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Showing posts from November 8, 2025

Ballad of Belfast (Traditional Irish Ballad about the beautiful city of ...

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Experience the Soul of Belfast – A Ballad of Pride, Pain, and Resilience Belfast is not just a city – it is a feeling. A heartbeat. A memory of generations who worked, struggled, laughed, fought, and kept going through some of the greatest challenges any European people have ever endured. This new ballad celebrates more than buildings or tourist landmarks – it honours the spirit of the people who shaped Belfast into what it is today. From the shipyards where the Titanic was built, to the proud working-class streets of the Shankill and the Falls, Belfast has always produced voices that refuse to bend. The cranes of Harland & Wolff still stand like mighty sentinels over the Lagan, reminding us that this city once powered the seas of the world. Cave Hill watches from above, just as it did during the Victorian era, and long before that when ancient Irish clans and warriors roamed beneath it. This ballad captures that mixture of history and heart. Yes, Belfast has known hardship. Yes...

The Great Hunger by Lady Jane Wilde, (A Poem About Those Who Perished During An Górta Mór)

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The Famine Year – Lady Jane Wilde’s cry from the grave of a starving nation “The Famine Year” remains one of the most important poetic documents of Irish suffering, anger, and historical truth. Written by Lady Jane Wilde — mother of Oscar Wilde, and known in her own right as a fierce nationalist, a radical intellectual, and a woman who risked her position in society to speak for the poor — this poem is not simply literature. It is testimony. A direct accusation. A written scream from the shores of a nation left to die. When we talk about the Great Famine (1845–1852) in general terms, we often hear cold language: crop failure, blight, emigration, poverty, “famine conditions.” But Lady Wilde strips away the polite terms. She removes the veil. In “The Famine Year,” she writes from inside the wound. This is a poem written as the horror unfolded — not as history, not from academic distance, not with comfortable hindsight. Lady Wilde stood in the middle of a country where mothers buried th...