PLOWSHARES
We were meant to be men of the earth,
With iron plowshares held in our hands.
And the tilled soil was meant for seed,
From which we gained our sustenance.
And the fields were drenched with rain,
From the full clouds gathering each day.
And with each harvest there was feasting,
And all about our land was good and calm.
Yet this was not the forever life we would lead,
For many others would soon invade our lands.
And our plowshares were turned into swords,
And the crops tilled were soon to be neglected.
And the planting of the fertile soils we so loved,
Lay fallow with no hands to turn over the soil.
And the rains which had sent moisture to flow,
Were soon replaced with the letting of blood.
We would stand and defend what was ours,
In the face of odds against us in each battle.
For the only retreat was the sea at our backs,
So we fought them for our lives and our lands.
And one day the wars were over and won,
And we would once more feel peace about.
And so may each of us cherish forever more,
This land we call our forever home of Ireland.
T. Michael Daly (Pop. Irish)
