McTaggart
A real horse of a man McTaggart
Called him nineteen hands high,
With shoulders like a barn door,
Town lands champion, miser and horse doctor.
Focus of all the neighborhood shallow gossip,
Uncle Eddy strode Brucha’s rushy aches alone
for eighty years to outlive them all,
Unschooled and illerate, a product of lean times,
He could guide a team of Clydesdales at twelve,
At fifteen a man.
He bought his first suit with rabbits snared on the loch shore.
Rebuffed a sullen parish admired his feats from a safe distance,
Fearing the hard honesty, the cold stare.
As when he mowed all night in the wet meadow,
lifted a trap across his bare shoulders,
broke stallions or drove a herd of bullocks to the Moy Fair alone.
Well able for pestering clergy,
Friendless and womanless all his life,
He christened the great bays, Tom and Ned
Laid out two policemen at Finigan’s republican funeral, they said.
Finally as lawyers and priests came to count his money,
And the whole parish waited triumphantly for his final feat.
He chased doctors and priests from his deathbed.
Wanting only that the workman bring the horses to the window so that he could see them.
Feb 9th,2011
poem by James Bredin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Father Ed
The day of his ordination his widowed mum's happiest day
To Sainthood she said my son is on his way
She raised him on her own when his dad of a heart attack died
Of her only offspring she took so much pride
At sixty eight he died in his sleep with his mum he now lay
At his funeral this morning his Parishioners for his soul did pray
He had been their Parish Priest for more than twenty years
And they did farewell him in sadness and tears
Of their Parish Priests the greatest of all
His sunday sermons on morals and chastity they will long recall
But the saddest one at the funeral was his housekeeper Kate
With head bowed as she sobbed she whispered I have lost my soul-mate
To me he was far more than Parish Priest Father Ed
He was my secret lover and he was damn good in bed.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Perfect Circle
Put your hair back, we get to leave
Eleven gallows on your sleeve
Shallow figure, winners paid
Eleven shadows way out of place
Standing too soon, shoulders high in the room
Standing too soon, shoulders high in the room
Standing too soon, shoulders high in the room
Pull your dress on and stay real close
Who might leave you where I left off?
A perfect circle of acquaintances and friends
Drink another, coin a phrase
Heaven assumed, shoulders high in the room
Heaven assumed, shoulders high in the room
Heaven assumed, shoulders high in the room
Try to win and suit your needs
Speak out sometimes but try to win
Standing too soon, shoulders high in the room
Standing too soon, shoulders high in the room
Standing too soon, shoulders high in the room
Standing too soon, shoulders high in the room
Standing too soon, shoulders high in the room
song performed by by REM
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
For Herself
(shawna harrington-burkhart, liz hengber, reba mcentire)
Uncle slim had let her know she couldnt ride that horse
He was the one that was only meant for men
She walked around till way after dark
Rode that horse with all her heart
And in the night how she rode
Chorus:
Somehow she always knew she had the strength inside
And even if she fell shed survive
In spite of all the tears she may cry
This is how she has to live her life
As hard as it may be, she has to find out for herself
Mama and daddy told her from the start he was no good
Theyd seen how he treated the other girls
She waited around till the sun went down
Slipped out of the house not makin a sound
And in the night oh how they drove
Repeat chorus:
It was fifteen years to the day he became a stranger in her eyes
In the coldest words of anger
He said without me you wont survive
Theres a suitcase in the closet she had packed six months ago
She dont leave a note thats not her style
So she waited around till way after dark
Left that man who broke her heart
Now shes gone, oh shes gone
Repeat chorus:
song performed by by Reba Mcentire
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Now A Memory Of The Past
The travellers parked their romany horse drawn vans at the Shannaknock Cross when when frosted fields were bare
But despite the cold and damp weather they did not seem to have a care
Their pinto horses with ropes tied to trees munched on bunches of hay
And old Clara Hill wore his hat of snow on a cold February day
The coldness of the Winter chill was in the frosty air
A week before the first of March and Millstreet Town Horse Fair
The by roads of Duhallow they had travelled up and down
On their way to the big horse fair that was held in Millstreet Town
Time does not wait for anyone and leaves us looking older and gray
But the good memories of our childhood years till death with us will stay
I loved them for their love of poetry, song and music and life they did enjoy
But the sixties brought great change to Duhallow where I lived as a boy
The late twentieth century to Ireland brought great changes and few things seem to last
And their romany vans and pinto horses now a memory of the past.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Vic and Vo
When one remembers Vo Rogue the famous race horse one remembers his trainer Victory Rail
For they were great together and they never seemed to fail
To give value for money Vo Rogue the gallant bay
Was a champion on pace galloper who often led all of the way
The mighty weight for age horse who galloped without shoes
He won many group races and was seldom seen to lose
Well trained by the likeable Vic and ridden by Cyril Small
Their feats Australian racegoers forever will recall.
