Shannon, Silver Goddess, Flow to Sea

Shannon, silver goddess, flow to sea
And life bring you with thee
To the oceans loud and proud swell
Thy waters come, as if from a well
From which all of Ireland drinks
Your waters pure, the midlands links
With the seas wide expanse
With whose waters yours joins in a dance.
And so, silver goddess, each mile you grow,
Blesses be your waters that into the Atlantic flow.

poem by Tomás Ó Cárthaigh
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A Horse Is A Horse

A horse is a horse and a man is a man
And neither can be the other
And each can survive but is much better
In the company of one another.
And while a horse is a horse and that is true
A horse is but a beast
As a cow is a cow, some ask how
On its flesh we should not feast?
For they do so in France as in other places
And I don't know how they can
For while a horse is a horse and is only a horse
It is less a cow than it is a man!

poem by Tomás Ó Cárthaigh
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A Bugle Played

A bugle as a warning played
From a watchman in the spire
Allowed a city to defend itself
From attack by Tater fire

An one of the attackers saw
The bugler making the warning call
And with arrow fired pierced his throat
Causing the music to cease and man dead to fall

And to this day in that town
That music it is played
From the same spire on the same church
Where once it was a warning to a people afraid

A siren then, why is it now
That sounds of danger are so plain
Why cant he have something as sweet
As the Hejnals sweet refrain?

poem by Tomás Ó Cárthaigh
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Paul Polansky Sat In My Kitchen

Paul Polansky sat in my kitchen,
Eat pudding and drank black tea,
As if he were but a friend,
Who passing happened to be.
A man who worked so tirelessly
To help the Roma nation,
A far off name in a far off land,
Who for me was an inspiration.

And as we talked of politics
And culture, and history,
He was as I, and I as him,
As he chatted to Lubo and me.
Some say that God is far from this world
But I think that he is in
People like Polansky,
Though they’re human and subject to sin.

And you – and I – are like him!
Or can be, in what we do…

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poem by Tomás Ó Cárthaigh
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The Ballad of Old Clonbroney

The Ballad of Old Clonbroney

One night dark walking along
A lane onto its end,
A neighbour walked up to a house
To call upon a friend.
The neighbour was new, his friends wife too
Had arrived not long ago,
And friendship new as neighbours do
They called on one another each other to know.

And as he approached the house,
He wondered at how strange shadows moves,
It looked as if it were a hearse,
And all of a sudden a sound of hooves,
And a wall through at terrific speed,
Driven by a horseman with no head,
A hearse up through the feilds fleed
To Old Clonbroney with its dead.

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poem by Tomás Ó Cárthaigh
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