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St. Patrick's Day Poems

Table of Contents

  1. St. Patrick's Day by Annette Wynne
  2. St. Patrick's Day by Jean Blewett
  3. Saint Patrick by Edwin Markham
  4. Saint Patrick and the Shamrock by Phoebe A. Naylor
  5. Be Thou My Vision by Dallan Forgaill
  6. Shamrock by William Yancey Erwin
  7. A Bit of Shamrock by Mary Davis Reed
  8. A Bit o' Shamrock by Jean Blewett
  9. Ireland by Florence Kellett
  10. To the Land of the Harp by Florence Kellett
  11. Oh Erin, My Home by Florence Kellett
  12. I Dreamt and In My Dreams by Florence Kellett

    Poems About St. Patrick

  1. St. Patrick's Day

    by Annette Wynne

    It seems to me St. Patrick's Day
    By every rule should come in May
    Instead of when the March winds blow
    And buds still sleep beneath the snow;
    For then the fields would all be seen
    A-wearing of the emerald green
    Just like the flag so green and gay
    They carry on St. Patrick's Day;
    And all the night the wind would play
    Soft Irish croonings through the trees,
    Like some sad harp that far away
    Sighs in that isle beyond the seas;
    And so it seems St. Patrick's Day
    By every rule should come in May
    Instead of when the March winds blow,
    And blossoms sleep beneath the snow.

  2. St. Patrick's Day

    by Jean Blewett

    There’s an Isle, a green Isle, set in the sea,
    Here’s to the Saint that blessed it!
    And here’s to the billows wild and free
    That for centuries have caressed it!

    Here’s to the day when the men that roam
    Send longing eyes o’er the water!
    Here’s to the land that still spells home
    To each loyal son and daughter!

    Here’s to old Ireland—fair, I ween,
    With the blue skies stretched above her!
    Here’s to her shamrock warm and green,
    And here’s to the hearts that love her!

  3. Saint Patrick

    by Edwin Markham


    Wandered from the Antrim hills,
    Wandered from Killala's rills,
    He could hear upon the breeze
    Voices from the Irish seas.
    Folk of Fochlad called to him
    From their forest deep and dim;
    And in vision little hands
    Beckoned from the Irish lands,
    Where the western billows spoke
    With the Druid groves of oak.
    Evermore their cry did seem
    Calling, calling, through his dream:
    "Hasten with the flower of truth,
    Walk among us, holy youth!"


    When he spread his dauntless sail
    To the gladness of the gale,
    Glowering demons, mile on mile,
    Stood in league around the Isle,
    Laughing out their crackling rage,
    At the young, unfearing sage.
    There with lifted cross he came,
    Breathing low the Sacred Name,
    And the demons, form by form,
    Fled in fury down the storm.
    Over the Isle his spirit went
    Like fire across the firmament.
    Kings at Tara caught the word,
    Churl and kern and chieftain heard.
    Lo, the Druid's mystic rod
    Fell down withered before God!

    With the frost he kindled fire;
    Drove the snakes from brake and briar,
    Hurling out the writhing brood
    With the lightning of his rood.
    Once he stooped, and with his hand
    Traced a cross upon the sand;
    Then a wonder—from the ground
    Sprang a stream with silver sound;
    And a blind man kneeling there
    Laved his eyelids, whispering prayer.
    Then on his relighted eyes
    Rushed the splendor of the skies—
    Flashed the water's glancing bubble—
    Gleamed the gold across the stubble—
    Shined the roads that have no ends—
    Smiled the faces of old friends.


    And when Patrick fell on sleep,
    Twelve the days were, still and deep—
    Twelve the days, with never a night,
    Never a cloud across the light.
    Angels chanted out the hours
    Leaning from their sky-hung towers;
    Like a garden blown to bloom
    Was the sweetness round his tomb....

