock
				To illustrate the Trinity.

Long poem by Ian Thomas Phillips | Details |

Song of Saint Patrick - part 3 - return


Patrick had to deter the robbers 
	And thieves he met along the road,
		Ward off viscious creatures,
	Yet steadily he strode
			Until, at last, he came upon
				A landmark he well knew
					And saw that he had triumphed over
				Obstacles not a few.

He made it back to his family,
	Into the arms of his mom and dad
		(No tongue can express the emotion
	The three of them then had),
			"I made it through great hardship
				And I only have to say:
					The Lord who freely giveth
				Doth also take away."

Patrick stayed in Britain,
	But his heart started to burn
		Not after adventure,
	But for greater things he yearned.
			One night his mission came to him
				As he sat in meditative trance:
					He was called to monastic studies,
				To study with the church in France,

But something was not settled,
	Nor was his conscience still,
		He felt that there was some obligation
	Yet to be fulfilled.
			But then he knew for certain
				His duty burned brightly as a flame-
					He must return to his former master
				And pay the ransome on his name.

Patrick wandered back to Ireland
	To pay his freedom's fare
		And on his journey, travelers he met
	Going to and from there,
			Confused with tribal teachings
				And pagan rite belief;
					Though this was their religion
				They had but small relief.

When, at last, Patrick arrived
	On his old master's land
		He was met by men on horseback,
	-A formidable band-
			They knew, at once who Patrick was 
				And using undue force,
					They beat and bound the runaway
				And set him on a horse.

He was brought to his old master,
	The men seeking a reward,
		"And now it comes that you must die!"
	He said, drawing his sword.
			"I have come to buy my freedom!"
				Patrick, from his own neck, tore
					A sack of gold, his life's ransome
				And threw it on the floor. 

Patrick was loosed from what bonds 
	Of debt he felt he owed
		And to his former master,
	Duty and right he showed.
			Patrick stayed a week or so
				Teaching Christianity
					And before Patrick left for home,
				The men could clearer see.

Long poem by Dorine R Spruill | Details |

Irish Slaves

Once upon a time we all used to live together. By we I mean blacks and whites. The people from Ireland 'Irish" lived with black Caribbeans. They were shipped from Ireland as slaves to west indian masters. they settled in a place called Montserrat. None of the were freed from slavery. They never had a law passed to free Irish slaves. However, after they finished their work of their masters they  eventually were set free. 
    Blacks lived with some Irish whites and British whites. They had to travel to Africa to gather people who knew nothing about slaves or slavery. They couldn't capture west indian people because that's where they came from. They used the money collected from their masters to buy their new slaves. African slaves were indeed freed by president Abraham Lincoln. Who wrote and signed the Emancipation Proclamation on January 1, 1863. 
    Even after slavery blacks and whites continued to live and work together. Some even had children by their masters. Things were this way for years. All they had was each other. All they knew was each other. The only two races forced to live together. Can't get along today in today's society. These facts maybe be a harsh reality, but oh so true.
They only two races of people that were not slaves were the Spanish and Italians.  They were never owned, sold, or brought by a black or white man. They fought for their belief and freedom. Also demanded respect so they would not have to bow down to any master. They never got captured and beat. They did the beatings and never got beat. They also lived in black neighborhoods. Which  sometimes caused riots. rivalries, and many fights.  Due to they fact that both races are very similar in alot of ways.
    Overall, blacks and whites both endured slavery to some extreme. Our ancestors would, protest, march, died, and sacrificed for our freedom today. So I don't understand why there is so much hate in the world today. If you don't know your past;you won't be able to handle your future. You will be without understanding. History does repeat itself. Thank You!

Long poem by Ian Thomas Phillips | Details |

Song of Saint Patrick - part 4 - Matriculation


Back to home, Patrick did go,
	For in his heart he knew
		It was time to study with the church,
	That this he had to do.
			He told his parents when he got home
				That he must go to France
					And with great strength, he again departed,
				Tears filling this last glance.

Patrick studied his Latin
	And the dogma in Lorraine
		And in his learning of the scripture, 
	He did not have to strain,
			His past with his present learning
				Melded with great coordination
					And before year 428,
				Hehad earned his ordination.

