in a field of four leaf clovers— i’ll await your three leaves, my dear
you’re my goodluck charm— mixed amongst non-scented flowers, my love
Just thinking back to when I wore my grandmothers necklace, an Irish symbol with marble from homeland of Ireland, and lost the pendant in a field of clovers by my school. Makes me very sad to remember, hopefully I’ll find it one day
I am no longer a Roman, Though my nose would differ.
I'm not Viking, But my descendants have blonde and red hair.
I am a beneficiary of the dark ages, The scriptoriums and monasteries That brought the Greeks and Romans to life.
I am not Gael, though my eyes smile When I hear the harp and pipes.
Neither am I Saxon nor Norman, Victorious or defeated.
I, we, have metamorphized, Casted of the moulted casement, Spread dry wings and lifted, Carried on fresh winds To new worlds To read, write, fish and hunt, And I have gathered My lineage, Framed it in genetics on my wall, To point at in fond remembrance Of what I once was.
This is the story of Felix Riley An Irishman from County Cork Conceived during the great famine And delivered by the stalk He was one of ten; 6 brothers, 3 sisters All of whom he cherished Both of his parents passed away From starvation and cholera they perished. His father was a peasant farmer From the port town of Kinsale Working every single day To bring home bread and ale He died in the summer of 47 A year that many did His wife Breanna heartbroken But from the kids she hid Not long after, she died too Taking with her 3 little chislers Poor Felix Riley was left solitary When split from his brothers and sisters He learned to fend for himself And then met his lovely wife Bria He never saw his kin to that day And probably wont again, he'd fear Like his father he worked and worked To bring home food for their little one And one day hoped he could earn enough To buy a table to eat it on He worked every hour he physically could Almost every one god sent But every week when he got his envelope The money was already spent Never disheartened he loved his wife And his little daughter too He remained optimistic in any weather And through tough times powered through Alas his determination was futile In the face of the aftermath of the blight He died at a tender age of 26 After putting up a hearty fight
His story is one of over a million Who's stories are somewhat hidden From the books and lessons given in schools Their telling is almost forbidden.