A Poet’s Reckoning
A bard’s lament, a mother’s cry,
Ah, woe is me, my family dear,
For daughters who fall, for days gone by.
Fine braes still bloom, yet loss stays near.
A red, red rose in morning’s light,
A fiddler plays in northern air,
A vision haunts the winter night.
A bottle and friend, both ease my care.
Yet never be peace till justice reigns,
When suits and swords rule with might,
A man’s a man—his worth remains.
Still, nature sees and sets things right.
Fond kiss, dear heart, before we part,
Spoken by Miss or sung to a feast,
Water again revives my heart.
Even to Beelzebub, I’ll toast at least.
A grace before dinner, a dream in the dark,
And if I meet the devil’s sneer,
A poet’s welcome—his words leave a mark.
To the heartache, I’ll cry—“Come not near!”
No cold approach shall mark my tread,
May I live ‘till lint-white locks so fair,
God’s love for love upon my head.
He blesses me with a crown so fair.
WoPoLi 
Leave a comment