She has outlived all of her class mates she is ninety stooped and gray
And she has never lived out of her hometown never even for a day
Always happy in her homeplace never yearned for far away
All of her school friends left their hometown Kate the one who chose to stay.
Kate the spinster never married and always led a single life
Never ever knew the pleasures of a mother and a wife
And the man she loved he left town over sixty years ago
He went with his secret lover to where few if any know.
But if you think that I paint the picture of a sad case then surely you have got it wrong
For Kate she may seem old and fragile but at heart she is young and strong
At birthday parties for the aged she is always the M.C.
She sing songs and tell jokes and stories and she is happy and carefree.
I've always thought that aged spinsters were reserved and rather shy
But Kate has changed my way of thinking with her warm and friendly hi
She is never out of form and I've never seen her sour and rude
She is such a happy person always in a happy mood.
Kate the spinster young forever she feels young beyond her years
In her heart there's room for laughter but no room for regrets and tears
She may look old and stooped and fragile and her hair is silver gray
But she feels happy and contented and she makes the most of every day.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
In Fields Near Ballydaly
Through fields near Ballydaly the river flows bank high
And rain come down in drizzle and rain clouds in the sky
And blackbird scratch leaf litter beside the bare hedgerow
And wind blow from the northland and cold enough to snow.
The coldness of November is in the mountain air
And gray fog shroud the hillside the hillside brown and bare
And salmon swimming upstream scale rocks and waterfall
Up towards their gravelly spawning beds to answer Nature's call
In fields near Ballydaly the hungry black rooks caw
And on the leafless sycamore the grey headed jackdaw
Shake the water from their feathers and chatter noisily
And food becoming scarcer for the wildborn and free.
In fields near Ballydaly lit by the pale moonlight
The hungry fox is barking on cold November night
Across the silent countryside his wild shrill yaps resound
And his voice that carry distance is heard for miles around.
Near quiet Ballydaly the fields at morning gray
And the redwings have returned from cold lands far away
And the hare in from the mountain in cloak of russet brown
To warm the coldness in his bones is running up and down.
In fields near Ballydaly no wild flowers to be found
And the chattering of magpie the only living sound
And skylark is not singing above the silent bog
And the peaks of Caherbarnagh are shrouded in gray fog.
Through fields near Ballydaly the river bank high flow
And wind blow from the northlands and cold enough to snow
And four long months or maybe more before first breath of Spring
Before the silent bullfinch will feel the urge to sing.
And rain come down in drizzle and rain clouds in the sky
And blackbird scratch leaf litter beside the bare hedgerow
And wind blow from the northland and cold enough to snow.
The coldness of November is in the mountain air
And gray fog shroud the hillside the hillside brown and bare
And salmon swimming upstream scale rocks and waterfall
Up towards their gravelly spawning beds to answer Nature's call
In fields near Ballydaly the hungry black rooks caw
And on the leafless sycamore the grey headed jackdaw
Shake the water from their feathers and chatter noisily
And food becoming scarcer for the wildborn and free.
In fields near Ballydaly lit by the pale moonlight
The hungry fox is barking on cold November night
Across the silent countryside his wild shrill yaps resound
And his voice that carry distance is heard for miles around.
Near quiet Ballydaly the fields at morning gray
And the redwings have returned from cold lands far away
And the hare in from the mountain in cloak of russet brown
To warm the coldness in his bones is running up and down.
In fields near Ballydaly no wild flowers to be found
And the chattering of magpie the only living sound
And skylark is not singing above the silent bog
And the peaks of Caherbarnagh are shrouded in gray fog.
Through fields near Ballydaly the river bank high flow
And wind blow from the northlands and cold enough to snow
And four long months or maybe more before first breath of Spring
Before the silent bullfinch will feel the urge to sing.
St Patrick's Day
Above the fields by her old home the dawn breaks cold and gray
And the peace of the morning is disturbed when the brown donkey bray
But she doesn't think of her Homeland thousands of miles away
As she walks home up from the beach on the feast of St Patrick's Day.
