lovely heather
From the distant Wicklow Hills
Enticed us to Avoca
Of which Tom Moore did sing.
Darkness lay her misty cloak
Across the vale renowned,
A torch’s rays so softly stole
Across the brambles brown.
The lapping waters lightly,
Tripped by the soft breeze calm
Sped through Avoca brightly
By hedges, green with palm.
Alas! I could not see it
That vale, with beauty hid,
But yet I knew a speck from Heaven
Around that place was shed.
Alone in the heart of Avoca,
Tom Moore’s tree tall, did stare,
Like a giant, though torn and broken
With broken branches bare.
That night is gone for ever,
But to me, its memories shine,
Like diamonds, with specks of silver,
To cherish all through life.
Avoca, spread your beauty
On travellers, day and night,
Give praise to Him your maker the Lord of joy and light.
T HE O BELISK
Towering ,Like a sentinel
Overlooking Killiney Bay,
Overpowering, cheeky, lonely .Like a giant satellite;
Ready to pierce the very
Core of heaven
Offspring of man’s humble energy
To ease the strains
Of daily urgencies
In a time, when hunger
Was the topmost thought
In the minds of labouring humans,
Too poor to crave for anything
Only to build a monster
Elegant, stately, noble.
Evening dusk envelopes its
Shoulders of grey lime and mortar,
Cold to the eye, but yet,
It holds a frame of importance,
Heedless of the romantic scenery
Surrounding its obelisk frame
A lonely pyramid
Of far off by gone days,
A MEMORY................
T HE O LD S CHOOLMASTER
An old teacher sat in a reverie deep,
He whistled a tune though soft and meek,
Then he gazed into by-gone days,
And many the lad passed before his face.
He saw himself there, tall, sturdy and strong,
Teaching the young hearts right from wrong,
In a dusty old schoolroom, where many the lad,
Learned to read, to write, and to add,
He knew them as babies, he knew them as boys,
He saw them clasping old rusty toys,
And then he saw them as soldier lads,
Going of to battle, smiling though sad,
Some of his pupils in far away lands,
Preaching the Gospel to pagan gangs,
Many the youth he taught how to trod,
One day to become a good priest of God.
Ah! those were the days of sadness and joy,
Many the frown heartbreak and sigh,
Slowly the knowledge crept into each cell,
He smiled when he saw the little brains swell.
Though old are they now, perhaps neath the clay,
To him they are still the wee lads bright and gay,
Each face he can see, each brow he beholds,
As they sat there together in good days of old.
The small pretty lassies have all passed away,
Their children now shyly bid him Good-day.
A warm tear slowly fows down his pale cheek,
His poor heart gives way to its last mighty beat.
Down from the Master of Masters there came,
Hundreds of saints in gallant array,
The old Teacher knew them—each happy brow,
Still the same faces though happier now.
The old Master now is sitting in state,
His hard work is over, bliss is his fate,
Sitting around him again he beholds
The souls that he moulded in good days of old.
Ah! great is the call of a teacher in life,
A difficult strain to mould a young mind
But greater by far, the ever lasting reward
Which awaits the lone master, when called by the Lord,
MOVEMENT ON DUN LAOGHAIRE PIER
At the very end of Dunlaoghaire Pier,
We sat gazing into the sea.
Nobody knew anybody else,
But there we were, all glaring
At a sea bird swooping downwards.
It caught nothing, but continued
with open wings and piercing beak
to penetrate the water’s edges.
Overhead, an Aer Lingus plane
glided over the harbour
on its way to Dublin airport.
Sail boats scurried to and fro,
swaying in the breeze.
Young couples kissing, holding hands,
Oblivious of watching strangers.
Moss Keane passes by, People nudge, and whisper
Their stares cause him to blush.
The bird swoops, all eyes turn,
Gasps of approval to see a tiny fish
wringle in death’s agony,
A bird’s efforts
From the distant Wicklow Hills
Enticed us to Avoca
Of which Tom Moore did sing.
Darkness lay her misty cloak
Across the vale renowned,
A torch’s rays so softly stole
Across the brambles brown.
The lapping waters lightly,
Tripped by the soft breeze calm
Sped through Avoca brightly
By hedges, green with palm.
Alas! I could not see it
That vale, with beauty hid,
But yet I knew a speck from Heaven
Around that place was shed.
Alone in the heart of Avoca,
Tom Moore’s tree tall, did stare,
Like a giant, though torn and broken
With broken branches bare.
That night is gone for ever,
But to me, its memories shine,
Like diamonds, with specks of silver,
To cherish all through life.
Avoca, spread your beauty
On travellers, day and night,
Give praise to Him your maker the Lord of joy and light.
T HE O BELISK
Towering ,Like a sentinel
Overlooking Killiney Bay,
Overpowering, cheeky, lonely .Like a giant satellite;
Ready to pierce the very
Core of heaven
Offspring of man’s humble energy
To ease the strains
Of daily urgencies
In a time, when hunger
Was the topmost thought
In the minds of labouring humans,
Too poor to crave for anything
Only to build a monster
Elegant, stately, noble.
Evening dusk envelopes its
Shoulders of grey lime and mortar,
Cold to the eye, but yet,
It holds a frame of importance,
Heedless of the romantic scenery
Surrounding its obelisk frame
A lonely pyramid
Of far off by gone days,
A MEMORY................
T HE O LD S CHOOLMASTER
An old teacher sat in a reverie deep,
He whistled a tune though soft and meek,
Then he gazed into by-gone days,
And many the lad passed before his face.
He saw himself there, tall, sturdy and strong,
Teaching the young hearts right from wrong,
In a dusty old schoolroom, where many the lad,
Learned to read, to write, and to add,
He knew them as babies, he knew them as boys,
He saw them clasping old rusty toys,
And then he saw them as soldier lads,
Going of to battle, smiling though sad,
Some of his pupils in far away lands,
Preaching the Gospel to pagan gangs,
Many the youth he taught how to trod,
One day to become a good priest of God.
Ah! those were the days of sadness and joy,
Many the frown heartbreak and sigh,
Slowly the knowledge crept into each cell,
He smiled when he saw the little brains swell.
Though old are they now, perhaps neath the clay,
To him they are still the wee lads bright and gay,
Each face he can see, each brow he beholds,
As they sat there together in good days of old.
The small pretty lassies have all passed away,
Their children now shyly bid him Good-day.
A warm tear slowly fows down his pale cheek,
His poor heart gives way to its last mighty beat.
Down from the Master of Masters there came,
Hundreds of saints in gallant array,
The old Teacher knew them—each happy brow,
Still the same faces though happier now.
The old Master now is sitting in state,
His hard work is over, bliss is his fate,
Sitting around him again he beholds
The souls that he moulded in good days of old.
Ah! great is the call of a teacher in life,
A difficult strain to mould a young mind
But greater by far, the ever lasting reward
Which awaits the lone master, when called by the Lord,
MOVEMENT ON DUN LAOGHAIRE PIER
At the very end of Dunlaoghaire Pier,
We sat gazing into the sea.
Nobody knew anybody else,
But there we were, all glaring
At a sea bird swooping downwards.
It caught nothing, but continued
with open wings and piercing beak
to penetrate the water’s edges.
Overhead, an Aer Lingus plane
glided over the harbour
on its way to Dublin airport.
Sail boats scurried to and fro,
swaying in the breeze.
Young couples kissing, holding hands,
Oblivious of watching strangers.
Moss Keane passes by, People nudge, and whisper
Their stares cause him to blush.
The bird swoops, all eyes turn,
Gasps of approval to see a tiny fish
wringle in death’s agony,
A bird’s efforts
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