by Gabriel Fitzmaurice
‘Old Jack Fitz’, my Grandad, was a stemLover of perfection in his work.
His family, from early on, would learn
To harvest all their springs and never shirk.
They got on well in England and the States;
They danced their way through London in the War;
Their children come to Ireland, we’re best mates:
I sing the old songs for them in the bar –
The songs his fellow farmers nightly sang
When Grandad and Nano would open up
Their céilí house and all the rafters rang
As neighbours came to sing and dance and sup
Where a lover of perfection could relax
Knowing the hay was saved, the oats in stacks.