Her neck and face and legs and arms are brown and heavily tanned
From the sunshine and the coastal breeze of this warm Southern Land
She could not live in Ireland now due to lack of sun shine
The warm weather and sea air it seems to suit her fine.
St Patrick's Day a festive day on the streets of her home town
The people wear their shamrocks and the band plays up and down
And merry making in the pubs all day and all night long
As they celebrate their patron saint in beer and dance and song.
The sun has set red in the west above the quiet bay
And around the street lamps the gray moths they flit and seem to play
And she feels happy with her lot she's here for the long stay
And she doesn't think of her Homeland though 'tis St Patrick's Day.
And the peace of the morning is disturbed when the brown donkey bray
But she doesn't think of her Homeland thousands of miles away
As she walks home up from the beach on the feast of St Patrick's Day.
Her neck and face and legs and arms are brown and heavily tanned
From the sunshine and the coastal breeze of this warm Southern Land
She could not live in Ireland now due to lack of sun shine
The warm weather and sea air it seems to suit her fine.
St Patrick's Day a festive day on the streets of her home town
The people wear their shamrocks and the band plays up and down
And merry making in the pubs all day and all night long
As they celebrate their patron saint in beer and dance and song.
The sun has set red in the west above the quiet bay
And around the street lamps the gray moths they flit and seem to play
And she feels happy with her lot she's here for the long stay
And she doesn't think of her Homeland though 'tis St Patrick's Day.
So Much For Human Rights And Liberty
In China they jail everyone who dare to speak their mind
And even in the so called democratic Countries you will find
That many innocents have been jailed and even executed wrongfully
So much for human rights and liberty.
Even the United States the so called Land of the free
In human rights has a poor history
And people have been wrongfully jailed and executed there
But then it's true of course that life is not always fair.
In Britain due to acts of terror by the I.R.A.
Many for the crimes of others had to pay
And spend years in jails far from home and family
Though wrongfully condemned they suffered years of ignominy.
In Australia they incarcerate refugees
In detention centres in the outback in landscapes barren of trees
Though not guilty of any crimes they spend months and years locked up because
Of bureaucratic red tape and oppressive laws.
Though for freedom and justice many young men have fought and died
Not alone in China but in Countries Worldwide
People are still wrongfully incarcerated at the pleasure of the State
And due to a miscarriage of justice left to an uncertain fate.
And even in the so called democratic Countries you will find
That many innocents have been jailed and even executed wrongfully
So much for human rights and liberty.
Even the United States the so called Land of the free
In human rights has a poor history
And people have been wrongfully jailed and executed there
But then it's true of course that life is not always fair.
In Britain due to acts of terror by the I.R.A.
Many for the crimes of others had to pay
And spend years in jails far from home and family
Though wrongfully condemned they suffered years of ignominy.
In Australia they incarcerate refugees
In detention centres in the outback in landscapes barren of trees
Though not guilty of any crimes they spend months and years locked up because
Of bureaucratic red tape and oppressive laws.
Though for freedom and justice many young men have fought and died
Not alone in China but in Countries Worldwide
People are still wrongfully incarcerated at the pleasure of the State
And due to a miscarriage of justice left to an uncertain fate.
Just A Lonely Old Lady
Just a lonely old lady the years have made her gray
Her husband died of a heart attack five years ago last May
All of her true and dearest friends to the grim reaper have gone
And still the seasons come and go and she keeps living on.
The only child that her marriage brought died when she was fifteen
And though that was forty years ago she still thinks of her Jean
She did not live to fall in love and become a mum and wife
Some are burdened with a heavy cross and carry it through life.
Just a lonely old lady the oldest on the street
She sits in her porch in the sun shine and rests her tired feet
Butterflies around the flower beds flit and birds sing on the trees
And the evening seem so pleasant in the gentle coastal breeze.
