Poems for All Occasions Read online

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Many thanks to my grandaughter Michelle for her work on the cover and to Garrett and Steven at Original Wrriting for all their help.

  POEMS FOR OUR AMERICAN FRIENDS

  Why the White House should be painted green

  Tyranny of Landlords and Penal Laws,

  Drove our people from home, abroad.

  O’Briens and Murphys,O’Neills, Mc’Quaids,

  Maguires, O’Sullivans , the Celtic Race.

  Late eighteen hundred, they left their homes

  In Coffin ships to distant shores,

  Some landed in the U.S.A

  And built their homes with pride and dare.

  From New York fair to San Francisco,

  From Seattle to New Orleans,

  Those Irishmen built railroads, canals

  But as soldiers, the best e’er seen.

  Who signed the Declaration?,

  Offspring from the Emerald Isle,

  Who founded the American Navy

  John Barry a Wexford guy.

  How many American Presidents

  Have blood from our Celtic Race,

  They have kept their thoughts of Motherland,

  Back to Irish homes can trace.

  The White House designed by Hoban,

  Was honoured, his face on a stamp,

  He hailed from “the Marble City”,

  Kilkenny, a city with class

  But last, but by no means least,

  The best wine’s left till last,

  They brought their culture and Catholic faith

  From the hearths and homes to last..

  Forever in the land of hope,

  The great old U.S.A.

  Much loved by Gaels, at home and abroad,

  God rest all who left Queenstown bay.

  OUR IRISH FOREFATHERS’ WORDS OF WISDOM

  (from the 9th Century Gaelic) I based this poem on the above.

  Three things small sustain this earth,

  A thin stream of milk in a pail,

  A slender blade of golden corn,

  Thread in skilled hand of female.

  Three signs of an ill bred person;

  Staying too long when you call,

  Questions long and tedious,

  Staring the rudest of all.

  Three signs of plenty in Ireland:

  The lowing of a milking cow,

  The hum of a smith’s strong hammer

  The gentle sound of the plough.

  Three laughing stocks in the Old Land,

  An angry man, vicious with rage,

  A jealous man taunting and teasing,

  But the Miser despised always..

  Three things ruining our learning;

  Forgetfulness in youngsters and aged,

  Carelessness clumsy and awkward,

  Ignorance without feeling or care.

  Three signs of a real wicked person:

  Bitterness showing on his face,

  Hatred for each fellow human,

  Cowardice unknown to us, Gaels.

  Three things inspiring the virtue of love,

  A smiling, kind,pleasant face,

  Gentle soft speech and good manners,

  Bring joy, peace and love to each race.

  The three rudest people in mankind,

  A young chap making fun of the Old,

  A strong person jeering a cripple,

  Wise men making fun of a fool.

  Our forefathers knew in their wisdom,

  We are all only actors on stage,

  As we care and behave in this world,

  So shall we reap Heaven’s Wage.

  THE GOOD OLD POTATO……

  A FLOURY IRISH SPUD

  Good old potato

  was the main food of the Irish,

  Maximum yield, this crop could produce,

  But great was their grief,

  Indeed their worst down fall,

  Was the blight and the fungus,

  Such mighty bad news.

  The “spuds”, as they called them,

  Went black and inedible,

  People died by the roadside

  from hunger and disease,

  No rent could they pay

  to their cruel English landlords

  Who evicted poor tenants

  In spite of their pleas.

  Soup kitchens were opened,

  But the price of this beverage,

  Was surrender one’s faith

  Or die on the street.

  The majority of Catholics

  Refused Church of England.

  They chose rather to die

  Than give up their belief.

  Tragedy saved us, millions departed,

  Sending home money to relieve

  loved ones forlorn,

  Those emigrant children

  Lifted up their compatriots

  Dollars bought food,

  And warm Winter Clothes.

  So the people of Ireland

  Should remember forever

  Those gallant young people

  Who braved death, wind and wave

  To save up their dollars

  To support their own kinsfolk,

  Saving their dignity from lone Paupers’ graves.

  FAMINE IN IRELAND 1847… FAMINE ... CENTENARY...150 YEARS

  The workhouse, with its cold grey walls,

  Peering like a giant sentinel

  Engulping male, female, young and old

  Into its open claws of rough mortar

  Enticing them, too weak to argue;

  Their last resort to survive.

  Destitute families, segregated,

  By age and sex, mother from child,

  Child from mother, wife from husband,

  Husband from wife, sister from brother.

  Thin, tired worn out people,

  Those who could, employed for service,

  Earning weekly, the menial sum of one and six

  To barter for rations of yellow meal and broth,

  Thin and tasteless,its salt content

  Pierced parched lips, memories

  of floury potatoes, now rotten neath

  blight's scourge and a foul Winter.

