An Irish Dance

By Joseph Latimer


Poets may sing in their classic lays
Of the witching strains of the voiceful lyre,
Of the harp-notes woke by the Cymric bards
To nerve their chiefs with the battle fire;
But give me the notes of the mellow flute
As through the weklin they softly steal,
With all the pleasure they evoke
In an Irish jig or a rousing reel.

Poets may sing in their varied tongues
The intoxication of waltzes sweet,
How in spirit the dancers whirl and glide
With a dreamy movement of forms and feet;
But give me an Irish lad and lass,
In a barn where the flute’s soft echoes peal,
As they merrily chase the flying hours
In a lively jig or a rousing reel.

Give me the songs of my own dear land,
Give me it’s many pleasures too,
Give me the courage of it’s sons-
It’s graceful daughters, with hearts so true;
And I’d rather the joys of one sweet hour
Than any that other lands reveal,
To trip to the sounds of the mellow flute
In an Irish jog or a rousing reel.