Patrick journeyed back to home,
	His familiy held a feast
		To celebrate his return
	And his becoming a priest-
			He followed in the footsteps
				Of his father and grandpa,
					Patrick measured up an equal
				To the hope, in him, they saw.

One late summer evening, 
	Patrick had this dream:
		Near the Woods of Foccult
	Within a mist shrouding a stream
			Came the voice of the Irish people
				-Together something tremendous-
					Asking him to return there,
				To, "Come and walk among us!"

Patrick became aware
	That in order to play his part
		That God had assigned to him,
	He would have to depart
			Forever from his homeland
				So as to proselytize
					The heathen Irish pagans,
				Though sorrow filled his eyes.

He knew there would be no return,
	He would not see home again
		Or sit among his family
	In their home upon the fenn,
			But this was understood by all,
				His parents exuded joy
					About this wonderful mission--
				They were proud of their boy. 

So, for the last time from Britain
	Patrick traveled North on foot
		To find where he was needed,
	Where he was to be put.
			This time, his journey was as if
				He had never seen
					The beauty of the glenns and hollocks
				Of the richest, deepest green.

Patrick journeyed long and far
	Making camp in the twilight
		And as the distance grew
	He knew that he was right,
			"To help my fellow man 
				Is why, from home, I've gone."
					And every day, his camp was broke
				Before the light of dawn.

Long poem by liam mcdaid | Details |

poisonously enchanted mushrooms so luscious rare

one fine sunny morning dazzling golden sunrise 
dancing with rays of magical sunshine 
dewdrops on silver webs glistening drops
he began whistling and dancing
picking wild mushrooms on the forest floor 
to make magic wonder and happenings occur
he begins building and stoking the fire
throwing turf on until red hot
sticks the pot over the flicking flames 
stirring emotions inside bubble and steam
throws in a mountain of carrots, peas, herbs 
with lots of other sorts of raw veggies
adding a rare drop of mountain spirits . . . 

next freeing a soul adding an alchemic fuel so rare
making himself a most magical and delicious stew
as he cooked he began devouring the stew more and more
then slowly he felt himself floating high so high 
in a bubble so wonderful and dear and so clear 
picked up by a pocket of air and floating even more
when . . . 
a lovely fairy princess appears gossamer wings your light
and then appearing again under a radiant rainbow bridge 
and with one cherished and most special romantic kiss
he began waltzing with her to a melody so haunting yet pretty
and while lost in this mystical trancelike moment of splendor  
the fairy princess stole his heart that was pure gold
and when he came around alone—so alone
an icy cold shiver then ran down his very spine
it was just a silly old leprechaun dream and all he thought
as I see her magic sparkling potions cast on someone else too
the big ethereal and mystical bubble of fairy elves just burst
wide open for him and all others to see while the elves 
laughed raucously so hard with little warm tears running down 
their little rosy cheeks . . . 

the leprechaun pondered—next time Me thinks Me be more
careful with them mushrooms Me happily picks on the forest floor—
and stick to drinkin’ the old mountain forest dew with some
lovely luscious shots of the oldest Irish whiskey with a stout nip o’ gin . . . . 

Liam McDaid and Gary Bateman – A Collaborated Poem, Copyright © 
All Rights Reserved (December 3, 2014)

Long poem by Eileen R. Kelly | Details |

All Blacks 27 Ireland 17...its a try!

they're looking cool, 
the haka, with passion lots 
of aggression, 

All blacks looking to disrupt, 
opening minutes of the game, 

hands on the ball, 
first out of the line outs 
lovely little chip 

chip it's on... 
playing advantage 
it's hosing down 

it's pretty solid-gone blind side 
solid scrum, "engage"! 
set ball 

collapse far side 
cross and hold 
away from the tackle 
10 out from the 22 

broken tackle 
17 minutes gone, 7-0 
straight off the top 

good burst, quick hands 
chase cross kick 
wasted opportunity 

solid hit 
knocked on! 
quick turnover 
All blacks turn this one... 

kicked into touch 
bind up! bind up! 

