I am hugely proud to have played for Ireland.
quote by Kenny Cunningham
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Related quotes
As Ireland Wore the Green
BY RIGHT of birth in southern land I send my warning forth.
I see my country ruined by the wrongs that damned the North.
And shall I stand with fireless eyes and still and silent mouth
While Mammon builds his Londons on the fair fields of the South?
CHORUS:
O must we hide our colour
In fear of Mammon’s spleen?
Or shall we wear the bonnie blue
As Ireland wore the green?
As Ireland wore the green, my friends!
As Ireland wore the green!
Aye, we will wear our colour still,
As Ireland wore the green!
I see the shade of poverty fall on each sunny scene.
And slums and alley-ways extend where fields were evergreen.
There is a law that stamps the flower of freedom as it springs;
And this upon a soil that’s trod by prouder feet than kings’.
And must I hide my colour
In fear of Mammon’s spleen?
Or shall I wear the bonnie blue
As Ireland wore the green?
As Ireland wore the green, my friends!
As Ireland swore the green!
Aye, I will wear my colour yet,
As Ireland wore the green!
Out there beyond the lonely range our fathers toiled for years
’Neath all the hardships that beset true-hearted pioneers;
And our brave mothers journeyed there to do the work of men
On those great awful plains that were unfit for women then.
Then must we hide our colour
In fear of Mammon’s spleen?
Or shall we wear the bonnie blue
As Ireland swore the green?
As Ireland wore the green, my friends!
As Ireland wore the green!
Aye, we shall wear our colour still,
As Ireland wore the green!
O shall the fields our fathers won be yielded to the few
Who never touched the axe or spade, and hardships never knew?
Shall lordly robbers rule the land and build their mansions high,
And ladies flaunt their jewelled plumes where our brave mothers lie?
O must we hide our colour
In fear of Mammnon’s spleen?
[...] Read more
poem by Henry Lawson
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Give Ireland Back To The Irish
Give ireland back to the irish
Dont make them have to take it away
Give ireland back to the irish
Make ireland irish today
Great britian you are tremendous
And nobody knows like me
But really what are you doin
In the land across the sea
Tell me how would you like it
If on your way to work
You were stopped by irish soliders
Would you lie down do nothing
Would you give in, or go berserk
Give ireland back to the irish
Dont make them have to take it away
Give ireland back to the irish
Make ireland irish today
Great britian and all the people
Say that all people must be free
Meanwhile back in ireland
Theres a man who looks like me
And he dreams of God and country
And hes feeling really bad
And hes sitting in a prison
Should he lie down do nothing
Should give in or go mad
Give ireland back to the irish
Dont make them have to take it away
Give ireland back to the irish
Make ireland irish today
Give ireland back to the irish
Dont make them have to take it away
Give ireland back to the irish
Make ireland irish today
song performed by Paul McCartney
Added by Lucian Velea
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Words For Music Perhaps
I - CRAZY JANE AND THE BISHOP
BRING me to the blasted oak
That I, midnight upon the stroke,
(All find safety in the tomb.)
May call down curses on his head
Because of my dear Jack that's dead.
Coxcomb was the least he said:
The solid man and the coxcomb.
Nor was he Bishop when his ban
Banished Jack the Journeyman,
(All find safety in the tomb.)
Nor so much as parish priest,
Yet he, an old book in his fist,
Cried that we lived like beast and beast:
The solid man and the coxcomb.
The Bishop has a skin, God knows,
Wrinkled like the foot of a goose,
(All find safety in the tomb.)
Nor can he hide in holy black
The heron's hunch upon his back,
But a birch-tree stood my Jack:
The solid man and the coxcomb.
Jack had my virginity,
And bids me to the oak, for he
(all find safety in the tomb.)
Wanders out into the night
And there is shelter under it,
But should that other come, I spit:
The solid man and the coxcomb.
II - CRAZY JANE REPROVED
I CARE not what the sailors say:
All those dreadful thunder-stones,
All that storm that blots the day
Can but show that Heaven yawns;
Great Europa played the fool
That changed a lover for a bull.
Fol de rol, fol de rol.
