• ed., A Bunch of Wild Flowers: Poems on Religious Subjects, with introduction by the Very Rev. Bernard Gaffney (Dublin: M.H. Gill & Son 1906), 60pp., 19 cm.
• The Voice of Banba: Songs and Recitations for Young Ireland / by “Brian na Banban” (Brian Ó hUiggin). (Dublin: M. H. Gill & Son 1907), 68pp.; 18cm. [printed by O’Brien and Ards (Dublin) on Irish paper]; Do., as The Voice of Banba: Songs, Ballads and Satires [2nd edition] (Dublin: Brian O’Higgins [1931]), 114pp.: ill. (b&w).
• By a Hearth in Éirinn:Stories by “Brian na Banban” (Dublin &c. [author] 1908), q.pp.
• At the Hill 'o the Road: Songs and Poems (Dublin: M. H. Gill 1909), 55pp., 19 cm.
• An t-Aifrionn .i. leabhar urnuidhe ([Baile] Áth Cliath: Máire Ní Reghallaigh 1919), 83pp.
• Billy to Jack: Chats in the Chimney Corner / recorded by Will E. Wagtail and edited by Brian O’Higgins (Dublin: Brian O’Higgins [1919?]), 98pp.; 19 cm. ["The chats in this book were written in 1914-18."
• Hearts of Gold: Stories and Sketches (Dublin: Whelan [1917]), 121pp. [speech].
• The Little Book of Christmas [A miscellany of prose and verse] (Dublin: Brian O’Higgins [1930?]; also Leabar beag na Nodlag (Dublin: [s.n.] [1955].
• Laughter-Lighted Memories; [Humorous Incidents of Ireland's War] (Dublin Brian O’Higgins [1933]), 78pp.; 16cm.
  
• A Tonic in Type: Sketches Grave and Gay (Dublin [1933/34]), q.pp.
• Songs of Glen na Mona [3rd Edn.] (Dublin: Brian O’Higgins 1935), 111pp., ill. [Foreword signed June 1929].
• The Little Book of Irish Saints (Dublin: [s.n.] [1955])
• Glory be to God: A Book of Religious Verse (Dublin [1962]), 80pp., 16o

• Little stories (Dublin: Brian O’Higgins [n.d.]), 96pp.
• Fun O’ the Forge: Stories (q.d.), 72pp., 19 cm.
• A Rosary of Song, with preface by His Eminence Cardinal Logue [3rd edn.] (19--), 111 p.: ill. [port.], 22 cm.

• The Story of Young Ireland and the Years before 1848 [Wolfe Tone Annual] (1939).
• The Inspiring Story of 1798 [Wolfe Tone Annual] (Dublin 1942)
• Laocrana Cásca / Soldiers of 1916: A New Telling of the Story of the Easter Week Thirty Years Ago / by Brian O’Higgins [Wolfe Tone annual/Iris Teoin] (Dublin: B. O’Higgins [1946]), 128pp., ill. [4] lvs. of pls., 22 cm.
• John Mitchel: First Felon for Ireland [Wolfe Tone Annual] (Dublin: B. O’Higgins 1947), 160pp.: ill.
• Orr and Emmet [Wolfe Tone Annual - 21st Year] (Dublin: Brian O’Higgins 1953).
• Salute to Silent Fighters for God and Ireland [Wolfe Tone annual / Iris Teoin] (Dublin: Brian O’Higgins 1961), 64pp.; 22 cm.

*30 vols, [1933-1962; edn. for 1943 ed. was suppressed and publ. in amended form as the 1944 edn.].

• ed., St. Enda’s [Saint Enda's magazine for children] Vol. 1 (March 1918-Feb. 1919), [Dublin]: [s.n.] 1918-1919) [editor identified from contents].
  ed., Verses for Children on Sacred Subjects. With decorations by Micheál Ó Briain, [10 books?] (Dublin [1938-1962]), 16mo.

