‘Mid wattle scents and sounds of Spring, <br />The old man, dreaming in his chair, <br />Is back where skylarks soar and sing <br />In sunshine, o’er the hills of Clare. <br />And since all Irishmen have been, <br />True lovers, since the world began, <br />A flush still tints his withered cheek <br />At thoughts of Bessie Quinlevan. <br /> <br />‘Ah Danny, lad, she was the girl, <br />So fine and straight in all her ways, <br />The price of every dance and fair, <br />There’s no such women nowadays!” <br />Young Danny, plaiting stockwhip thongs, <br />Smiles o’er his grandsire’s lock of grey, <br />Rememb’ring with a lovers pride, <br />The wild-rise grace of Betty Shea. <br /> <br />The old man in his dreams pursues, <br />Through hurling fields the flying ball, <br />Where his swift stroke was keen and strong, <br />And his the fleetest foot of all. <br />While Danny whistling as he goes, <br />Thinks of the latest football fray, <br />Leading the victors down the field, <br />Beneath the smile of Betty Shea. <br /> <br />Sweet Bessie Quinleven is gone, <br />In Clare churchyard her body lies, <br />Her gentle soul has blossomed long <br />Amid the flowers of Paradise. <br />But through the sweetness of the Spring, <br />By winding paths with wattle gay, <br />Radiant with youth and happy love, <br />Young Danny rides with Betty Shea.<br /><br />Alice Guerin Crist<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-old-days-and-the-new/