    Fable, legend, all are true:
    More than these did Patrick do!
    For he cleared the serpent den,
    Hiding in the hearts of men;
    Letting Love's bright fountain spring
    Into sweetest murmuring.
    Yes, the wise, heroic breed
    Bring us miracle indeed.
    On the dark he left God's smile,
    Lighting up Ierne's Isle;
    And forever lives his name
    As the rose upon her fame.

  4. Saint Patrick and the Shamrock

    by Phoebe A. Naylor

    When the Saint returned to Ireland,
    With his helpers, her to aid,
    Druids looked with scornful anger
    At the Saint so unafraid,
    As he told men of the Godhead—
    Three in one and one in Three.
    Three in person, one in Godhead,
    How could such a Being be?

    Stood the high born Maiden Fedelm,
    Daughter of the high king, she
    With companions now before him
    Questioning that mystery
    Vainly Patrick tried to show them
    But they could not understand.
    As the fields were green with Shamrocks
    One he took up in his hand.

    Showed them how the trefoil Shamrock
    Had three leaves upon one stem;
    And their pagan eyes were opened
    Till the truth was plain to them!
    So his followers wore the shamrock
    Reverencing the saint, who there
    Traveled end to end of Ireland
    Building churches everywhere.

  5. Be Thou My Vision

    by Dallan Forgaill

    Be Thou my vision, O Lord of my heart;
    Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art;
    Thou my best thought, by day or by night,
    Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.

    Be Thou my wisdom, and Thou my true word;
    I ever with Thee and Thou with me, Lord;
    Thou my great Father, I Thy true son;
    Thou in me dwelling, and I with Thee one.

    Be Thou my battle shield, sword for the fight;
    Be Thou my dignity, Thou my delight;
    Thou my soul’s shelter, Thou my high tower:
    Raise Thou me heav’nward, O power of my power.

    Riches I heed not, nor man’s empty praise,
    Thou mine inheritance, now and always:
    Thou and Thou only, first in my heart,
    High King of Heaven, my treasure Thou art.

    High King of Heaven, my victory won,
    May I reach heaven’s joys, O bright heaven’s Sun!
    Heart of my own heart, whatever befall,
    Still be my vision, O Ruler of all.

  6. St. Patrick's Day Poems About Ireland

  7. The Little Shamrock

    by William Yancey Erwin

    The golden harp again we bring,
    On this Saint Patrick's day;
    Though old the theme, the song we sing
    We'll put in this new way.

    God bless our sons for Jesus' sake,
    Where'er they chance to roam;
    May they a sprig of shamrock take,
    And kiss the Blarney Stone.

    God bless our lovely daughters, too,
    Who dwell in foreign lands;
    And may they ever keep in view
    For what the Shamrock stands.

    If hearts are tender, lips as sweet,
    As those who stay at home,
    They'll learn in youth to be discreet
    Without the Blarney Stone.

  8. A Bit of Shamrock

    by Mary Davis Reed

    Only a bit of shamrock from far off Emerald Isles;
    But it carries my lonely heart o'er the many miles;
    And in fancy takes me back again across the years
    Until with tender longing my eyes fill up with tears.

    Once more I see my mother, as in the days of yore,
    Busy with her knitting by the little cottage door;
    And dad with his pipe of clay, and cheery Irish smile,
    Resting from his labors on the weather-beaten stile.

    I can see my sweetheart, with her eyes of Irish blue;
    Her glances quite coquettish; her heart quite warm and true.
    There's not another like her—she is so sweet and fair;
    And I love my colleen with a love beyond compare.

    I've been in many countries, and roamed through many climes,
    But naught can bring such yearnings as thoughts of olden times.
    And days of care-free youth in that land across the foam,
    Spent with the ones I love, in that County Kerry home.

    So it's back again I'll sail, within the next few days;
    I'll revel in the home-town with its quaint Irish ways.
    May angels guard my parents and little colleen sweet,
    And keep them safe from harm 'till on Erin's shores we meet.

