THE LITTLE IRISH MOTHER

                         There's a little Irish mother
                         Lying in a sandy grave
                         And in the flow of memories
                         Is a sadness I can't stave
                         As a family we farewelled her
                         Just short of Paddy's Day
                         And I journey there this time of year
                         A son's respect to pay

                         We came to this great country
                         From a land called Erin's Isle
                         With the displaced souls of Europe
                         Who'd tramped their tragic mile
                         I remember tears at Christmas time
                         And when the cables came
                         To tell them of a loved one
                         They would never see again

                         Our class was one great melting pot
                         For the cultures of this world
                         But we called ourselves Australian
                         As our nation's flag unfurled
                         And my mates were quick to realise
                         St Patrick was no fool
                         For when his feastday came around
                         We'd have a day off school

                         We'd all march down the town's main street
                         And every sport we'd play
                         As our priests recalled ,back at home
                         It was never quite that way
                         But now green beer and "plastic pubs"
                         Have become the standard fare
                         For today there's just the Irish
                         And "dems" that wish they were

                         I don my robes and as St Pat
                         I really play the part
                         But deep inside a sense of loss
                         Keeps gnawing at my heart
                         For when the last pint has been drained
                         And the crowd has ceased its' din
                         I think of that little grave site
                         And the one who sleeps within


                          La Fheile Padraig Sona Daoibh


                              TOMAS HAMILTON 27FEB10