Category: Poems

An Irishman’s Return

When heads are crowned it makes a fuss, which spreads round near and far,
And big excitement may get up about a whiskey bar,
But nothing stirs a patriot’s heart or makes his spirits burn,
Like a jolly night around the hearth o’er an Irishmans return.

If he was an Hibernian of the grand old days of yore,
His comrades they will gather round, aye, one or two or more,
But when the stout in boxes big is on the the table laid,
“Shinner” or “Hib” touch glasses then, no difference is made.

A grand old timer he will rise both proud and strong and hale,
For to recite of the Red Hand, the Red Hand of O’Neill,
Another then will take his place, his gaze fixed far away,
And give them all a verse or two of “Wild Slievegallion’s brae”.

And then another will get up and quickly take his stand,
For to recite an old-time song about a “canty” man,
“The Moorlough Shore” will then be sung, in accents grand and gay,
Whilst clever jokes will pass around from the Maid of Ballybay.

And as their spirits higher rise and adds unto their joy,
A stalwart hero he will sing The Wild Colonial Boy”,
And as the night it passes on, and closer comes the day,
You will hear about those ‘Irish Eyes’ and all the world being gay.

And so the night it passes on, and no one needs to mourn,
For all are proud and all are pleased at an Irishman’s return,
For why should eyes be weeping then, or why should hearts be sore,
At an Irishman’s return again to dear old Erin’s shore.

(October, 9th 1954)

The Passing of a Season

On the late September’s days I saw a glorious sight,
One hundred swallows in a migratory flight.
They were flying gaily past groves of alder green,
Which deck Moyola’s verdant banks in lovely Ballinascreen.

The fitful sunlight played upon their swiftly moving wings,
And sweet and clear the twitter rang as from silver strings.
Some skilled musician drew the notes which sounded through the vale,
As swiftly onward sped the birds before a Western gale.

Thoughtfully I watched them ’till they vanished from the scene,
For the summer seemed departing from the lovely glens of ‘Screen.
And the Autumn tints were deeper on the woods and mountains brown,
The grass had lost its verdure in the fields by Draperstown.

The “Felts” were at the rowans, and the nuts, no longer green,
Brought thoughts of gathered harvests and the time of Hallowe’en.
I fancied cold Winter’s blasts were blowing on my cheecks,
And thought of snowcaps later on the Sperrin Mountain peeks.

I wished the birds “bon voyage” to a warmer, sunnier clime,
A sure and safe return for another summer time;
When the Shamrocks will be springing, grass growing green,
And flowers sweetly blooming in the lovely glens of ‘Screen.

Ballinascreen.