Sean Clifford

The Cottage in the Glen

The little cottage looked so neat as it nestled in the glen,
it’s door was always open to welcome strangers in.
It’s golden thatch was gleaming, you could almost say aglow,
it’s sturdy walls were white washed as clean as driven snow.
A bordered path would lead you from the door to the small gate,
and all the roses in the front were tended to by Kate.
A cow, a goat, a donkey a gander and six geese,
were in a field behind the house, so Jack looked after these.
I remember Jack O’ Hara, the day he took Kate’s hand,
in the village church beyond the hill, a mile from where we stand.
They returned unto this little cot, honeymoons were not invented,
and they’ve lived here this forty years, quite happy and contented.

Now Jack, he was a ‘roadman’, breaking stones away,
he would cycle fifteen miles or more, before he’d start his day.
And Kate would get his breakfast, and then his lunch she’d make,
a ‘billy-can’ of sweetened tea and two cuts of one-way cake.
A little bit of bacon, if times were at their peak,
but meat was hard to come by at ten an six a week.
And later on each evening, when daylight hours expired,
Jack would cycle home again, quite fit but very tired.

But when the springtime came around, his tiredness he’d forget,
for in his little haggart, some potatoes he would set.
And he would tend that garden as he watched his seedling grow,
where he got his energy, no one will ever know.
Six children in the meantime, I’m happy to relate,
there and three boys as well, brought joy to Jack and Kate.
They were all so healthy, a gift from up above,
that house was filled with happiness, with caring and with love.

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