Best Poems From
The Bells Of Old St Davids
The bells of old St Davids I hear them ringing still
Above the brown potato fields and across Lleithy hill
And in the high green pasture fields that overlook the sea
The bells of old St Davids are ringing out to me.
The tatie hokers of the seventies where might they be today?
From the old brown potato fields perhaps now far away
And they too have felt the ravages of time and the years have left them gray
And some of them have found their peace and peaceful where they lay.
The bells of old St Davids are ringing loud and clear
Across the miles of distance I fancy them I hear
The herring gulls are calling above the wind swept shore
And in Wales in old St Davids life goes on as before
From picking the potato crop our backs did feel the strain
And for the heavy duty work not much financial gain
And for our working stint in Wales we did not have much to show
But we were young and stronger then some thirty years ago
The bells of old St Davids are music in my ears
And fond memories of them pealing bring back the long lost years
Across the brown potato fields and the fields above the sea
I fancy i can hear them their peals are calling me.
The Best Poet Of The Town
Despite her seven decades of years she is still the Town's
And of her writing talents the critics have taken note
The younger poets look up to her and them she does inspire
To them she is the Laureate and her they do admire
The great gift of poesy is such a marvellous thing
A woman who loves Nature and of Nature she does sing
One never can say of her that her better days are gone
But she is one who does love life and she keeps keeping on,
The best poet of the Town and district that title she has held for years
She has sung of all of the senses from joy to love and tears
She has penned poems to Nature and Nature's praises sing
And her poems are read by many and joy to many bring
She is in her early seventies and her hair is silver gray
But one cannot say of her she has known a better day.
The Betrayal Of Dan McKay
Dan McKay is gone to glory
To the Land of no return
But his name will live forever
In the valley of Glenburn.
In the war of independence
He played more than one man's part
He was known as Dan the rebel,
Rebel with a noble heart.
In the so called Glenburn ambush
All his comrades funked and ran
But McKay he kept on shooting
Numbers did not bother Dan.
On that day Dan was bang on target
He was shooting for to kill
Killed two Tans and wounded two others
In the wood by Glenburn hill.
But the Tans they overpowered him
In the wood at Glenburn vale
And took the rebel as their prisoner
And shipped him off for Brixton jail.
He was sentenced by a biased judge
To be shot by firing squad
And be buried in a jail yard
Under enemy owned sod.
But he avoided execution
By escaping from Brixton's hell
And made his way back home to Ireland
To the vale he loved so well.
Dan McKay had to live wary
As he was now a wanted man
He was marked for execution
By the murderous Black and Tan.
He had come back as a stowaway
In a boat across the sea
And was home in Glenburn valley
On the run and living free.
For information to his capture
The Brits put in their bid,
To the one who would betray him
They would give four hundred quid.
And four hundred quid in those days
Was a considerable sum,
A quick and easy fortune
For a worthless Judas bum.
The Brits got their information
And the reward it was paid
And the traitor felt quite happy
With the easy fortune he had made.
He was betrayed by one he thought to be trustworthy,
One on whom he did depend
But it's when a man's in trouble
That he come to know his friends
The traitor led the British
To where a wooden cabin stood
The hiding place of Dan McKay
In the heart of Glenburn wood.
The hide out of the rebel
The soldiers did surround
And McKay knew he was in a snare
That the Brits were all around.
The commander shouted 'come out with hands raised'
And surrender in the peaceful way
Or we'll blast your hut to pieces
And fill you with lead, McKay.
You go to hell I won't surrender,
Retorted brave Dan Mac,
I'd rather die here in Glenburn
Than let ye take me back.
McKay he came out shooting
From his hideout in the wood
But the British were too many
And he died in his own blood.
That night his neighbours took his body
And beside an elm tree
They sunk a grave for Dan McKay
In Glenburn cemetery
And in the village of Glenburn
A marble memorial stand
To the hero who died fighting
With a rifle in his hand.
The Bill Henson Affair
When the silent majority speaks out they do sound to say the least shrill
The Bill Henson affair one example the artist with a camera Bill
His photographs of a pubescent female seen by some as pornographic evil in beauty some do see
This seems just like another Witch-hunt at least that's how it seems to me.
The Prime minister of Australia Kevin Ruud with the knockers is in on the act
But Kevin is a renowned populist I'm only stating what's a fact
Just another populist leader that the Aussie voters have empowered
They did not opt for change in Kevin they just went for a younger Howard.
There's even talks of charges on Bill Henson though he is not guilty of sin
We live in an age of paranoia in the Human world that we live in
Fear of those that we see as different we live in fear of our own fear
But people should not have to worry if their conscience of wrong-doing is clear.
It should not be hard to distinguish the difference between pornography and art
Yet some people though well educated cannot seem to tell them apart
The Bill Henson affair is one example his price for fame seems huge to pay
He does not have to wait to die for his judgement our Earthly judges on him have their say.