  Creating and nurturing fever epidemics

  which fattened roadside graves, nearby

  Irish farmers slaved to fodder the pockets

  Of absentee landlords, whose greed drove

  Two million of our youngest and best

  in coffin ships,not fit to transport

  Bird,animal, not alone human.

  Yet most survived to spread their seed

  In Australia, new Zealand and fair U.S.A.,

  Where today, they proclaim their pride

  In Irish blood and Gaelic heritage.

  Poverty to new life, island to vast continents

  Despair to hope, fresh seed in new pastures

  Foul FAMINE THE INSTIGATOR.

  CHRISTMAS MEMORIES

  Though half a century has passed,

  And Christmas time is near.

  My memories are as fresh to-day,

  In spite of passing years.

  The blazing fire of logs and turf,

  Red cinders roasting brown,

  The sizzling turkey in the pot,

  And a pudding dark and round.

  Our toys were few, but treasured,

  We accepted all with joy,

  Home made dolls of rags and wool,

  With games for each small boy.

  Our Grannies and our Grandads,

  We greeted with open arms,

  I can almost feel their loving hugs,

  Their hearts aglow and warm.

  They told us of the Holy Child, />
  Who was born on Christmas Day,

  “It is HIS birthday, Child, you know,”

  They said in their gentle way.

  The holly and the berry,

  From the hedge below the hill,

  The lighting candle’s flickering glow,

  In dreams I see it still.

  Granny told of the little Lord,

  With Mary and Joseph brave,

  As they fled with fright from Herod,

  On a donkey’s back so bare.

  We crept into our beds that night,

  And watched the stars with care,

  Dotting they, the floors of Heaven,

  Like gems on a snow white cake.

  To day, I close my eyes and dream,

  Of my home, now far away,

  Memories fair, like pictures float,

  And the love we had and shared.

  The folks, now gone, are looking down,

  On a world, that knows great change,

  We had no pomp or riches then,

  Yes, Christmas time was great

  OUR EMIGRANTS THOUGHTS

  THEY DREAMED of Ireland’s rugged hills,

  Calm response of quiet lakes,

  Purple heather in the glens,

  Undisturbed the cattle graze.

  Yellow furze in bogs and vales,

  Lazy sheep rest nearby,

  Horses gallop o’er the heath

  Bleak and barren the mountain side.

  Mother baking round brown Loaves,

  Softly shaping with four in hands,

  From the haggard poultry sounds

  Piglets rolling on mucky sands.

  Father with his shirt sleeves rolled

  Above his elbows, calm he stands,

  Stick in hand his cattle drove,

  Into the Jobber’s waiting van.

  Memories of long ago,

  Loved ones sleep ‘neath Irish soil,

  Up above the song birds sing

  Like spots adorning the evening sky.

  ANTI IRISH BEHAVIOUR

  Into Boston and New York,

  Came Irish youth from Erin’s Isle,

  Walked the streets from dawn to dusk,

  Trying so hard to earn a dime.

  Resentment in some jealous hearts,

  Anti Catholic in heart and mind,

  Called our Irish boys and colleens,

  “Popish Paddies” so unkind.

  A weekly paper issued,

  By the Rev. Georgie Bour ne,

  Promoting Reformation,,

  Catholicism spurned.

  Secret societies formed,

  By these local Protestant brethren,

  They ambushed Irish immigrants,

  Their menial homes they burned.

  The year was eighteen thirty four,

  In Charlestown, Massachusetts,

  When they burned the Convent and the church

  A deed so foul and stupid.

  The Civil War brought problems new,

  The Irish stood together,

  They worked in farms as helping hands,

  And rose to high positions.

  Around the Lake of Michigan,

  They proved their worth and genius,

  Ator neys, judges became with pride

  Still loyal to their Irish breeding.

  The Celtic Clan worked with pride and might,

  Building roads, railroads and mansions,

  The Irish Colleens with gentle smiles,

  Became America’s cherished Nannies.

  The years rolled on, they settled down,

  Into loyal American Citizens,

  Their offspring too, like fowers in bloom,

  Adorned the towns and cities.

  MASS ROCKS

  The Mass rocks in our lonely glens,

  Like gems, they bring remembrance,

  Of bygone days, when our kin, they dared,

  ‘Gainst tyrants ‘ swords descending.

  The humble priest, in robes, addressed,

  His folks, all there assembled,

  And down the glen came red coated men,

  They hanged the priest with vengeance.

  To day, we all are free to thrive,

  And attend our Mass in freedom,

  No Mass rocks, hanging ropes and spies

  To kill our priests and religion.

  So let us cherish what we‘ve got,

  From ancestors brave and brilliant,

  They taught us to be good and true,

  To our land and to our religion.