To round that shell's elaborate whorl,
Adorning every secret track
With the delicate mother-of-pearl,
Made the joints of Heaven crack:
So never hang your heart upon
A roaring, ranting journeyman.
Fol de rol, fol de rol.
III - CRAZY JANE ON THE DAY OF JUDGMENT
[...] Read more
poem by William Butler Yeats
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The Priests of Ireland
YOU have waited, Priests of Ireland, until the hour was late:
You have stood with folded arms until 'twas asked—Why do they wait?
By the fever and the famine you have seen your flocks grow thin,
Till the whisper hissed through Ireland that your silence was a sin.
You have looked with tearless eyes on fleets of exile-laden ships,
And the hands that stretched toward Ireland brought no tremor to your lips;
In the sacred cause of freedom you have seen your people band,
And they looked to you for sympathy: you never stirred a hand;
But you stood upon the altar, with their blood within your veins,
And you bade the pale-faced people to be patient in their chains!
Ah, you told them—it was cruel—but you said they were not true
To the holy faith of Patrick, if they were not ruled by yon;
Yes, you told them from the altar—they, the vanguard of the Faith—
With your eyes like flint against them—that their banding was a death—
Was a death to something holy: till the heart-wrung people cried
That their priests had turned against them—that they bad no more a guide—
That the English gold had bought you—yes, they said it— but they lied!
Yea, they lied, they sinned, not knowing you—they had not gauged your love:
Heaven bless you, Priests of Ireland, for the wisdom from above,
For the strength that made you, loving them, crush back the tears that rose
When your country's heart was quiv'ring 'neath the statesman's muffled blows:
You saw clearer far than they did, and you grieved for Ireland's pain;
But you did not rouse the people—and your silence was their gain;
For too often has the peasant dared to dash his naked arm
'Gainst the saber of the soldier: but you shielded him from harm,
And your face was set against him—though your heart was with his hand
When it flung aside the plow to snatch a pike for fatherland!
O, God bless you, Priests of Ireland! You were waiting with a will,
Yon were waiting with a purpose when you bade your flocks be still;
And you preached from off your altars not alone the Word Sublime,
But your silence preached to Irishmen—'Be patient: bide your time!'
And they heard you. and obeyed, as well as outraged men could do:—
Only some, who loved poor Ireland, but who erred in doubting you,
Doubting yon, who could not tell them why you spake the strange behest—
You, who saw the day was coming when the moral strength was best—
You, whose hearts were sore with looking on your country's quick decay—
You, whose chapel seats were empty and your people fled away—
You, who marked amid the fields where once the peasant's cabin stood—
You, who saw your kith and kindred swell the emigration flood—
You, the soggarth in the famine, and the helper in the frost—
You, whose shadow was a sunshine when all other hope was lost—
Yes, they doubted—and you knew it—but you never said a word;
Only preached, ' Be still: be patient!'' and, thank God, your voice was heard.
Now, the day foreseen is breaking—it has dawned upon the land,
And the priests still preach in Ireland: do they bid their flocks disband!
Do they tell them still to suffer and be silent? No! their words
Flash from Dublin Bay to Connaught, brighter than the gleam of swords!
Flash from Donegal to Kerry, and from Waterford to Clare,
[...] Read more
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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The Irish Guards
1918
We're not so old in the Army List,
But we're not so young at our trade,
For we had the honour at Fontenoy
Of meeting the Guards' Brigade.
'Twas Lally, Dillon, Bulkeley, Clare,
And Lee that led us then,
And after a hundred and seventy years
We're fighting for France again!
Old Days! The wild geese are flighting,
Head to fhe sform as they faced if before !
For where there are Irish there's bound to be fighting,
And when there's no fighting, it's Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!
The fashion's all for khaki now,
But once through France we went
Full-dressed in scarlet Army cloth,
The English-left at Ghent.
They're fighting on our side to-day
But, before they changed their clothes,
The half of Europe knew our fame,
As all of Ireland knows!
Old Days! The wild geese are flying,
Head to the sform as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish there's memory undying,
And when we forget, it is Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!
