Irish in Exile

How are thing's, in Cahercon?

Glocca Morra, and Tralee?

These questions asked, by Ireland's outcast.

Of an exile's past, in this world so vast.

Where do you come from? The brogue's giveaway.

"I come from poor Ireland", which is far, far away.

But oh, don't you miss it? Nostalgia you sway.

Youth's memory within me, relived for the day.

With eyes in tear, I now reminisce.

Ancestral halls would be remiss.

For noble deed's, without redress.

Bestowed on me, the same address.

The River Shannon, I have known.

Flow's fast, the banks of our Wolfe Tone.

A Limerick street, I once called home.

From whence, was bound, inclined to roam.

Ireland's fame, and given name.

Besieged and drawn, remains the same.

North and south, in quest a game.

The innocence of youth upholds the lame.

My Music, or Rhyme. Irish life to define.

The culture, and grace's, my history outlines.

In folklore I'm told, Knights on Steeds so refined.

Who's Archers in battle, the Crown did decline.

From Kilkee to Drumcondra. Belfast and Cork.

Name's that can sing, and glow in life's dark.

Its children all scattered, leaving their mark.

Seek riche's and fame, from here, to New York...

© By Nollaig 1996.

Follow the "Links" below to visit "Old Ireland"