by Enda Reilly

THE WILD SWANS AT COOLE The trees are in their autumn beauty, The woodland paths are dry, Under the October twilight the water Mirrors a still sky; Upon the brimming water among the stones Are nine-and-fifty swans. The nineteenth autumn has come upon me Since I first made my count; I saw, before I had well finished, All suddenly mount And scatter wheeling in great broken rings Upon their clamorous wings. I have looked upon those brilliant creatures, And now my heart is sore. All's changed since I, hearing at twilight, The first time on this shore, The bell-beat of their wings above my head, Trod with a lighter tread. Unwearied still, lover by lover, They paddle in the cold Companionable streams or climb the air; Their hearts have not grown old; Passion or conquest, wander where they will, Attend upon them still. But now they drift on the still water, Mysterious, beautiful; Among what rushes will they build, By what lake's edge or pool Delight men's eyes when I awake some day To find they have flown away?
A DRINKING SONG /AMHRÁN NA PÓITE Wine comes in at the mouth And love comes in at the eye; That’s all we shall know for truth Before we grow old and die. I lift the glass to my mouth, I look at you, and I sigh. Sa bhéal isteach a thagann fíon Sa tsúil isteach an grá; Ní heol dúinn fírinne tharais sin Roimh chríonna dúinn, roimh bhás, Cuirim an ghloine lem bhéal, Féachaim ort le hosna chléibh
Epitaph 01:59
EPITAPH (From Under Benbulben) Cast a cold eye On life, on death. Horseman, pass by! Caith súil fhuar ar an mbeatha, ar an mbás. A eachaí, gluais leat.
THE EVERLASTING VOICES/ NA GUTHANNA SÍORAÍ O sweet everlasting Voices, be still; Go to the guards of the heavenly fold And bid them wander obeying your will, Flame under flame, till Time be no more; Have you not heard that our hearts are old, That you call in birds, in wind on the hill, In shaken boughs, in tide on the shore? O sweet everlasting Voices, be still. A ghuthanna binne síoraí bígí ciúin Imigí chuig gardaí bhanrach Neimhe Is tathantaigh orthu dul ag fánaíocht de réir bhur dtola Lasair faoi lasair go dtí nach ann don am níos mó, Nár chuala sibh gur chríon ár gcroí Is go nglaoon sibh san éanlaith sa ghaoth ar an gcnoc Sa ghéag creathánach sa taoide ar an trá A ghuthanna binne síoraí ciúnas
HE WISHES FOR THE CLOTHS OF HEAVEN Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half-light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
A CRADLE SONG/SEOITHÍN SEÓ The angels are stooping Above your bed; They weary of trooping With the whimpering dead. Is crom iad na haingil Os cionn do leapa; Tuirseach dá gcoisíocht Is de ghéar-gheoin na marbh. God's laughing in Heaven To see you so good; The Sailing Seven Are gay with His mood. An Dúileamh ag gáire Ar fheiceáil do mhéine Dó An Seachtar ag Seoladh Go haerach gan anró. I sigh that kiss you, For I must own That I shall miss you When you have grown. Seo póigín is osna duit! Ní mór dom a rá Go mbraithfidh mé uaim thú, A stór, is tú ag fás.
MEN IMPROVE WITH THE YEARS I am worn out with dreams; A weather-worn, marble triton Among the streams; And all day long I look Upon this lady's beauty As though I had found in a book A pictured beauty, Pleased to have filled the eyes Or the discerning ears, Delighted to be but wise, For men improve with the years; And yet, and yet, Is this my dream, or the truth? O would that we had met When I had my burning youth! But I grow old among dreams, A weather-worn, marble triton Among the streams.
DOWN BY THE SALLEY GARDENS/ THÍOS COIS GHARRAITHE NA SAILÍ Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet; She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet. She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree; But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree. Thíos cois gharraithe na sailí dúinn mé féin is mo mhíle grá Ghabh sí thar gharraithe na sailí is a dhá coisín chomh bán. Bog breá, ar sí, a stóirín, mar dhuilleoga ag teacht ar an gcrann Ach bhíos-sa baoth is díomhaoin, is ar chiall do bhí mé gann. In a field by the river my love and I did stand, And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand. She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs; But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears. I ngort cois na habhann dúinn, mé féin is grá mo chléibh Leag sí lámh ar ghualainn liom, lámh álainn lonrach ghlé. Breá bog, ar sí, a stóirín, mar a éiríonn an chora glas Ach bhíos-sa baoth is díomhaoin, féach na deora liom go fras.
The Mask 01:52
THE MASK "PUT off that mask of burning gold With emerald eyes." "O no, my dear, you make so bold To find if hearts be wild and wise, And yet not cold." "I would but find what's there to find, Love or deceit." "It was the mask engaged your mind, And after set your heart to beat, Not what's behind." "But lest you are my enemy, I must enquire." "O no, my dear, let all that be; What matter, so there is but fire In you, in me?"
Sweet Dancer 01:46
SWEET DANCER The girl goes dancing there On the leaf-sown, new-mown, smooth Grass plot of the garden; Escaped from bitter youth, Escaped out of her crowd, Or out of her black cloud. Ah, dancer, ah, sweet dancer! If strange men come from the house To lead her away, do not say That she is happy being crazy; Lead them gently astray; Let her finish her dance, Let her finish her dance. Ah, dancer, ah, sweet dancer!
THE PLAYER QUEEN (Song from an Unfinished Play) My mother dandled me and sang, ‘How young it is, how young!' And made a golden cradle That on a willow swung. ‘He went away,' my mother sang, ‘When I was brought to bed,' And all the while her needle pulled The gold and silver thread. She pulled the thread and bit the thread And made a golden gown, And wept because she had dreamt that I Was born to wear a crown. ‘When she was got,' my mother sang, ‘I heard a sea-mew cry, And saw a flake of the yellow foam That dropped upon my thigh.' How therefore could she help but braid The gold into my hair, And dream that I should carry The golden top of care?
THE STOLEN CHILD Where dips the rocky highland Of Sleuth Wood in the lake, There lies a leafy island Where flapping herons wake The drowsy water-rats; There we've hid our faery vats, Full of berries And of reddest stolen cherries. Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand Where the wave of moonlight glosses The dim grey sands with light, Far off by furthest Rosses We foot it all the night, Weaving olden dances, Mingling hands and mingling glances Till the moon has taken flight; To and fro we leap And chase the frothy bubbles, While the world is full of troubles And is anxious in its sleep. Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. Where the wandering water gushes From the hills above Glen-Car,. In pools among the rushes That scarce could bathe a star, We seek for slumbering trout And whispering in their ears Give them unquiet dreams; Leaning softly out From ferns that drop their tears Over the young streams. Come away, O human child! To to waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For to world's more full of weeping than you can understand. Away with us he's going, The solemn-eyed: He'll hear no more the lowing Of the calves on the warm hillside Or the kettle on the hob Sing peace into his breast, Or see the brown mice bob Round and round the oatmeal-chest. For be comes, the human child, To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, from a world more full of weeping than you can understand.
WHEN YOU ARE OLD When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
Easter 1916 06:13
EASTER 1916 I have met them at close of day Coming with vivid faces From counter or desk among grey Eighteenth-century houses. I have passed with a nod of the head Or polite meaningless words, Or have lingered awhile and said Polite meaningless words, And thought before I had done Of a mocking tale or a gibe To please a companion Around the fire at the club, Being certain that they and I But lived where motley is worn: All changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born. That woman’s days were spent In ignorant good-will, Her nights in argument Until her voice grew shrill. What voice more sweet than hers When, young and beautiful, She rode to harriers? This man had kept a school And rode our wingèd horse; This other his helper and friend Was coming into his force; He might have won fame in the end, So sensitive his nature seemed, So daring and sweet his thought. This other man I had dreamed A drunken, vainglorious lout. He had done most bitter wrong To some who are near my heart, Yet I number him in the song; He, too, has resigned his part In the casual comedy; He, too, has been changed in his turn, Transformed utterly: A terrible beauty is born. Hearts with one purpose alone Through summer and winter seem Enchanted to a stone To trouble the living stream. The horse that comes from the road, The rider, the birds that range From cloud to tumbling cloud, Minute by minute they change; A shadow of cloud on the stream Changes minute by minute; A horse-hoof slides on the brim, And a horse plashes within it; The long-legged moor-hens dive, And hens to moor-cocks call; Minute by minute they live; The stone’s in the midst of all. Too long a sacrifice Can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice? That is Heaven’s part, our part To murmur name upon name, As a mother names her child When sleep at last has come On limbs that had run wild. What is it but nightfall? No, no, not night but death; Was it needless death after all? For England may keep faith For all that is done and said. We know their dream; enough To know they dreamed and are dead; And what if excess of love Bewildered them till they died? I write it out in a verse — MacDonagh and MacBride And Connolly and Pearse Now and in time to be, Wherever green is worn, Are changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born.
CRAZY JANE REPROVED I care not what the sailors say: All those dreadful thunder-stones, All that storm that blots the day Can but show that Heaven yawns; Great Europa played the fool That changed a lover for a bull. Fol de rol, fol de rol. To round that shell's elaborate whorl, Adorning every secret track With the delicate mother-of-pearl, Made the joints of Heaven crack: So never hang your heart upon A roaring, ranting journeyman. Fol de rol, fol de rol.