Not one bred in the purple and of an unfashionable breed
But when the starting gates flew open Vo bounded to the lead
An out and out front runner he did not need a racing plan
He galloped on relentlessly and 'twas beat him if you can.
Since Vo Rogue was a champion a decade has gone by
And on looking back those years have sped how time just seems to fly
He must be getting on in years and time has left him slow
And where he lives in retirement now I wouldn't even know
And as for Vic Rail well he died young a rare bug laid him low
He lost his last battle in life five or six years ago
Around the trainer and his horse a legend it did grow
And racing folk will long recall the feats of Vic and Vo.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Don't Only Focus On The Money
When you go for the money,
You'll be selling your soul.
And when one goes for just the money,
The heart turns cold.
So don't focus on the money,
Don't.
Don't only focus on the money,
Don't.
Bling is nice but there's more to life.
Don't focus on the money,
Don't.
Open your mind with bright wide eyes,
To take a ride that will excite you.
With a view to greater heights.
So...
Don't focus on the money,
Don't.
No don't you focus on the money,
Don't.
When you go for the money,
You'll be selling your soul.
Don't focus on the money,
Don't.
Don't let your heart grow old and cold.
Don't focus on the money,
Don't.
So...
Don't you focus on the money,
Don't.
No don't you focus on the money,
Don't.
So...
Don't you focus on the money,
Don't.
No don't you focus on the money,
Don't.
Don't only focus on the money,
Don't.
No don't you focus on the money,
Don't.
So you just don't focus on the money,
Don't.
So you just don't focus on the money,
Don't.
No don't you focus on the money,
Don't.
Don't only focus on the money,
Don't.
'I feel funny when I don't have any money.'
Don't focus on the money,
Don't.
Don't only focus on the money,
Don't.
Don't you only focus on the money,
Don't.
Don't keep your focus on the fact that you always stay broke.
Don't focus on the money,
Don't.
Don't only focus on the money,
Don't.
Don't stay focused on the money,
Don't!
Don't keep your focus on the fact that you always stay broke.
Don't focus on the money,
Don't.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Old Town Types No.2 - Red Matt
He gleaned all the gossip and he gathered all the news,
Mad Matt, the carrier, delivering the grub;
He knew the trooper's tattle and he knew the parson's views,
The gossip at the station-yard, the gossip at the pub.
That high-pitched voice of his, the loudest voice in town,
That shrewd blue eye of his, with humor all a-gleam -
Old Red Matt, with his cabbage-tree hat,
His trolley, and his two-horse team.
Driving down the main street a-clatter with his load,
The great red beard of him blowing out behind:
'Hear about that accident's mornin' up the road?
Hear about the gold rush at Joe Scott's find?
Warmish sort o' day we got; thirsty weather this.
Got a bag o' spuds for you - Dang! Fergot the cream!'
Says old Red Matt with his cabbage-tree hat,
And his trolley, and his two-horse team.
Mad Matt, the carrier, standing at the bar:
'Well here's a go, boys. Got to get along
Seven pints I've had today and still to travel far.
Drink fast and drive fast, yeh can't go wrong.
Fill 'em up again, boss, ans hove it on the slate.
Half-a-ton aboard today - just tipped the beam,'
Says old red Matt with the cabbage-tree hat,
And his trolley, and his two-horse team.
Sudden were his wild ways, sudden, too, his end.
Jumped to grab a bolting team with kiddie sin the trap;
And they picked up Mad Matt, everybody's friend,
Silent now and broken; and they said, 'Brave chap.
Wild an' all,' they said of him, 'always was a white man.'
