Email Poem

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Personal Note:

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Poem

Come in from the byre, Mag Hand
Sit you down there firnenst the coatstand, 
But first light the fire and
Throw on the dinner Mag Hand
Lave the Childer outside, 
ah shur look they'll be grand

D'ye mind the Carnival, Mag?
Don't be lettin' on that you don't
Shur you borrowed your sisters coat,
 hat and shoes
And a broach for the style yes ye did, 
So you did, Margaret Hand

Oh but you cut a fine rug Mag Hand
All the sulky lads on the side agreed 
without doubt
They looked moon,
 maw mouth'd and meek
While you moved unbounded and sleek 

Ahh you stepped and bounced
 like a young wan Mag
They knew well the kind of ye
And slithered behind a' ye
But wouldn't encroach or mooch 
or intrude

Because, come here to I tell you my love 
(something they'd not understand)
You were such a grand lassie, 
Back then in the prime
But you're now a fine woman 
Mag Hand

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