#colleen
In the year of twenty-six, when the shamrocks bloom once more,
From Holyoke's old canals to the hills beyond the shore,
Every town in western Mass has named its Colleen fair,
To lead the Saint Patrick's march with flowers in their hair.
Chicopee sends her daughter by the river's steady flow,
Westfield brings her own from where the mountain breezes blow,
Northampton's lass steps lively down the streets of brick and stone,
Amherst crowns her scholar with the ivy overgrown.
Greenfield calls her maiden from the meadows rich and wide,
Pittsfield lifts her daughter where the Berkshires rise with pride,
South Hadley, Easthampton, Longmeadow in their turn,
Send their fairest forward for the green to brightly burn.
With sashes tied in emerald, crowns of shamrock bright and true,
They walk the Holyoke pavement where the crowds are gathered new,
The daughters of the old country, the blood of Erin strong,
Marching proud together in the parade so long.
From Agawam to Ware, from Palmer down to Lee,
Each valley town has chosen one to set the spirit free,
Their eyes are bright as morning, their laughter clear and high,
They carry all the beauty of the western Massachusetts sky.
The drums beat out the rhythm, the pipes begin to wail,
The banners wave above them like the green upon the gale,
Through the streets of Holyoke where the paper mills once stood,
These Colleens of twenty-six are marching for the good.
They pass the old cathedral, the bridges arched and high,
The factories now quiet beneath the winter sky,
Yet on this day in March the city comes alive again,
With every Colleen smiling, the past and future blend.
So sing their names in honor from Deerfield to the south,
From Shelburne Falls to Hadley, from the river to the mouth,
The Pioneer Valley's daughters, crowned and standing tall,
Lead the Saint Patrick's glory down the streets for one and all.
In twenty-six they gather, the fairest of the land,
A chain of western emerald held fast by loving hand,
And when the last note echoes and the sun begins to fade,
Their memory lingers softly in the green parade.
Feb 8
Feb 8, 2026 at 11:24 AM UTC
In Holyoke where brick and river meet,
Where echoes of the mills still line the street,
A classroom desk becomes a starting line,
Where simple pencil marks begin to shine.
Not bright balloons or colors loud and fast,
But stone and towers reaching from the past.
They turned away from shapes that fade too soon
And built with weight, with patience, not a tune.
Celtic curves like footprints set in time,
Each careful line a gesture, not a rhyme
For noise or flash, but homage deep and true
To hands that built, to craft that still comes through.
One hundred fifty-three dreams took their turn,
Each hopeful sketch with something left to learn.
Again reduced, again the choice made tight,
Until two visions held the truest light.
The prize is modest, framed in glass and name,
A hundred dollars, brief parade-time fame.
But greater still, the honor earned that day
To help a city carry pride its way.
When down the street the Grand Colleen rolls on,
With music, flags, and crowds from dusk to dawn,
That float will bear more than a chosen queen,
It bears the love of those who shaped the scene.
Feb 7
Feb 7, 2026 at 7:16 AM UTC