  9. A Bit O' Shamrock

    by Jean Blewett

    We met her on the hillside green
    Below old Castle Blarney;
    Her name, she whispered, was Eileen,
    Her home it was Killarney.

    I see her yet, her Irish eyes
    Blue gray as seas in summer,
    And hear her welcome, on this wise,
    Vouchsafed to each new-comer:

    "I'll guide ye up the stairway steep,
    And naught will ye be missing
    O' battlement or donjon keep,
    Or blarney stone for kissing.

    "The tower that was McCarthy's pride,
    The scene o' battles thrilling,
    And where the Desmond kept his bride—
    Me fee is but a shilling.

    "Here's for ye, now, a keepsake charm"—
    Her low tones grow caressing—
    "A bit o' shamrock green and warm,
    To bring ye luck and blessing."

    The "keepsake charm"—I have it yet—
    A thing of guile and blarney;
    Each green leaf dares me to forget
    Fair Eileen o' Killarney.

  10. To the Land of the Harp

    by Florence Kellett

    Though my hair, it is white,
    And my step, it is slow,
    Yet back to the land
    Of my birth I will go.

    Though broken in life
    Like surf on the sea,
    Though tossed by the torrents
    And tempests that be.

    Yet I know I shall stand
    Again on the shore,
    Of the land of the harp
    And the shamrock, once more.

    Back, back to my cabin
    So long I have left,
    That it seems but a ruin
    So lone and bereft.

    Soon, soon what a
    Glorified home it will be;
    What a haven of rest
    For a wanderer like me.

    And though my time now
    Grows shorter each day
    Fain, fain, would I linger
    Fain, fain, would I stay.

    Just to see but a springtime
    And autumn once more,
    Amid the green hills
    Of the land I adore.

    * * *

    Oh, I hear a voice calling
    Far over the sea,
    And I answer, "I am coming,
    Dear Erin, to thee."

  11. Oh Erin, My Home

    by Florence Kellett

    Oh Erin, my home,
    I am coming to thee,
    Across desert and mountain
    And river and sea.

    To the dear little cabin
    The place I was born
    Mid the wave of the rye
    And the gleam of the corn.

    Near the wild rugged mountain,
    Where the heather grows free,
    And the wild rose unfettered
    Creeps down to the sea.

    Oh land of the gray mist,
    Of sunshine and rain,
    In thy rapturous beauty
    I see thee again.

    Oh, the breath of the bog land,
    And the smell of the peat,
    And the flowers all gleaming
    Like stars at my feet.

    Soon, soon, I'll be with you,
    Then, never to part,
    I shall dream my last dream
    In the land of my heart.

    What a home for a wanderer
    When the storms are past,
    In the green isle of Erin
    There'll be rest at the last.

  12. I Dreamt and In My Dreams

    by Florence Kellett

    I dreamt, and in my dreams I heard
    Sweet music faint and low,
    It was a song of Ireland,
    A song of long ago.

    I saw once more my dear old home
    With its gables and its towers,
    The dear old fashioned garden
    With all its brilliant flowers.

    Once more I heard the church bells ring
    Through the quiet evening air.
    Once more I sang the vesper hymn,
    Once more I knelt at prayer.

    And then I saw the harvest moon
    Shed forth its lustrous light
    Upon the fields of yellow corn.
    It was a glorious sight.

    Then in the early dawn
    I walked beside the silent stream,
    I saw the blue forget-me-not
    And picked it in my dream.

    I saw the mountains and the hills
    The woodland and the lea,
    And memories of bygone days
    Came rushing over me.

    For Ireland and for freedom
    I felt my pulses glow,
    I saw the patriots of old
    Go forth to meet the foe.

    And when I saw the green flag
    That fluttered in the air,
    I prayed that God would bless it
    And that God would hear my prayer.

    Oh Ireland forever
    Thou art graven on my heart,
    No dream can make thee sweeter
    Or fairer than thou art.

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