• The Soldier's Story of Easter Week - Poems of 1916; Prison letters, 1917-20, hitherto unpublished, with sketches of the leaders by Liam C. Martin (Dublin: Brian O’Higgins, 3 Dartmouth Square, Dublin 6 [1966]), 117pp., ill. [ports.].
• Easter, 1916: The Story of the Rising (Dublin: Brian O’Higgins [1940]), 63pp., ills. [ports.], 22 cm.
• Ten Golden Years Ago: a little memorial of Easter week, 1916 (Dublin: B. Ó hUiginn 1926), 60pp.: ill.
• Martyrs for Ireland: The Story of Mac Cormick and Barnes [2nd edn.] (Dublin: The Irish Book Bureau 1968) [printed by Elo Press].
• Unconquered Ireland (Dublin: Hearthstone [1930]), [32]p.: ill., 15cm. [incls. some poems]

• Principles of Freedom, by Terence MacSwiney [3rd Irish edn.] (Dublin: Brian O’Higgins 1936), 202pp.
• Foreword to Poems by Michael Garry (Navan: Meath Chronicle 1924), 54pp.1963.
• Lilian Mary Nally, A Knapsack of Dreams (Dublin: Brian O’Higgins [1937]), [8], 11-93, [1]pp., 17 cm.
• Mary T. Dolan, compiler, Prayers of an Irish mother (Dublin: Brian O’Higgins [1930]), 125, [1]pp. ; 13 cm
• Marie Mannion, Jimmy Laffey, Cumann na mBan: gnéithe den scéal i gContae na Gaillimhe (Comhairle Chontae na Gaillimhe / Galway County Council [2015]), 56, 8, 56pp.: ills. [map, ports.], 21 cm + 1 CD [“The Soldiers of Cumann na mBan” - arranged and recorded by Joseph Forde; lyrics written by O’Higgins ‘in the week immediately prior to the 1916 Rising’.

“Hugh O’Donnell Roe. A.D. 1602”

(The lament of a Tir-Conaill clansman when the news arrived in Ireland that Red Hugh O’Donnell had met death at the hands of the English in Spain.)

They’ve poisoned him! they’ve poisoned him! our glory and our joy.
The one who led Tir-Conall’s clans when yet a beardless boy,
The one who broke the Saxon power, and crushed the Saxon pride
And swept their hosts from many a field, like reeds before the tide.
My bitter, blighting curse be on their heads for evermore,
And may God’s wrath with vengeful force sweep down upon their shore,
For every seed they place in earth may nought but ashes grow,
The wolves — who drank the young heart’s blood of Hugh O’Donnell Roe!

II.
The hate that nerved him in the fight, their own false hands had sown,
The day they lured him to their ship, by stately Innishowen,
And chained him fast in Dublin towers; tho’ little more than child,
Small wonder that his heart was filled with throbbings fierce and wild:
For every link that bound his limbs a lasting vow he made,
That while his hand could lift a spear or grasp a trusty blade,
That while remained in his right arm the strength to strike a blow,
So long should England feel the hate of Hugh O’Donnell Roe!

III.
But English chains could never hold a captive such as he,
And one brave day we welcomed home our gallant chieftain— free!
And never had Tir-Conaill’s homes a warrior lord more true,
Or one more fit to lead the fight than he — our dauntless Hugh.
Then, then, burst forth, like lightning flash, his long-pent fiery wrath,
And woe betide the Saxon churl who dared to cross his path.
And cried he in our midst that day, his dark proud eyes aglow,
“For God and Home, who’ll follow now with Hugh O’Donnell Roe?”

IV.
He rode and fought from Bann to Boyle a sweeping vengeful flame
To burn to ashes, root and branch, the Saxon race and name.
He drove the robber wolves to bay, by ford and castle wall,
From Connacht’s plains thro’ the Annalees to heath-clad Dun-na-nGall.

Tir-Eoghain’s Hugh, Tir-Conall’s Hugh, like brothers hand in hand
Stood, fighting Ireland’s foes — alone — two chiefs in all the land,
Mo bhrón! the East and West were dead, the South was fast sleep,
And bravest ships must sink at last, where winds in fury sweep.
Pressed on the English foemen then — ay, ten to every Gael,
My God! ’twas hard to see their flag wave high above Kinsale.
The night came down, the Fiery Cross was crushed and drooping low,
Away to Spain for swords and men sailed Hugh O’Donnell Roe!

