OLD IRISHMAN’S HEART
Remember to not be mixing an inkwell,
With an Irishman so prone to the drink.
Words may flow freely but the meaning,
Can soon be left in the maze of dreams.
So we may see pots of pure gold abound,
And fairies gaily dancing about to music.
As I hear those magical Irish harps singing,
Amid the clogging of dancers fast stepping.
I dwell today in the thoughts of my Ireland,
Dreaming of soft valleys and green glens.
I remember tending my flock of saintly sheep,
With my staff firmly in hand and soft silence.
Was there ever a better land to be designed?
Left for men to care for by Gods own hand.
So it is the gentle clouds pass above slowly,
We see the many shapes and laugh out loud.
For our hearts abound with merry laughter,
For there is no room being allowed for strife?
So lament not the passing these many days,
Or years that soon are to follow these days.
As we see the children grow up and prosper,
Seeking each their place within this new world.
I look to the many changing of my life’s roles,
From newborn son, to father, to grandfather.
And we shall relish in what will then change,
And what will stay as it is being unchanging.
So I will now lay my quill to its resting place,
As the flowing words begin to cease in me.
I now cork up my jug for the night,
To join my dreams in sheer delight.
But love will never halt its grip,
Upon this old Irishman’s heart.
T. Michael Daly (Pop. Irish)
