There is not a Irishman born about who cannot,
Easily weave a tale or two of enigmatic whimsy.
With stories of magical fairies and fat old gnomes,
Guarding the so magical world of his imagination.
So it is his demeanor of merriment and frivolity,
Can hide a darkness festering just below within.
For it is this man who knows not a land of his own,
A subject of vile foreign and his own cruel masters.
A land whose identity was taken and hidden within,
A soul tortured seeking his freedom from bondage.
And it was many the Irish young lad and sweet lass,
Abandoned the earth but not the heart of their home.
To carry forth the Irish heritage to many other lands,
Touching the very hearts of all they will encounter.
So emerged the old image of a hard working lusty drinker,
Working for wages to support a family and drink to forget.
For so is the sad story of a man without country to own,
Seeking a place to hang a cap at the end of shortened life.
With the native earth of his birth forever calling out to him,
A wind sings a song over high mountains and deep valleys.
The greenness of colors reminds him of flowing fields,
Blanketed with fresh clover ripe to be plucked by hand.
A longing to return one day to once more savor the land,
Walking in the clouds of all those having gone before him.
To feel the closeness of the warm earth under his feet,
And to taste the flowing sweetness of a spring brook.
One day I will set that wandering work about boot,
Upon the Galway dock to take a step on Irish soil.
Until then I shall weave my tales and sing my songs,
As God leads me upon the path of my destiny today.
T. Michael Daly