From Barry Wood to Gouzeaucourt,
From Boyne to Pilkem Ridge,
The ancient days come back no more
Than water under the bridge.
But the bridge it stands and the water runs
As red as yesterday,
And the Irish move to the sound of the guns
Like salmon to the sea.
Old Days! The wild geese are ranging,
Head to fhe storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish their hearts are unchanging,
And when they are changed, it is Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!
We're not so old in the Army List,
But we're not so new in the ring,
For we carried our packs with Marshal Saxe
When Louis was our King.
But Douglas Haig's our Marshal now
[...] Read more
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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I Am Of Ireland
'I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,' cried she.
'Come out of charity,
Come dance with me in Ireland.'
One man, one man alone
In that outlandish gear,
One solitary man
Of all that rambled there
Had turned his stately head.
That is a long way off,
And time runs on,' he said,
'And the night grows rough.'
'I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,' cried she.
'Come out of charity
And dance with me in Ireland.'
'The fiddlers are all thumbs,
Or the fiddle-string accursed,
The drums and the kettledrums
And the trumpets all are burst,
And the trombone,' cried he,
'The trumpet and trombone,'
And cocked a malicious eye,
'But time runs on, runs on.'
I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,' cried she.
"Come out of charity
And dance with me in Ireland.'
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Ireland, Ireland
Down thy valleys, Ireland, Ireland,
Down thy valleys green and sad,
Still thy spirit wanders wailing,
Wanders wailing, wanders mad.
Long ago that anguish took thee,
Ireland, Ireland, green and fair,
Spoilers strong in darkness took thee,
Broke thy heart and left thee there.
Down thy valleys, Ireland, Ireland,
Still thy spirit wanders mad;
All too late they love that wronged thee,
Ireland, Ireland, green and sad.
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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On The 09 All Ireland Football Final
For the Cork Gaelic Footballers another humbling defeat
By their neighbours Kerry in Croke Park once more they've been beat
In Gaelic Football in Ireland Kerry to the fore
With 36 All Ireland titles and their fans hoping for more.
My mum was from Kerry that I cannot deny
But why it aches me when Cork lose a big game I do wonder why?
Though long absent from Ireland a sense of parochialism I do retain
Some-things from our past always with us do remain.
But Kerry fans with their 09 All Ireland victory need not get carried away
As their hurlers are quite poor though that does seem a sad thing for to have to say
Like Kilkenny Ireland's premier hurling County Kerry G A A rankings low
The lowest even in Munster as all G A A fans do know.
For the Liam Mcarthy Cup Kerry Hurlers never allowed for to play
For that not deemed to be good enough by the administrators of the G A A
Like the Kilkenny Footballers Kerry Hurlers amongst the lowly rate
Though their many Football victories their fans have to celebrate.
Kerry are 09 All Ireland Senior Football Champions their neighbours Cork they did outplay
In Croke Park in Dublin Ireland on September's third sunday
But Cork the only winners of the Hurling and Football double for them an amazing feat
With Ireland best Football and Hurling Counties at the highest level do compete.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Orlando Furioso Canto 11
ARGUMENT
Assisted by the magic ring she wears,
Angelica evanishes from view.
Next in a damsel, whom a giant bears
Beneath his arm, his bride Rogero true
Beholds. Orlando to the shore repairs,
Where the fell orc so many damsels slew;
Olympia frees, and spoils the beast of life:
Her afterwards Oberto takes to wife.
I
Although a feeble rein, in mid career,
Will oft suffice to stop courageous horse;
'Tis seldom Reason's bit will serve to steer
Desire, or turn him from his furious course,
When pleasure is in reach: like headstrong bear,
Whom from the honeyed meal 'tis ill to force,
If once he scent the tempting mess, or sup
A drop, which hangs upon the luscious cup.
II
What reason then Rogero shall withhold
From taking with Angelica delight, -
That gentle maid, there naked in his hold,
In the lone forest, and secure from sight?
Of Bradamant he thinks not, who controlled
His bosom erst: and foolish were the knight,
If thinking of that damsel as before,
By this he had not set an equal store;
III
Warmed by whose youthful beauties, the severe
Xenocrates would not have been more chaste.
