'Twas Irish blood that filled his veins,
this wretched man in iron chains;
a gnawing hunger deep within
had forced his hand to steal.
The man in wig, a magistrate,
then sealed the poor man's im'nent fate,
he'd serve a term in New South Wales,
no chance to make appeal.
First Limerick, then County Cork
in cells devoid of friendly talk,
he could not bear the solitude,
it tore his soul apart.
Then came a morn one dreadful day,
they led the broken man away,
his native land he'd see no more,
all hope drained from his heart.
Those months at sea were really tough,
his frame had simply borne enough.
He only wished his soul to die,
to find true peace at last.
His spirit fought to help him live,
for surely life had more to give,
perhaps this land of servitude
would heal all errors past.
Assigned to serve 'round Richmond town,
he kept the count as years went down,
certificate of freedom earned
he cried with tears of joy.
A lass then came into his life,
he made that girl his darling wife.
She bore him children of his own,
the eldest was a boy.
Those early years though took their toll,
she buried him atop the knoll,
but knowing that he had a son,
roots of a fam'ly tree.
He'd carry her poor husband's dream,
through generations it would seem,
til here today I stand quite proud,
for I've his blood in me.
© Merv Webster
From the book A Muster of Verse and Yarns
