Francis Ledwidge Museum

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Francis Ledwidge Museum The Francis Ledwidge Museum is the cottage birthplace of World War I poet, Francis Ledwidge. Dr Benedict Kiely opened it as a museum in June 1982.

The museum is the cottage birthplace of World War I poet, Francis Ledwidge. It is a perfect example of a 19th century farm labourer's cottage and was purchased and restored by the Francis Ledwidge Museum Committee in 1981. It houses the poet's works and artefacts from World War I, alongside memorabilia of the period. Its millennium exhibition portrays the poet's life in picture and text from his birth in the cottage to his death at the third battle of Ypres, Belgium, in July 1917. The museum is run by a small but dedicated group of Ledwidge enthusiasts who take pride in the writing of the poet and the restoration and upkeep of his birthplace. The committee's mission is:
To promote an appreciation for the writings and poetry of Francis Ledwidge to as wide an audience as possible and to protect the name, birthplace and memory of Ledwidge for future generations. The committee hopes that the continuous promotion of the writings of Ledwidge to as wide an audience as possible will:
Improve the overall standing of Ledwidge as a poet, locally, nationally and internationally. To do this we would welcome as many people as possible to get involved. We are always seeking to recruit new committee members and the more diverse the skills, backgrounds and opinions are the better. To become a committee member, phone or e-mail the musum or to register as a Friend of Ledwidge visit http://www.francisledwidge.com/membership-subscription.php

The Shadow PeopleOld lame Bridget doesn't hearFairy music in the grassWhen the gloaming's on the mereAnd the shadow peop...
21/10/2026

The Shadow People

Old lame Bridget doesn't hear
Fairy music in the grass
When the gloaming's on the mere
And the shadow people pass:
Never hears their slow grey feet
Coming from the village street
Just beyond the parson's wall,
Where the clover globes are sweet
And the mushroom's parasol
Opens in the moonlit rain.
Every night I hear them call
From their long and merry train.
Old lame Bridget says to me,
"It is just your fancy, child."
She cannot believe I see
Laughing faces in the wild,
Hands that twinkle in the sedge
Bowing at the water's edge
Where the finny minnows quiver,
Shaping on a blue wave's ledge
Bubble foam to sail the river.
And the sunny hands to me
Beckon ever, beckon ever.
Oh! I would be wild and free
And with the shadow people be.

HomeA burst of sudden wings at dawn,Faint voices in a dreamy noon,Evenings of mist and murmurings,And nights with rainbo...
20/10/2026

Home

A burst of sudden wings at dawn,
Faint voices in a dreamy noon,
Evenings of mist and murmurings,
And nights with rainbows of the moon.

And through these things a wood-way dim,
And waters dim, and slow sheep seen
On uphill paths that wind away
Through summer sounds and harvest green.

This is a song a robin sang
This morning on a broken tree,
It was about the little fields
That call across the world to me.

The LureI saw night leave her halos downOn Mitylene's dark mountain isle,The silhouette of one fair townLike broken shad...
17/10/2026

The Lure

I saw night leave her halos down
On Mitylene's dark mountain isle,
The silhouette of one fair town
Like broken shadows in a pile.
And in the farther dawn I heard
The music of a foreign bird.

In fields of shady angles now
I stand and dream in the half dark:
The thrush is on the blossomed bough,
Above the echoes sings the lark,
And little rivers drop between
Hills fairer than dark Mitylene.

Yet something calls me with no voice
And wakes sweet echoes in my mind;
In the fair country of my choice
Nor Peace nor Love again I find,
Nor anything of rest I know
When south-east winds are blowing low.

An Old DesireI searched thro' memory's lumber-roomAnd there I found an old desire,I took it gently from the gloomTo cher...
17/10/2026

An Old Desire

I searched thro' memory's lumber-room
And there I found an old desire,
I took it gently from the gloom
To cherish by my scanty fire.

And all the night a sweet-voiced one,
Sang of the place my loves abide,
'Til Earth leaned over from the dawn
And hid the last star in her side.

And often since, when most alone,
I ponder on my old desire,
But never hear the sweet-voiced one,
And there are ruins in my fire.

From the poem, The Visitation of Peace.-I closed the book of verse where Sorrow weptAbove Love's broken fane where Hop...
16/10/2026

From the poem, The Visitation of Peace.
-
I closed the book of verse where Sorrow wept
Above Love's broken fane where Hope once prayed,
And thought of old trysts broken and trysts kept
Only to chide my fondness. Then I strayed
Down a green coil of lanes where murmuring wings
Moved up and down like lights upon the sea,
Searching for calm amid untroubled things
Of wood and water. The industrious bee
Sang in his barn within the hollow beech,
And in a distant haggard a loud mill
Hummed like a war of hives. A whispered speech
Of corn and wind was on the yellow hill,
And tattered scarecrows nodded their assent
And waved their arms like orators. The brown
N**e beauty of the Autumn sweetly bent
Over the woods, across the little town.
-
We hope that you are enjoying such a beautiful day and that you have a wonderful weekend.