And they laid him, with a blessing, where his old mates dream,
Saying, 'So long, Matt, with your cabbage-tree hat,
And your trolley, and your two-horse team.'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Hush-a-bye Hard Times
Many years you have lingered around my cabin door
Oh hard times come again no more
Oh hard times come again no more
Oh hush a bye hard times, go ye away
Cause my hungry baby wants a gingerbread cake
Not a cow in the barn yard no money to spend
Not an egg in the hayloft, no little red hen
Chorus:
So, hush a bye baby dont cry no more
Your mama cant give you what youre crying for
Theres a wolf at the door with an angry
Cold hungry stare, he keeps howling of hard times
And the cupboard is bare
Oh, hush a bye hard times go ye to rest
Cause my ragged baby wants a new ruffled dress
And she wants some new shoes with buckles to wear
And she wants some silver bows for her golden hair
Repeat chorus twice
Hush a bye hard times go ye away
I dont intend to be treated this way
So, hush a bye baby
Hush a bye hard times
Hush a bye baby
Dont cry no more
Hush a bye hard times
Hush a bye baby
Hush a bye hard times
Come ye no more
Fade:
Many years you have lingered around my cabin door
Hush a bye hard times
Come ye no more
Hush a bye baby
Hush a bye hard times
Hush a bye baby
Dont cry no more
Hush a bye hard times
Hush a bye baby
Hush a bye hard times
Come ye no more
song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Over The Falls
They broke out in laughter again,
His lip beaded with sweat as they strapped him in,
And he stood by and waited to be called.
The talk was of times that had gone by
And the quantity and quality of women they lie.
His eyes welled with wet and his mouth had gone dry.
As he stood by and waited to be called.
He stood by and waited to be called.
He stood by and waited like the others before
For his turn to go over the falls.
He got up and tried it again.
For lack of persistence is surely a sin.
As he stood by and waited to be called,
He looked to the lightning with glee
And admired his vessel for its symmetry,
Feeling twelve units shy of a bachelors degree.
As he stood by and waited to be called.
He stood by and waited to be called.
He stood by and waited like the others before
For his turn to go over the falls.
song performed by by Primus
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
A Horse Life
In a horse life.We can play with a burlap feed
bag, an empty milk jug, or chew on the barn stall
door.Just to kill some time, or to kill some every
day bordom.In a horse life.We get names like
Black Beauty, Flicka, Seabiscuit, or Secretariat.
In a horse life.We do tricks like bowing our heads
down, or placing our shoe upon a pedastool.Picking
up the cowboy hat.While tapping our feet rata-tat-tat.
In a horse life.We like a good block of salt.With lots
of minerals, to lick upon.A wholesome bale of hay.To
start off a brand new day.Or a bucket of grain.To keep
us all healthy, fat, and sane.And a fresh bucket of water,
to wash it all down.In a horse life.I could be losing a
horseshoe.While the rider is losing his mind.In a horse
life.We can be a workhorse, a race horse, or a trick pony.
Or maybe a showhorse, or possibly a circus horse.With
out all the phoney baloney.In a horse life.We can run all
day in the open sun, or run the race trak.While the betters
place their wagers.Of course, at the horse racing track
betters window.In a horse life..
A Horse Life Poem by Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 2011.All rights reserved.
poem by Kim Robin Edwards
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Wind Horse
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, gentle Wind horse, you were the last of your kind.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you were running wild and free.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, with this freedom you did nothing but give;
When one called for help you carried them to safety,
No enemy did you have.
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you gave your life one day
To a boy with no leg.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you gave him your endless love.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you now run in the Great Hunting Grounds;
Giving joy to those there, as you did here.
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, your life was not the last gift
You gave the People.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you prayed for us, you wished a wish for us.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, we remember you through your brother Horse.
Wi: yo: h … It is good.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, we see you still.
poem by Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Horse and Cart Ferry
It was old Jerry Brown,
Who’d an office in town,
And he used to get jocular, very;
And he’d go to the Shore
When they’d serve him no more,
And, of course, by the passenger ferry,
A sight on the passenger ferry.
Now this is a song of the ferry,
And a lay of the juice of the berry;
’Tis the ballad of Brown,
Who’d a business in town,
And commenced to go down
Very slow,
Don’t you know?
By coming home just a bit merry.
By the Drunks’ Boat—that’s right—
On a Saturday night
He would often be past being merry;
With his back teeth afloat,
On the twelve o’clock boat,
And a spectacle there on the ferry
(A picture to all on the ferry).
In the mornings, ashamed—
’Twas the last drink he blamed,
Though the first was the matter with Jerry,
With his nerve out of joint,
He’d sneak down to Blue’s Point,
And he’d cross by the horse-and-cart ferry,
Like a thief—by the horse-and-cart ferry.
But long before night
He’d most likely be tight,
And a subject and theme for George Perry;
And he’d cross to the Shore,
Somewhat worse than before,
And a nuisance to all on the ferry;
Singing-drunk on the passenger ferry.
