• Abhráin atá Leagta ar a Reachtúire: Songs Ascribed to Raftery, being the fifth chapter of The Songs of Connacht, in D[ouglas] Hyde, ed., Songs of Connacht, Part V (Dublin: Gill & Son 1903); Do.
• Abhráin agus dánta an Reachtabraigh: ar na gcruinniughadh agus ar na bhfoillsiughadh den chéad uair (Baile Átha Cliath: Oifig Díolta Foilseacháin Rialtais 1933).
• Do. introduced by Dominic Daly [facs. rep.] (NY: Barnes & Noble 1973), xii, 371, xvipp., ill., 23cm., and Do. (Shannon: IUP 1979).
• Abhráin agus Dánta an Reachtabhraigh (Baile Atha Cliath 1933).
• Ciarán Ó Coigligh, ed., Raiftearaí: Amhráin agus Dánta (An Clócomhar Tta., 1987).
• Criostoir O’Flynn, ed., Blind Raftery (Cló Iar-Channachta 1997) [bilingual anthology].

• W. B. Yeats, “Dust Hath Closed Helen’s Eye”, in The Celtic Twilight (1902).
• Douglas Hyde, ‘A Famous Mayo Poet’ [Raftery], in The Gael (April 1903), and Do., rep. in A Treasury of Irish Folklore, ed. Padraic Colum [2nd rev. edn.] (NY: Crown Pub. 1967), pp.115-116.
• Lady Gregory, Poets and Dreamers (Dublin 1903; rep. Gerrards Cross, 1974) [q.pp.]
• B. O’Rourke, County Mayo in Gaelic Folksong, in Mayo, Aspects of Its Heritage, ed. B. O’Hara (Galway 1982), pp. 153-56, 291-96.

• A. Ní Cheannain, Raifterí an file (Baile Atha Cliath 1984)
  [...].

“The Song of the Whiteboys”, two imperfect version of which have been published by Dr. Hyde is found in more complete form in Amhrain Chlainne Gaedheal. It would be more correct to call it The song of the Ribbonmen, for the Whiteboys had been succeeded by Lucht Ribini at the time of its composition. The Ribbonmen are frequently referred to by the name in the song, while the word ‘Whiteboys’ occurs only in the title.
 Raftery died in the late thirties of the last century. The descendants of the poeple among whom he lived and wandered in east and south Galway have vivid memories of Raftery himself, and the troubles and evils that made the existence of Ribbonmen an absolute necessity. There still exist houses in which Raftery slept, in which he drank with someone’s father or grandfather, or in which he played the fiddle. The poeple point to such places with pride. They remember also that whole villages once stood where the ‘white fields’, as they are called in Irish, now meet the eye. They will tell of Garrymore, which was destroyed in a single day. It contained sixty houses, and the same number of families. The landlord’s house still stands. It was beseiged at night by the disposses[s]ed. they had no firearms, but a strong man burst the hall door. Then the slaughter commenced, for Captain Davis, the landlord, was well armed and did not hesitate to shoot. Writers too often tell us only of the unpleasant methods of the Ribbonmen, but Raftery’s verses show that the people’s hopes were centred in the secret organisation, and that it seemed then to be their only means of succour. This war song which he made for the Ribbonmen does not approach his best efforts, but it possesses fine vigour, and it betrays a national aim or ieal not frequently found in late vagrant poetry, there is a lashing together of all the pashions of the time - passions that had their cause in evils such as tithes, eviction, religious persecution - and a linking up of these passions with the nationa ambition to clear Ireland of the Gaill. He urges a timely and bold uprising. There must be no cowardice or shirking, for fame and freedom are at stake. The appeal is made to the Ribbonmen in the most famial word and phrases of their own tongue. It is no selfhish appeal, although the lines in wihch the fate decreed for local tyrants is indicated, have the the very savagery of war. The line

a gceann i mbar pile in airde ...

is more graphic than any life I can remember either in English or Irish. Taxes and tithes must cease. Land must be let at its value. The Gael will raise his head and Orangemen will growl beneath the new regime. In the midst of this passionate appeal to the Ribbonmen to be men, to face the multiplicity of terrors and tortures that threaten to destroy them, Raftery pauses and reflects for an instant. Through the smoke of the burning cabins, as it were, he sees Ireland. He, too, is a Gael with as good a right to bear arms for Ireland as any. He is not th epoet of a creed or of a faction by choice. He wants also to sing for that women whose face peers through the smoke of the clearings. She is not forgotten. If every equality come and he be enfranchised and given th eright to bear arms, then

Beigh no shleagh ar mo thaobh is mo claidheamh liom sios
Is me ag ruaghadh na nGall as Eireann.

