The Poet's Corner of The Hibernian Society of Savannah

FROM THE GRAND MARSHAL…
	“Ed - Thank you so much for the book of poems… They were all so beautiful and full of meaning. I particularly liked the one about Eddy and the beads. It couldn’t have been told any better.”
- John Burke, Grand Marshal of the 2007 St. Patrick’s Day Parade and long–time Outdoors Editor, Savannah Morning News

Bless the ladies in our midst
God bless them everyone.
Bless their hearts and bless their hands
For all that they have done.

And when they lay their heads to rest
And the cares of day are o’er
Lead them to that fairy grove
That stands by Shannon’s shore.

There, there are no tears to shed
Or grief to bear, or fears unseen.
Each one is a girl again,
A lovely young colleen.

Yes, bless the ladies in our midst
And keep them in our hearts.
So much is owed, so little paid
To these, our better parts.


	Erin hangs her head in shame To look on such a scene: The feast day of her noblest son Besmirched by things unclean Ply thy wares some other place, Thou odious Philistine! So Patrick’s sons may step with pride While wearing o’ the green. And come not back from whence you go You are not welcome here; And take that reeling mob that wears Your beads and wigs and tacky gear.

Who is the man that tells his beads
Walking down Victory Drive?
He looks neither left and he looks neither right
As he tolls off the Mysteries Five.

His lips move in prayer as he walks along
And asks for forgiveness of sin,
Then stoops and picks up a piece of trash,
Which he takes to the next trash bin.

Who is this man, Grandpa?

“This man my son, is a special man,
By a holy vision he’s led.
He looks neither left and he looks neither right,
For his vision lies straight ahead.

When he stoops and picks up a piece of trash
This too is his way to pray,
For the vision he follows is stainless and pure
Macula non est in te.

When you see this man you should bow your head
And silently ask his blessing,
For he is one of God’s ‘little ones’
Who may help us all get to heaven”.


	I love to hear the garbage truck A’ coming round the bend, Its hissing brakes and clashing gears Cheer me up no end. Now it stops behind my house And different sounds I hear. My trash is being loaded now, Compactor put in gear. The cheery calls of the trash men Let me know they’re on their way To help a neighbor with his trash Now they’ve made my day!

There were many girls when I sailed the seas,
How many I now forget.
But the girl I remember most of all
Is the girl I never met.

I saw her first after months at sea,
When our ship had crossed the bar;
She stood there on the light-house deck
A vision viewed from afar.

Then she waved a scarf or bandana,
Her faithful dog at her knee,
And I a home-sick sailor felt
Her welcome was just for me.

For years I sailed in and out that port
And she was always there
With a scarf by day and a lamp by night
To show she really did care.

Yes, there were many girls in many ports,
Some fair, some not, and yet
The girl I remember most of all
Is the girl I never met.

The chiefs of the clans they have faded away,
The high king of Tara is gone
But the blood that flowed through those heroes’ veins
Continues to flow on and on.

The O’Neill needed only a fair maiden’s cry
(Peg Baker the brave lass’s name)
To leap to the site of a terrible scene
Where an arsonist touched off a flame.

The pulpit ablaze, the nave filled with smoke
Nor the chair of the bishop was safe.
The man with the torch had also a gun
Which he waved in Monsignor’s face.

O’Neill was not cowed by this sight.
His own sweat and blood were entwined
In restoring the edifice which had earned him
The praise of all of mankind.

He rushed to the chair of the bishop
And turned to the gunman and said
After flinging the burning cushion:
“Point that gun and I’ll knock off your head”

And so the grim saga ended
Without any bodily harm.
The damage can be repaired
And will, with help from O’Neill’s strong right arm.

So thanks to Monsignor O’Neill,
And brave Peggy Baker too,
The beautifully restored cathedral
Will continue to awe anew.

Where are the boys of ‘45
The ones I used to know?
I’ve looked for them on Victory Drive
And the places they used to go.

I’ve been to Paul’s and Leopold’s,
And Bull and Broughton too.
Now there are only strangers there,
Not the boys that I once knew.

Where have they gone, the boys of ’45?

“My friend, do you see those old men there
Some bent and with a cane?
Well close your eyes for a moment
And fancy them young again.

To your mind will appear the finest boys
You’d ever want to see;
They were brave and strong and kind and good,
And straight as straight can be.

Oh, they got in trouble now and again
As spirited boys will do.
But theirs were mistakes of the head, not the heart,
For their hearts were always true.

But look no more for the boys you seek
In the places they used to be.
Now you can only find them there,
Down that lane called….
Memory.”


	I thought he was a steadfast friend, Who’d back me in the fray. But when my enemy appeared He turned and slouched away. Sure, I felt betrayed and hurt. There’s nothing more to say. I’ll have to fight this fight alone, But still must ask: “Et tu, Brutae?”