-Currently Digital Release Only -

Selected Poems by W. B. Yeats (1865-1939) set to music by Enda Reilly including some translations to Irish by Gabriel Rosenstock.

I hope you'll enjoy listening to these new settings of Yeats. I felt compelled to put this collection together as I've been performing some of his poems for years.

Some will note the omission of September 1913 and The Lake Isle Of Inishfree. - Both are available on the Arise And Go Cd with Stephen James Smith.


released December 21, 2015

All lyrics by W.B. Yeats. Translations of A Drinking Song/Amhrán Na Póite, Epitaph, The Everlasting Voices/Na Guthanna Síoraí, Down By The Salley Gardens/Thíos Cois Garraithe Na Saillí and A Cradle Song/Seoithín Seó to Irish/Gaelic by Gabriel Rosenstock.

All music composed by Enda Reilly, except Down By The Salley Gardens; Traditional Arrangement by Enda Reilly.
Performed, Recorded, Mixed and Mastered by Enda Reilly

Some of these Whorls were created for a poetic play called Guthanna Binne Síoraí so thanks goes to Tristan Rosenstock, Cathal Quinn, Gabriel Rosenstock, Clodagh Nic Gabhann, Megan Kennedy and the rest of the crew.

Thanks also to Stephen James Smith and Séamus Barra ó Suilleabháin and Cathal with whom I've performed some of these pieces on various occasions. And thanks to my wife for her support.




Enda Reilly Plymouth, Michigan

Enda Reilly is a folk singer, songwriter and guitarist drawing influences from the likes of Christy Moore, John Martyn, Nick Drake and Dick Gaughan.
Rooted in the past with songs that strive for a better future, Enda Reilly’s work invites you to see the world from his varied and unique perspective through each new song.
Original songs in Irish and English, WB Yeats' poetry and collaborations.
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