The impatient Child had dropt both shield and spear,
And hurrying now his other arms uncased;
When, casting down her eyes in shame and fear,
The virtuous ring upon her finger placed,
Angelica descried, and which of yore
From her Brunello in Albracca bore.
IV
This is the ring she carried into France,
When thither first the damsel took her way;
With her the brother, bearer of the lance,
After, the paladin, Astolpho's prey.
With this she Malagigi's spells and trance
Made vain by Merlin's stair; and on a day
Orlando freed, with many knights and good,
From Dragontina's cruel servitude:
[...] Read more
poem by Ludovico Ariosto
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The Loves of the Angels
'Twas when the world was in its prime,
When the fresh stars had just begun
Their race of glory and young Time
Told his first birth-days by the sun;
When in the light of Nature's dawn
Rejoicing, men and angels met
On the high hill and sunny lawn,-
Ere sorrow came or Sin had drawn
'Twixt man and heaven her curtain yet!
When earth lay nearer to the skies
Than in these days of crime and woe,
And mortals saw without surprise
In the mid-air angelic eyes
Gazing upon this world below.
Alas! that Passion should profane
Even then the morning of the earth!
That, sadder still, the fatal stain
Should fall on hearts of heavenly birth-
And that from Woman's love should fall
So dark a stain, most sad of all!
One evening, in that primal hour,
On a hill's side where hung the ray
Of sunset brightening rill and bower,
Three noble youths conversing lay;
And, as they lookt from time to time
To the far sky where Daylight furled
His radiant wing, their brows sublime
Bespoke them of that distant world-
Spirits who once in brotherhood
Of faith and bliss near ALLA stood,
And o'er whose cheeks full oft had blown
The wind that breathes from ALLA'S throne,
Creatures of light such as still play,
Like motes in sunshine, round the Lord,
And thro' their infinite array
Transmit each moment, night and day,
The echo of His luminous word!
Of Heaven they spoke and, still more oft,
Of the bright eyes that charmed them thence;
Till yielding gradual to the soft
And balmy evening's influence-
The silent breathing of the flowers-
The melting light that beamed above,
As on their first, fond, erring hours,-
Each told the story of his love,
The history of that hour unblest,
When like a bird from its high nest
[...] Read more
poem by Thomas Moore
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Tristram And Iseult
I
TRISTRAM
Tristram. Is she not come? The messenger was sure—
Prop me upon the pillows once again—
Raise me, my page! this cannot long endure.
—Christ, what a night! how the sleet whips the pane!
What lights will those out to the northward be?
The Page. The lanterns of the fishing-boats at sea.
Tristram. Soft—who is that, stands by the dying fire?
The Page. Iseult.
Tristram. Ah! not the Iseult I desire.
What Knight is this so weak and pale,
Though the locks are yet brown on his noble head,
Propt on pillows in his bed,
Gazing seaward for the light
Of some ship that fights the gale
On this wild December night?
Over the sick man's feet is spread
A dark green forest-dress;
A gold harp leans against the bed,
Ruddy in the fire's light.
I know him by his harp of gold,
Famous in Arthur's court of old;
I know him by his forest-dress—
The peerless hunter, harper, knight,
Tristram of Lyoness.
What Lady is this, whose silk attire
Gleams so rich in the light of the fire?
The ringlets on her shoulders lying
In their flitting lustre vying
With the clasp of burnish'd gold
Which her heavy robe doth hold.
Her looks are mild, her fingers slight
As the driven snow are white;
But her cheeks are sunk and pale.
Is it that the bleak sea-gale
Beating from the Atlantic sea
On this coast of Brittany,
Nips too keenly the sweet flower?
Is it that a deep fatigue
Hath come on her, a chilly fear,
Passing all her youthful hour
Spinning with her maidens here,
Listlessly through the window-bars
[...] Read more
poem by Matthew Arnold
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Ireland
O WE have loved you through cold and rain
And pitiless frost,
Consuming our offering of blood and brain
Gladly again and again and again,
Though it all seemed lost,
Ireland, Ireland!