And so it went on
Till his reason seemed gone,
And the Law, so it seemed, got a derry
On Brown. He went down,
And they sent him to town
One day, by “the trap,” on the ferry—
The Government trap on the ferry.
He was sober and sane
When he came back again,
And the past he’d determined to bury—
Or, I mean, live it down—
And he crossed from the town
Like a man, on the passenger ferry.
(There were sceptical souls on that ferry.)
They say ’twas the jaw
Of his mother-in-law
Drove him back to the juice of the berry;
But he soon got afloat
On the passenger boat
Or adrift on the horse-and-cart ferry
(Wrongly called the ve-hic-ular ferry).
The drink had him fast,
And he drank till at last
He dried up—a withered old cherry;
And they thought him no loss
When they sent him across
In a box, on the cart-and-horse ferry—
In a low, covered trap on the ferry.
Which I rise to explain—
If the moral ain’t plain,
And if you’re a cove that gets merry—
Always stick, when “afloat,”
To the passenger boat;
Or else to the cart-and-horse ferry,
Or you’ll make matters worse, like old Jerry.
But this is the song of the ferry,
And the lay of the juice of the berry;
And you will not deny—
If you read by-and-bye—
That the casual eye
Of the Tight
At first sight
Misses much in the song of the ferry.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
1984
Nineteen eighty four
Someday they wont let you
Now you must agree
The time they are a telling
And the changing isnt free
You read it in the tea leaves
And the reacks are on tv
Beware the savage jaw
In nineteen eighty four
Theyll split your pretty cranium
And fill it full of air
Theyll tell you that youre eighty
And really you wont care
Youll be shooting up on everything
Tomorrows never there
Beware the savage jaw
In nineteen eighty four
Come see come see
Remember me
I played in an all night movie role
You said it would last
But I guess weve enrolled
In nineteen eighty four
Who could ask for more
Nineteen eighty four
Who could ask for more
Im looking for a vehicle
Im looking for a ride
Im looking for a party
Im looking for a side
Im looking for a treason
That I knew in sixty five
Beware the savage door
In nineteen eighty four
Come see come see
Remember me
I played in an all night movie role
You said it would last
But I guess weve enrolled
In nineteen eighty four
Who could ask for more
Nineteen eighty four
Who could ask for more
Nineteen eighty four
song performed by by Tina Turner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Oh to be in England...
[The names and some of the details of this report have been changed to protect the identities of the persons involved - Ed.]
Yes I'm afraid so.
Mr Smith and Mrs Jones from down the road.
Five years now.
It's Mr Jones I feel sorry for.
Though from what I hear...
But it's Mrs Smith who really miffs me.
We're supposed to be friends, I thought.
Not a word, not a hint, these five years.
I really feel - betrayed.
Of course the men and the women here have a different take on this.
Well you'd expect it, considering.
(My Jack laughed like a drain when he read the details.
Went out early to buy the News of the Screws he calls it.)
I think the bastard's envious.
Not a word, not a hint.
Even the vicar's wife didn't know.
At least Catholics have confession.
Though of course their parish priests don't have wives...
I'm a historian. Was. The village well,
the parish pump, market day, after church, coffee mornings...
'Social cohesion in rural communities'.
I B.A.- ed on it.
Say what you like,
gossip keeps a community together.
Five years.
No, I'm not going round to see her.
I feel - betrayed...
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
High Horse
Get up on your high horse, woman
Get up on your high horse now
And get up on your high horse, woman
I'll make it up to you somehow
Moonlit shadow, she starts a trippin' firelight
Jumpin' the trees lyin' across the right of way
Silvery mornin' it glistens down the valley
But she don't stop 'til we ride the night away
Get up on your high horse, woman
Get up on your high horse now
Get up on your high horse, woman
I'll make it up to you somehow
Blonde braids tangle at the misty break of mornin'
Catchin' light through a dusty window pane
Lost in lust, in denial of the warnin'
She digs her heels in this stallion's flank again
Get up on your high horse, woman
Get up on your high horse now
Get up on your high horse, woman
I'll make it up to you somehow
Get up on your high horse, woman
You paid the price, you get to play
Get up on your high horse, woman
You're gonna ride to the break of day
To the break of day
To the break of day
To the break of day
Get up on your high horse, woman
Get up on your high horse now
Get up on your high horse, woman
I'll make it up to you somehow
Get up on your high horse, woman
You paid the price, you get to play
Get up on your high horse, woman
You're gonna ride to the break of day
song performed by by Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Riding The Dark Horse
Riding along on the dark horse of sadness.
