a tune on the old wood flute, its tone I often recall
a small stream's trickling, just beneath the fall
there are the sounds of old, present and new
dislikers there are not, or.. very few..
the feeling of warm grass on a fine summer's day
the chill of the cold outside on midwinter's fray
the smell of old wines, gathering layers of dust
try these honey apples! they are the best, and you must!
the smells and sounds of the meadery, its troubles are so few
be watchful of young lad, before he begins to spew!
the great songs of old, being sung in our hall
I swear i saw a little person! his waistcoat was so small!
our fine lands, of potatoes there are very few
but before id eat one, id likely turn blue!
we march onto our boats with a downward heart
and with a new home and new world we all must start..
we dream of the old lands, our family once spoke of
of beautiful green Ireland, who we know and love <3
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12 years, 8 months ago
01 Jan 2013 11:12 CET
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