VI.
O, how he pleaded, how he prayed, while sped the weary days,
His eyes for ever toward the sea, his fervent soul ablaze,
‘till forth the kingly mandate went, “A Royal Fleet shall sail
To aid the men who fight for God, in distant Innisfail.”
And even while new life and hope were throbbing in his heart
The foe, who feared him in the fight, drove home the craven dart.
Weep! weep Tir-Conaill! Ireland weep! unchecked the tears may flow,
Our Pride, our Strength, our Sword is gone, brave Hugh O’Donnell Roe!

VII.
He’s dead! our Love, our Prince, our Chief, the flower of all our race.
He’s dead to-day in far-off Spain, and who shall take his place?
Raise, raise for him the sorrow dirge, O daughters of the North,
Your Shield is gone, your foes are here, and who shall drive them forth?
But shall we only weep? No, no; revenge is ours to-day.
Tir-Conaill on! smite down the wolves! no man shall shirk the fray
‘till we have paid, a thousand times, the sacred debt we owe
To those who drank the young heart’s blood of Hugh O’Donnell Roe!

See, there within the heart of Dublin City,
That silent throng of people waiting. Why?
Because a noble youth — O tale of pity! —
Comes forth to-day for Freedom’s cause to die!

He saw his country scourged, and bruised, and beaten.
And trampled down, a butt for brutal scorn,
Because he tried her sorrow-draught to sweeten
In manhood’s budding strength he dies this morn.

And gathered closely there, with placid faces,
And tireless gaping eyes, to see him fall,
To see his bright hopes crushed in death’s embraces,
Are they the slaves he strove to free from thrall?

Hush! here he comes, with steps that do not falter,
With fearless gaze, and proudly- arching brow,
A noble offering he, for Freedom’s Altar,
But ye who watch, where is your manhood now?

Why tender not your hearts to Anger’s leading,
And burst like wind-lashed waves upon that crew,
Who, back and forth like fiends accurst are speeding
In joy because they've hellish work to do.

What matter that he’s hedged around by foemen,
A people’s will is mightier than the sea;
What! fear ye then those black-souled coward yeomen?
Ah! sad his fate who dies for such as ye!

The neck is bared, the kingly head is bending,
The longing eyes look wistfully around;
Great God! and shall it come, the cruel ending?
And shall he die like this, in fetters bound?

O, if ‘twere where the battle-flame was sweeping
Above the rush, and roar, and din of strife,
Where angry men, 'gainst lines of foemen leaping,
Avenged the wrongs of sire, and maid, and wife.

But here to die, 'mid foes, exultant, jeering,
His work undone, his country still in chains.
Hark! hears he not the sound of distant cheering!
He feels the fire of Freedom in his veins!

Mo bhrón! Mo bhrón! not so, ‘tis fancy only,
Some woman’s wail; perhaps some pitying moan
For him, who faces death unarmed and lonely,
Who fights the last great fight of all — alone.

The hour has come, his star of life is paling;
But still, the hope-flush lives upon his cheeks.
He looks around, that eagle eye unquailing,
And, as the upraised axe would fall, he speaks: —

“Not yet,” he says, ” not yet, I am not ready; ”
His eager gaze is fixed upon the street;
His heart is throbbing now with beat unsteady;
He listens for the sound of rushing feet.

“Not yet, not yet,” once more the words are spoken,
And while they come upon each gasping breath
The blow is struck, the brave proud heart is broken,
The noble spirit stilled in endless death.

A leering brute stoops down a moment later,
And raises up the ghastly bleeding head.
“Behold,” he cries, “the fate of every traitor.
Ha! ha! the dogs have wine that’s rich and red."

And ye who came with hasty footsteps, thronging,
Who, round the block, in rageless silence stood;
Who knew his heart for Freedom’s light was longing,
And saw him die, that dogs might lap his blood!

Go! hide your heads in guilty shame, unending,
And see that blood-stained form before your eyes.
Nor time, nor change, nor storms the wide earth rending,
Shall stifle in your hearts his anguished cries.

But come it will — the patriot’s vindication —
And men shall rise to blot out every stain,
To bring back life and strength to Emmet’s Nation;
To tear from off her limbs the thraldom chain.

Some day guilt receives its own red wages,
And if we fail to pay back every debt,
There’s One who rules O’er all, thrO’ all the ages,
And He remembers well — if we forget.