Who is Patrick Macgill

Patrick MacGill (24 December 1889 – 22 November 1963) was an Irish journalist, poet and novelist, known as "The Navvy Poet" because he had worked as a navvy before he began writing.

Personal life

MacGill was born in Glenties, County Donegal. A statue in his honour is on the bridge where the main street crosses the river in Glenties. He had three children, Christine, Patricia and Sheila MacGill. He died in Florida aged 73 and was buried in Fall River, Massachusetts.

Military service

During the First World War, MacGill served with the London Irish Rifles (1/18th Battalion, The London Regiment) and was wounded at the Battle of Loos on 28 October 1915. He was recruited into military intelligence, and wrote for MI 7b between 1916 and the Armi...
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Patrick Macgill Poems

  • Slainthe!
    I speak with a proud tongue of the people who were
    And the people who are,
    The worthy of Ardara, the Rosses and Inishkeel,
    My kindred-...
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Top 10 most used topics by Patrick Macgill

Pride 1 Quiet 1 Strong 1 Place 1 Perfection 1 Weak 1 Tongue 1 Pray 1 World 1 Women 1


Patrick Macgill Quotes

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Comments about Patrick Macgill

Lawhilllayabout: take a rest from snp corruption.
Albathepict: hills of the dead end - remembering patrick macgill
Lochabertimes: jim sutherland, one-time head teacher at lochaber high school, is returning to fort william on monday to speak at the monthly meeting of the lochaber local history society.
Jochopra: today i received a check of $120, my 1/11th share in the royalties from the sale of my grandfather's work - written in the 20s & 30s. patrick macgill, the navvy poet, wrote novels & poetry. he was amazing. these gifts from the other side to his 11 grandchildren are so moving.
Ewangibbs: patrick macgill’s children of the dead end id a powerful novel closely based on his pen life. it tells the story of edwardian irish migrants which worked the tattie fields, tramped between industrial jobs and built the huge kinlochleven hydro electric dam. it’s also a short read!
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Poem of the day

Edgar Albert Guest Poem
The Killing Place
 by Edgar Albert Guest

We're hiking along at a two-forty pace
We 're making life seem like a man-killing race,
With our nerves all on edge and our jaws firmly set
We go rushing along; with our brows lined with sweat
And our cheeks pale and drawn every minute we dash,
And the goal that we 're after is merely more cash.

We 're out for the money, the greenbacks and gold,
...

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