From the poem, The Lanawn Shee.-From hill to hill, from land to land,Her lovely hand is beckoning for me,I follow on t...
09/10/2026

From the poem, The Lanawn Shee.
-

From hill to hill, from land to land,
Her lovely hand is beckoning for me,
I follow on through dangerous zones,
Cross dead men's bones and oceans stormy.

Some day I know she'll wait at last
And lock me fast in white embraces,
And down mysterious ways of love
We two shall move to fairy places.

The Broken TrystThe dropping words of larks, the sweetest tongueThat sings between the dusks, tell all of you;The bursti...
08/10/2026

The Broken Tryst

The dropping words of larks, the sweetest tongue
That sings between the dusks, tell all of you;
The bursting white of Peace is all along
Wing-ways, and pearly droppings of the dew
Emberyl the cobwebs' greyness, and the blue
Of hiding violets, watching for your face,
Listen for you in every dusky place.

You will not answer when I call your name,
But in the fog of blossom do you hide
To change my doubts into a red-faced shame
By'n by when you are laughing by my side?
Or will you never come, or have you died,
And I in anguish have forgotten all?
And shall the world now end and the heavens fall?

YouthShe paved the way with perfume sweetOf flowers that moved like winds alight,And never weary grew my feetWandering t...
07/10/2026

Youth

She paved the way with perfume sweet
Of flowers that moved like winds alight,
And never weary grew my feet
Wandering through the spring's delight.

She dropped her sweet fife to her lips
And lured me with her melodies,
To where the great big wandering ships
Put out into the peaceful seas.

But when the year grew chill and brown,
And all the wings of Summer flown,
Within the tumult of a town
She left me to grow old alone.

From the poem, Bound to the Mast.When Autumn's crayon tones the green leaves sere,And breezes honed on icebergs hurry ...
06/10/2026

From the poem, Bound to the Mast.

When Autumn's crayon tones the green leaves sere,
And breezes honed on icebergs hurry past;
When meadow-tides have ebbed and woods grow drear,
And bow before the blast;
When briars make semicircles on the way;
When blackbirds hide their flutes and cower and die;
When swollen rivers lose themselves and stray
Beneath a murky sky;

Then doth the poet's voice like cuckoo's break,
And round his verse the hungry lapwing grieves,
And melancholy in his dreary wake
The funeral of the leaves.
Then when the Autumn dies upon the plain,
Wound in the snow alike his right and wrong,
The poet sings,—albeit a sad strain,—
Bound to the Mast of Song.

The Departure of ProserpineOld mother Earth for me already grieves,Her morns wake weeping and her noons are dim,Silence ...
06/10/2026

The Departure of Proserpine

Old mother Earth for me already grieves,
Her morns wake weeping and her noons are dim,
Silence has left her woods, and all the leaves
Dance in the windy shadows on the rim
Of the dull lake thro' which I soon shall pass
To my dark bridal bed
Down in the hollow chambers of the dead.
Will not the thunder hide me if I call,
Wrapt in the corner of some distant star
The gods have never known?
Alas! alas!
My voice has left with the last wing, my fall
Shall crush the flowery fields with gloom, as far
As swallows fly.
Would I might die
And in a solitude of roses lie
As the last bud's outblown.
Then nevermore Demeter would be heard
Wail in the blowing rain, but every shower
Would come bound up with rainbows to the birds
Wrapt in a dusty wing, and the dry flower
Hanging a shrivelled lip.
This weary change from light to darkness fills
My heart with twilight, and my brightest day
Dawns over thunder and in thunder spills
Its urn of gladness
With a sadness
Through which the slow dews drip
And the bat goes over on a thorny wing.
Is it a dream that once I used to sing
From Ægean shores across her rocky isles,
Making the bells of Babylon to ring
Over the wiles
That lifted me from darkness to the Spring?
And the King
Seeing his w**e in blossom on the tree
Danced with the queen a merry roundelay,
And all the blue circumference of the day
Was loud with flying song.——
—But let me pass along:
What brooks it the unfree to thus delay?
No secret turning leads from the gods' way.

Address

Janeville
Slane
C15DK82

Opening Hours

Tuesday 11am - 4pm
Wednesday 11am - 4pm
Thursday 11am - 4pm
Friday 11am - 4pm
Saturday 11am - 4pm

Telephone

+353419824544

Website

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