Anois teacht an earraigh
beidh an lá ag dul chun síneadh,
Is tar éis na féil Bríde
ardóidh mé mo sheol.
Ó chuir mé i mo cheann é
ní chónóidh mé choíche
Go seasfaidh mé síos
i lár Chontae Mhaigh Eo.
I gClár Chlainne Mhuiris
A bheas mé an chéad oíche,
Is i mballa taobh thíos de
A thosóidh mé ag ól.
Go Coillte Mách rachaidh
Go ndéanfadh cuairt mhíosa ann
I bhfogas dhá mhíle
Do Bhéal an Átha Mhóir

Fág uaim do eaglais ghalla
Is do chreideamh gan bonn gan bhrí
Mar gurb é is cloch bonn dóibh
Magairlí Anraí Rí. ...

Away with your English religion,
And your baseless meaningless faith, 
For the only rock it is built on,
Are the balls of Henry the Eighth. ...

Má fhaighimse sláinte is fada bheidh trácht
Ar an méid a bádh as Eanach Cuain.
’S mo thrua ’márach gach athair ’s máthair
Bean is páiste ‘tá á sileadh súl!

A Rí na nGrást a cheap neamh is párthas,
Nar bheag an tábhacht dúinn beirt no triúr,
Ach lá chomh breá leis gan gaoth ná báisteach
Lán a bháid acu scuab ar shiúl.

Nár mhór an t-íonadh ós comhair na ndaoine
Á bhfeicáil sínte ar chúl a gcinn,
Screadadh ’gus caoineadh a scanródh daoine,
Gruaig á cíoradh ’s an chreach á roinnt.

Bhí buachaillí óg ann tíocht an fhómhair,
Á síneadh chrochar, is a dtabhairt go cill.
’S gurb é gléas a bpósta a bhí dá dtoramh
’S a Rí na Glóire nár mhór an feall.

If my health is spared I’ll be long relating,
Of the number who drowned from Anach Cuain.
And the keening after of mother and father
And child by the harbour, the mournful croon!

King of Graces, who died to save us,
T’were a small affair but for one or two,
But a boat-load bravely in calm day sailing
Without storm or rain to be swept to doom.

What wild despair was on all the faces
To see them there in the light of day,
In every place there was lamentation,
And tearing of hair as the wreck was shared.

And boys there lying when crops were ripening,
From the strength of life they were borne to clay
In their wedding clothes for their wake they robed them
O King of Glory, man’s hope is in vain.

Anois teacht an earraigh
beidh an lá ag dul chun síneadh,
Is tar éis na féil Bríde
ardóidh mé mo sheol.

Ó chuir mé i mo cheann é
ní chónóidh mé choíche
Go seasfaidh mé síos
i lár Chontae Mhaigh Eo.

I gClár Chlainne Mhuiris
A bheas mé an chéad oíche,
Is i mballa taobh thíos de
A thosaigh mé ag ól.

Go Coillte Mách rachaidh
Go ndéanfadh cuairt mhíosa ann
I bhfogas dhá mhíle
Do Bhéal an Átha Mhóir

Now coming of the Spring
the day will be lengthening,
and after St. Bridget’s Day
I shall raise my sail.

Since I put it into my head
I shall never stay put
until I shall stand down
in the center of County Mayo.

In Claremorris’ family
I will be the first night,
and in the wall on the side below it
I will begin to drink.

To Kiltimagh (Magh’s Woods) I shall go
until I shall make a month’s visit there
two miles close
                              to Aghamore.

—From PhDTree - online; accessed 26.10.2014; see Seán Mac Giollanátha under Commentary - supra.