loose ball, hit the rack hard- 
drives around the fringe 
two players off side 

just out from the 22 
keen to keep it alive 
5 metre mark all blacks looking 

looking for the gap 
on the charge 
Ireland broken through All black 
easy try, ...bounced away 

back on the attack 
good drive 
launch the attack 

here comes the bullet 
closing the gap 
come on, put it in! 

crunch and hold 
stepping his way through 
Bit of an Oscar there! 

take it right to the limit 
squeezed at the line outs 
going for drop goal-...wide, 

lapse of concentration 
cost Ireland many metres 
great pressure 

scrum feed 
sits up well 
test match on knife edge 

drills another behind 
Ireland on the attack 
All black bench, very active 

absorbing stuff 
good delivery 
running hard past a couple 

All blacks snap it up 
to the charge 
Irish defense holding 

All blacks surviving off Irish errors 
5 metres out 
2 players off side 

interfering with presentation 
going for the push over 
looking for a better hit 
best on the blind side 

All blacks between the posts 
got the momentum 
He's having a big game 

Big moment 
the flag is up 

All blacks heading for the line... 
All blacks respond when the 
squeeze in on...It's a TRY! 

All blacks 27 Ireland 17 

Long poem by Andrew Crisci | Details | . You can read it on' st_url='' st_title='A PUPPY'S CRY '>


Irene went for her usual morning walk around six;
the August breeze was dry and fragrantly crisp,
one could tell she was injured as her aching hips
made her miss a step as she bit on her weathered lips.

Not far from her stone cottage, there was a cave never hit by sun rays,
it was hidden from sight by shrubs and weeds that almost
covered her cavity and at nighttime it seemed a ghost;
wasn't it the refuge of persecuted Christians when Celts were pagans?

The streets were very narrow and cracked cobblestones
made her slow down...using caution could have prevented a serious sprain;
an athlete is known for strength and endurance and she fought pain
by looking down and running downhill towards the treeless hills.

Irene had two wonderful kids: one was a gorgeous boy and the other a pretty girl, 
and they both had hair as golden wheat and eyes as the wild Irish Sea;
and whispering to herself, " I will miss my walks in the Fall with Kelly and Bill...
and after the baby is born, wouldn't I stare out of the window with melancholy?"

While pondering that thought, she heard a puppy's cry coming out of the dark cave
that gave her goose bumps and searching carefully she saw the pitiless animal
struggling on three legs, but the forth leg was badly injured or broken by the fall;
rapidly she grabbed the long rope and started her descend as a coffin into a grave.

Helen hit ground hard and that startled the poor puppy laying on a plate of chrome,
" You are safe with me and because I've found you in this cave, I'm going to 
name you Cavy, lucky pooch! This bad accident was a turning point for you!"
And he barked for approval, being happy to have survived and found a new home.

Long poem by peter walsh | Details |

Parasites Paupers and Presidents

Oh God what is wrong with your people
Can you feel it, the pain and the loss
Are we each to be martyred and broken
Our sentence to end on the cross

The world cries in vain, for a leader
You killer, you pervert, you queer
As each tears the other, to pieces
Still they clamber to sit on that chair

There are those that wilfully plunder
The riches they claim, as their right
Though it’s tearing their neighbour, asunder
So what! that’s the way of the fight

Political puppets still pending
On election results, for to see
Who will skin from the hides of the lowly
For their flesh or their lucre to bleed

Keep changing their juxtapositions
One falls and another one rises
From party to party, they party
Securing, political prizes

Policies, policies, policies
Whilst we drown in a whirlpool, of shit
Political correctness abounds
If themselves aren’t the victims of it

How the dead they must roll, in their graves
As daily they’re Joined, by their kin
As political promise piles higher
Eclipsed by the weight of their sins

A country of saints and of scholars
Of singers, of poets and of bards
Condescension and greed, are her virtues
Our fate’s in the twist, of the cards

We wait, with the Wonder of children
A president, let us rejoice
A future of change, in the making
A fool, without even a voice

Break the chains, of the bastards, before you
Can’t you see, we’re all sick of the lies
As suicides mount up, daily
Can’t you hear it, the pain in their cries

A leader who’ll fight for the people
In these times, that are hotter than Hell
Will no-one stand tall, for the feeble
Only history ….. and time, it will tell

Long Poems