Just a lonely old lady in the twilight of her life
She once was young and enjoyed the role of a mother and wife
And she knew love and happiness and her hair was not always gray
And if the reaper grants us the time we will be like her one day.
Her husband died of a heart attack five years ago last May
All of her true and dearest friends to the grim reaper have gone
And still the seasons come and go and she keeps living on.
The only child that her marriage brought died when she was fifteen
And though that was forty years ago she still thinks of her Jean
She did not live to fall in love and become a mum and wife
Some are burdened with a heavy cross and carry it through life.
Just a lonely old lady the oldest on the street
She sits in her porch in the sun shine and rests her tired feet
Butterflies around the flower beds flit and birds sing on the trees
And the evening seem so pleasant in the gentle coastal breeze.
Just a lonely old lady in the twilight of her life
She once was young and enjoyed the role of a mother and wife
And she knew love and happiness and her hair was not always gray
And if the reaper grants us the time we will be like her one day.
The Fir Bolg
They lived in 'Tir Na Nog' many centuries ago
And they live on in myth and legend and little else we know
Of the tribe known as Fir Bolg which means 'belly man'
Perhaps from them the myth of the Leprechaun had it's source and began.
The brave little tribes of Ireland their rivals did not fear
Yet they were dispossessed by the invaders De Danaan or so it would appear
And though badly outnumbered they did not run away
And they went down with honour and their legend lives today.
Though in science and technology mankind has travelled far
Centuries before De Danaan and Fir Bolg on each other they've waged war
And men still wage war on their fellow men and encroach upon
their Land
And that we've not learned from history seems hard to understand.
And though the bones of the Fir Bolg have turned to earth and clay
The myths and legends of them alive and well today
They ruled in Tir na nog before the Tuatha De Danaan came
And in the Ireland of today they still live on in name.
And they live on in myth and legend and little else we know
Of the tribe known as Fir Bolg which means 'belly man'
Perhaps from them the myth of the Leprechaun had it's source and began.
The brave little tribes of Ireland their rivals did not fear
Yet they were dispossessed by the invaders De Danaan or so it would appear
And though badly outnumbered they did not run away
And they went down with honour and their legend lives today.
Though in science and technology mankind has travelled far
Centuries before De Danaan and Fir Bolg on each other they've waged war
And men still wage war on their fellow men and encroach upon
their Land
And that we've not learned from history seems hard to understand.
And though the bones of the Fir Bolg have turned to earth and clay
The myths and legends of them alive and well today
They ruled in Tir na nog before the Tuatha De Danaan came
And in the Ireland of today they still live on in name.
To Lyn
He'll always be that little baby boy
She rocked to sleep to a soft lullaby
That little boy who passed on in his prime
And did not leave his end to father time.
Her Matthew he was only twenty five
But he had lost the will that we all need to survive
That will that urges us to carry on
When we feel that all of our better days are gone.
For Lyn the heaviest cross given her to bear
And her broken heart will take years to repair
And nothing for her that anyone can do
Since the grieving process she has to go through.
I wish that I could help her in some way
But nothing anyone can do or say
Could bring back to her, her beloved only son
Death is so final and the Reaper spares none.
He did not live on to be old and gray
Perhaps his life not mapped out in that way
And his mum and dad and only sister burdened with the cross
Of trying to come to terms with their loss.
She rocked to sleep to a soft lullaby
That little boy who passed on in his prime
And did not leave his end to father time.
Her Matthew he was only twenty five
But he had lost the will that we all need to survive
That will that urges us to carry on
When we feel that all of our better days are gone.
For Lyn the heaviest cross given her to bear
And her broken heart will take years to repair
And nothing for her that anyone can do
Since the grieving process she has to go through.
I wish that I could help her in some way
But nothing anyone can do or say
Could bring back to her, her beloved only son
Death is so final and the Reaper spares none.
He did not live on to be old and gray
Perhaps his life not mapped out in that way
And his mum and dad and only sister burdened with the cross
Of trying to come to terms with their loss.
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