Each day or night.
The dark horse is my companion.
We ride through life.
On a dark stream of light.
Riding along side is depression.
My second companion.
We ride together in search of happiness.
We never find.
Riding the dark horse through this life.
I'm filled with sorrow.
Tears are inside.
As I reflect on my journey through life.
I see that the dark horse has always been,
what I ride.
The dark horse of sorrow.
Has always been by my side.
I will continue to ride,
The dark horse in this life.
Until I die.
Exchanging the dark horse for white,
as I cross the great divide.
Entering the gates of life on the other side.
Where happiness I may finally find.
Leaving the dark horse of sorrow behind.
Taking the two companions,
sorrow and depression with me.
As I ride to the other side.
Changing their apperance to laughter and joy.
As I dismount on heaven's shore.
Filled with so much joy.
As I look back on my journey.
That I rode to heavens door.
I finally see the beauty of my companions.
That rode with me upon life's shores.
They changed before my eyes.
Becoming laughter and joy.
Beautiful spirits of love to behold.
That rode on the dark horse of life with me.
Till reaching heavens shore.
poem by Weeping Willow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Fond And Happy Memories
In the middle of February they always came to Annagloor
And parked their horse drawn vans by the by road the travelling Irish poor
They came for the March horse fair in Millstreet Town horses they bought and sold
And a beautiful Pinto to them was a horse worth more than gold.
The coldest part of the Winter is in mid February
And a cold wind blew across the sky in temperatures low as minus 3
Their horses they did not tether on the by road they ranged free
And though that was close to fity years ago those memories remain with me.
And though many Seasons have come and gone since then the memories remain evergreen
Around their camp fire they drunk their illicit booze the stuff known as poteen
And the accordionist played the old tunes and with him they sang along
And they were bound through their cultural links to music dance and song.
Their ancestors were the dispossessed that Cromwells's army had put on the road
That led them to the wandering life of the 'no fixed abode'
Their mothers gave them life in their horse drawn vans and in their horse drawn vans they died
And from birth till death they roamed around the Irish countryside
Outcasts in their own country and homeless and downtrod
But through their music dance and song linked to a greater God
And though they too had their human frailties so too don't we one and all
And fond and happy memories of them I can recall.
Their children and grand children don't live in a horse drawn van
For the late fifties brought great changes to the lives of the wandering clan
Yet by the by road at Annagloor around their camp fire in the moonlight
I still can hear them singing on a cold and frosty night.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sonnet: God, Bless My Dear Sister
God gave her beauteous body and long hair!
Intelligent, she prayed really hard;
She spoke fluently and looked very fair;
As doctor, she was superb in the ward.
But suddenly, her dad had fallen ill;
She looked after him ‘like a nurse’ by day;
‘Insulined’ making urine sugar ‘Nil’!
She worked as doctor by night far away!
God bless’d her with good husband, three children;
Her Practice too is good but life is tough;
She tends to mother more than eighty when
She develops chest-cold and nasty cough.
God bless my doctor sister for her feat!
Help her in times of woes: devils defeat.
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The lives of doctors, the souls of priests, and the property of lawyers, are in great danger.
The Old Miser and his 3rd Wife
1
The Old Miser
my husband is dying
and he makes me promise
I must put all his money in his coffin
when he dies
“O my legal third wife
the only one surviving -
you must put all my money
secretly in my coffin”
Sure thing, sure thing
you Old Miser!
You made me suffer all my life
and now in your death
you want to bring away all the money
Sure thing, sure thing
you Old Miser!
2
Now, he’s dead
and I’ve arranged for his funeral
and while everyone’s busy
with all these preparations
I dutifully take all his money
from the hiding place
which he whispered to me
with his last breath
and he bit my ear and he snarled:
“Put all my money
in my coffin”
Sure thing, sure thing
you Old Miser!
You made me suffer all my life
and now in your death
you want to bring all the money away
Sure thing, sure thing
you Old Miser!
3
So I take all his money
and bring it to the bank
and deposit it in my name
and make a cheque out for 10 million
and put the cheque below his head
Sure thing, sure thing
you Old Miser!
You made me suffer all my life
and now in your death
you can take all the money away
Sure thing, sure thing
you Old Miser!
poem by Raj Arumugam
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!