Some hundred fifty years ago <br />A young man left his home; <br />Good-bye to hills of Ireland, <br />To make it on his own. <br />At age eighteen, he had no fear <br />To cross the ocean wide, <br />Although he made the trip alone, <br />With no one by his side. <br /> <br />His storm-tossed ship went off its course, <br />So, Boston was its end. <br />He went ashore, with Irish luck, <br />And found himself a friend. <br />His benefactor sheltered him <br />And taught him all he knew. <br />Young Thomas Walsh was learning <br />All the things good tradesmen do. <br /> <br />His 'Irish luck' continued, <br />As he made another move <br />To New York City's busy streets, <br />With more success to prove. <br />'Twas there he found an Irish lass, <br />Who came from over there. <br />They wed, and started family, <br />With tender loving care. <br /> <br />Two decades later, Walshes were <br />Back on the move again: <br />Two hundred thirty miles down south, <br />By rolling railroad train. <br /> <br />The lovely house of Burgundy <br />Was their Virginia home. <br />From there the Walshes, Tom and Mary, <br />Never more would roam.<br /><br />Frank V. Gardner<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-walshes-came-to-burgundy/
