A parish less than two square mile
Old fashioned here’s the height of style.
Still it’s called home by many souls
Who think of it on foreign shores
And wish to God that they were home
Not exiled to some great unknown
This place can not support its sons
Its skiens leave and dont return
Daugters go to learn new ways
Or stay condemned to be old maids.
Its families sundered, torn apart
The cost to leave a broken heart
On a greater scale of no import
Its people not the common sort
But soon this place will pass from time
And surely that is cause to shame
That those who could reverse the rot
If only it was worth a vote.
They dont deign to show their face
They care not for my place.
When the final soul has gone
Or widows, children left, alone
Walls and dreams fall apart
Its single road returns to earth
Their will be no saving grace
Just the sad demise of my place.
© Dave Kavanagh @ daithiocaomanaigh.com