Joseph North

Born and bred to wear the green, all Irish to the core.
Alas by way of circumstance he sailed from Éire's shore.
This ode to one who loved his home will show you all his worth.
Swift or Yeates can only bow to our own Joseph North.
by
Belvedere

This page is dedicated to the memory of Joseph North, the High Park, Rochfortbridge.
below you can read some of his poems, with grateful thanks to Shelia from New York.


Joseph North was a poet of high regard, his poems were never published but that is about to change

With the permission of Sheila who has sent me his work, I can at last post all his poems on this site.

Posting of the work of Joseph North will not affect the copy write of his work, but will show the world that he was among the best poets ever born. publication of his work from this site is prohibited without permission.



Joseph North - Rochfortbridge, Co. Westmeath




When summer comes again

By

Joseph North

***

Away from the throngs of the city,

Far away from the haunts of men;

Down where the bubbling brooklet

is winding along through the glen.

there by the falling of waters

I'll weave me a sweet refrain,

that I will sing to a loved one

when summer comes again.

Adown where the pigeons are cooing

and wooing the live-long day,

I'll hark to the notes of the robin

as she sings in the woodland gay.

I'll sit myself down by the posies

that scatter abroad o'er the plain,

and weave a nice wreath for my loved one

when summer comes again.

But what if she should refuse them

and laugh in her whimsical way,

And then if she will not listen

to the sweet loving words I may say,

well, then I will discard her,

when I find that my suit is in vane;

I'll seek me another much fairer

when summer comes again.

Where is the use of complaining,

I'd laugh at all troubles and care,

I'll fashion a bright happy future

in the dreamland of luxury there;

Where there's nothing to mar or disturb me,

no traces of sorrow or pain,

and life will be pleasure and sweetness

when summer comes again.

When fancies arise to our vision,

in the distance far sweeter they seem;

Too soon we awake from our slumbers

to find that 'twas only a dream.

How many there are in their yearning

have wished some bright goal to attain;

They sigh for the total of summer,

the summer that ne'er comes again.

***
Note from Belvedere - this poem is perhaps the second most beautiful poem i have ever read - the most beautiful being the poem to his mother written by Joseph North...I have read the works of Swift, Hemingway, Yeats and many others and I must admit that they didn't move me as much as the poems of North, read them with care.

Coming next

My Lass of long ago

although this poem was sent to me illustrated, this site can only host small pixel pictures, but I will try to do it justice with one or two images. I will try my best to have it in full colour and posted here this week.

alas technical issues are still preventing the illustrated version. as it was written in ink in calligraphic style over the illustrations, it remains unreadable when posted here as a picture scan - until we resolve this issue or retype the poem we will keep this page active with a beautiful poem by Joe

O'Boyce of Donnegal

by

Joseph North

In pensive mood adreaming
and seated in my chair
The world and all its seeming
rolled on unnoticed there.
But hark the day bell ringing
thrilled thro' my lone contur
the mail-man quickly bringing
bright stanza's of Old Moore.

I scanned it's mystic pages
some verse then caught my eye
"Culled by sage of sages
in ethereal reams high."
I sat as if enchanted
'mid rhythm sense and all
and saw the soul I wanted
O'Boyce of Donegal.

Hail thou our sweetest singer,
bright star of minstrelsy
Fair Banba thou didst bring her
true hopes of liberty.
Thy deeds of worth and daring
relayed from coast to coast,
shows the bard who loves his Erin
would die e'er she'd be lost.

And thou dear mother Grannie,
in thine own Isle may rest.
No wolf hounds of Britannia
shall sully thy pure breast.
Be proud of him, brave, manly,
who gave his life and all
and sang thy praises blandly
O'Boyce of Donegal.

An animal in station
a conjunction set in place.
Blind both parts in rotation,
the answer you can trace.
And while the parts you're blenching
in summer spring or fall,
'tis posies I'll be sending to
O'Boyce of Donegal


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