(Dedicated to Father Richard J. Canty, deceased)
	I’ll never win a Nobel Prize For writing poetry. And that other one from Pulitzer I never hope to see. But fame enough has come my way, I cannot ask for more. A poem of mine now hangs upon A refrigerator door. Too soon I must lay down this pen: (We each must cross this bridge.) But soon or late, I’ll bask in glory On Father Canty’s fridge.


	If I ever get to heaven There’s one sure way I’ll know: I’ll wake on Tybee Island, Fifty years ago.


	I want to write a poem for Pat, But every time I try I feel a twinge around my heart And something in my eye. Then what I try to scribble Sounds so stale and flat. If I ever get some self-control I’ll write a poem for Pat.


	I know she said what I said she said But now I stand corrected. She did not say what I said she said Which is not that unexpected.


	Life’s not a jig-saw puzzle, Where each piece fits just so. It’s more like milady’s needle-work. Look at the wrong side and It’s a jumble of knots without meaning. But looked at rightly there is a pattern That makes sense more times than not. It‘s all in the way you look at it.

Was ever a day so grand as this,
With the banners and music and all
And the men with the sashes across their chests
Marching together and standing so tall?

And the bishop telling how Patrick
Preached the faith to our fathers of yore
Which cost them so dearly to keep and pass on
To their sons who came to this shore.

And the Grand Marshal leading the van,
Crowds cheering all the way;
The sun sparkling bright in the chilly air
Hearts swelling with pride on this wonderful day.

If I could catch time in a bottle
This is the day I would choose.
I’d keep it away in a secret place
And use it to chase off the blues.

(Composed for the 2008 Centennial Dinner held to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the 1908 joint meeting of the St. Andrew's Society and the Hibernian Society)
	The thistle and the shamrock Some say should never meet. The thistle’s just too prickly, And the shamrock’s just too sweet. But they don’t know old Savannah Where peace and good-will dwell, And the thistle and the shamrock clasp And bid each other well.


	She built a wall around her heart No one could enter there. This was the secret part of her, She didn’t wish to share. Then all at once her fortress fell, Protests of no avail, When chance brought her a friendly chap With laughing eyes and waggy tail.


	There were poets and writers aplenty And those skilled with the harp and the reed. But where were the craftsmen and builders The “doers” a people need? Well you see, because of the famine Life could be barely sustained. So all of the doers picked up and left, And only the dreamers remained.

The Irish girl and the Cracker boy
Walked down the beach hand in hand.
A handsome couple indeed they made
As they strolled across the sand.

But the secrets they shared and
The plans they made were never meant to be,
For she heard a voice and took the veil
And he packed his kit and went to sea.

What is the point of your story, you ask?
And I tell you I don’t really know.
Once I had all of the answers, you see;
But that was a long time ago.


	There's nothing wrong with Faby. It's just he plays so rough. I try to make him heel and sit And all that other stuff. But he just wants to romp and chase And grab me by the pants, And make his leash a tug o'war And dig up Mama's plants. I wouldn't trade him for anything, He's much too nice a boy. Hey Faby! Put that slipper down; Go find another toy!


	With all due respect, Reverend Father, Your preaching runs a bit long. Even before you are half way through People are thinking their watches are wrong. Your words may be things of beauty, Delivered in accents supernal. But please, for a sermon to be immortal It need not be eternal!


	A bright young couple walked in the park, Each engaged with a cell-phone. Who are they talking to, I wondered, Surely not to each other? But then I thought, maybe they are. In a culture of WiFi rapport, Speech face to face just wont do. But hey, they might not be talking at all But texting each other instead!


	Blackballing for spite or malice Happens, I’m sorry to say. But pray don’t let it happen here, For it is not the manly way.

“Savannah is like a beautiful woman with a dirty face”
- Lady Nancy Astor, 1946

I’ve washed my face, Lady Astor,
You can see it’s clean as can be.
And my clothes are charming and stylish
And people come far to see me.

But crime now grips the city,
And my hands are dripping blood
And all of the soap and water I use
Can’t seem to staunch the flood.

Be careful for what you wish, they say:
One finally understands
I‘d settle now for a dirty face,
Could I wash off these bloody hands.

(Composed for the 200th Anniversary of The Hibernian Society of Savannah)

Driven from their ancestral home
By relentless tyranny
Their forebears sought a better life
In this land across the sea.

They bonded together as brothers
And to those who later came
They offered the hand of friendship
And aid in Hibernia’s name.

This beautiful City they came to love,
And the City loved them back.
And so one hundred years passed by
Then a hundred more after that.

A toast to the revered Society
On this its 200th year!
May its ideals endure forever;
And aye with fraternal good cheer!


	I’m sorry for the things I said When I got so angry with you. I rashly repaid your fealty With abuse that wasn’t your due. While you took my rant without murmur From you I only saw The deep devotion in your eyes, As you offered me your paw

The poems above are Copyright @ 2007 - 2024 by The Estate of Edward T. Brennan
and may not be used or reproduced without written permission.