  PRAYING THE ROSARY IN OLDEN DAYS IN IRELAND

  After tea ,on the kitchen floor,

  We grabbed a chair and knelt,

  Our elbows on the chair’s hard wood,

  At our lady’s picture glanced.

  The repetition of each soft prayer,,

  Was soothing to the ear,

  Sometimes, perhaps monotonous,

  But each face was full of cheer.

  Our Mum prayed for each one near and far,

  For those long passed away,

  This lovely blessed Rosary,

  Kept us safe at work and play.

  She prayed for all our emigrants,

  In Australia and U.S.A.,

  For all who helped this land of ours,

  My God! how she could pray.

  The “trimmings” of her Rosary,

  Lasted an hour each night,

  As we knelt upon the flag stones,

  Unaware of war or strife.

  To day how many say their prayers?

  With Rosary beads in hands,

  Greed for money, vice and worldly gains,

  Have engrossed the brains of man.

  IRISH MOTHERS OF OLD

  They taught their Children to kneel in prayer,

  Saying daily “speak to God”,

  Just tell Him all your troubles and woe,

  While on this earth you trod.

  The little Irish mother worked

  so hard each day,

  She cooked and washed,

  Had no machines

  Or never went away.

  Each night, they knelt

  ‘Round the bright turf –fire,

  Rosary beads entwined in hands,

  And spoke to the God.

  Who created them,

  Each child a gift so grand.

  Her love grew as she watched them grow

  One day, they left their home

  To cross the broad Atlantic shore

  The western world to roam.

  “I’ll love them till my last lone breath”

  Those were the words, she said.

  “And then from Heaven,

  I’ll watch each one,

  Until their final rest.”.

  Ah! Great were Irish mothers

  The great old Mother Machree,

  They strove to rear good offspring,

  They smiled through joy and grief.

  HOUSE STATIONS IN IRELAND

  (Mass read in country homes, attended by all the neighbours)

  Ever since the Penal days,

  House stations were the norm,

  In country areas, Mass was read,

  For neighbours, the house adorned.

  The altar was the kitchen table,

  Bedecked by Gran’s lace cloth,

  Two candles stood on coloured jars,

  Some flowers the children brought.

  Before the Mass, each one knelt down,

  Beside the parlour fire,

  Confessing all their sins to him,

  The priest, much loved, admired.

  The dues, they paid, a few small coins,

  To support their Church and Priest.

  They prayed for friends and neighbours,

  And for those across the sea.

  Then when the Mass was over,

  They chatted and sang with glee,

  The priest and Old Sacristan

  Sat down for Mother’s tea.

  Then blessing a
ll,t he Priest bade “Goodbye”

  Respectfully did leave,

  The dancing and the “craic” began

  Till morning’s first bright gleam.

  THE THATCHER

  (In olden days in Ireland, most of the cottages were thatched by talented men, known as thatchers.)

  Did you ever see a thatcher

  Bend the scallop, with expert eye?

  He’d tap them down quite firmly,

  Then make the final tie.

  Placing them across the rafters,

  Then gaze on them with pride

  Indeed thatching in those by gone days

  Was an art for men, not boys.

  Away above the rooftop

  He’d work from morn till dark,

  Humming a good old rebel song,

  The ladder at his back.

  Ah! those lovely neat old cottages,

  Have disappeared of late,

  With their white washed walls and chimneys,

  Golden thatch instead of slate.

  They sheltered Ireland’s families,

  From gales and winds and storms,

  The thatchers too have passed away,

  And the Sheaves of yellow corn.

  MICHAEL QUILL

  In nineteen 05, outside of Kilgarvan,

  A village so neat, in Kerry’s green vale.

  Was born a man, who won praise, fame and glory

  His name was Mike Quill, a true son of the Gael.

  Mike founded a union to enhance all the workers,

  He became President popular of Transport Union

  so great,

  He made New York City’s traffic immobile ,

  This man caused a stir in the bold U.S.A.

  He came from a clan, who were Irish, Republican,

  Loved his home Gortluchra, six miles from Kenmare,

  Quite often, he flew in a plane o’er his homeland,

  People shouted “Fáilte Abhaile” Mike Quill

  full of dare.”

  (Fáilte abhaile means”Welcome home”; pronounced faulta awale)

  FAMOUS IRISH FIGHTING MEN IN BATTLE

  Heroes too numerous to mention,

  Meagher’s Irish brigade,

  Won notable praise in battle,

  America proud of their fame.

  General Lee, Meagher’s opponent,

  These are the words that he said;

  “Never were men so brave that day,

  They ennobled their race and their clan.”

  The “Times” from London stated,

  “Ne’er at Fontenoy or Waterloo,

  Was more courage displayed, by men of the Gael

  Than at Marye’s Height in 1862.