Irish poets, earn your trade,
Sing whatever it well made,
Scorn the sort now growing up
All out of shape from toe to top,
Their unremembering hearts and heads
Base-born products of base beds.
Sing the paesantry, and then
Hard riding country gentlemen,
The holiness of monks, and after
Porter-drinkers' randy laugher;
Sing the lords and ladies gay
That were beaten into the clay
Through seven heroic centuries;
Cast your mind on other days
That we in coming days may be
Still the indomitable Irishry

W. B. Yeats