O we will fight, fight on for you till
Your anguish is past,
The wronged ones righted, the tyrants still. —
Though God has not saved you, yet we will,
At the last, at the last,
Ireland, Ireland!
O we will love you in warmth and light
And the happy day,
When you have forgotten the terrible night,
Standing proud and beautiful bright
For ever and aye,
Ireland, Ireland!
poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
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God Be With You
The truth will ever hide
Even though I tried
They tried to take my pride
But they only took my father from me
They only took my father
Even though I cried
Even though I tried again
God be with you ireland
God be with you ireland
Sometimes I was afraid
Even though I prayed
Ive lost my religion now
You took that too somehow
Blood upon thy hands
Blood upon thy hands again
(I have served my time)
God be with you ireland
(suffered for my crime)
God be with you ireland
(I have served my time)
God be with you ireland
(suffered for my crime)
God be with you ireland
God be with you now
God be with you now
God be with you now
God be with you now
song performed by Cranberries
Added by Lucian Velea
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Ireland Shall Rebel
WHILE tyrants rule the land,
Beneath the Irish skies;
While e’er the iron hand
Upon our people lies;
While sons are driven forth
In other lands to dwell,
Still in the South and North
Old Ireland will rebel!
Rebel, rebel!
Old Ireland will rebel!
While fanlike from below,
And pale against the skies,
That light of shame—the glow
Of burning homes—shall rise;
While hot indignant tears
From Irish hearts shall swell:—
Be it a thousand years,
Old Ireland will rebel!
Rebel, rebel!
Old Ireland will rebel!
Until the tyrant’s rod
Shall broken be in twain,
And on the dear old sod
Blest freedom treads again;
Or till our masters learn
To rule our country well,
The fires of hate shall burn!—
Old Ireland will rebel!
Rebel, rebel!
Old Ireland will rebel!
poem by Henry Lawson
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How She Went To Ireland
Dora’s gone to Ireland
Through the sleet and snow;
Promptly she has gone there
In a ship, although
Why she’s gone to Ireland
Dora does not know.
That was where, yea, Ireland,
Dora wished to be:
When she felt, in lone times,
Shoots of misery,
Often there, in Ireland,
Dora wished to be.
Hence she’s gone to Ireland,
Since she meant to go,
Through the drift and darkness
Onward labouring, though
That she’s gone to Ireland
Dora does not know.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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A Song For The Irish Militia
AIR--_The Peacock._
I.
The tribune's tongue and poet's pen
May sow the seed in prostrate men;
But 'tis the soldier's sword alone
Can reap the crop so bravely sown!
No more I'll sing nor idly pine,
But train my soul to lead a line--
A soldier's life's the life for me--
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
II.
No foe would fear your thunder words,
If 'twere not for your lightning swords--
If tyrants yield when millions pray,
'Tis less they link in war array;
Nor peace itself is safe, but when
The sword is sheathed by fighting men--
A soldier's life's the life for me--
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
III.
The rifle brown and sabre bright
Can freely speak and nobly write--
What prophets preached the truth so well
As HOFER, BRIAN, BRUCE, and TELL?
God guard the creed these heroes taught--
That blood-bought Freedom's cheaply bought
A soldier's life's the life for me--
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
IV.
Then, welcome be the bivouac,
The hardy stand, and fierce attack,
Where pikes will tame their carbineers,
And rifles thin their bay'neteers,
And every field the island through
Will show 'what Irishmen can do!'
A soldier's life's the life for me--
A soldier's death so Ireland's free!
[...] Read more
poem by Thomas Osborne Davis
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A Song For The Irish Militia
The tribune's tongue and poet's pen
May sow the seed in prostrate men;
But 'tis the soldier's sword alone
Can reap the crop so bravely sown!
No more I'll sing nor idly pine,
But train my soul to lead a line
A soldier's life's the life for me
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
No foe would fear your thunder words,
If 'twere not for your lightning swords
If tyrants yield when millions pray,
'Tis less they link in war array;
Nor peace itself is safe, but when
The sword is sheathed by fighting men
A soldier's life's the life for me
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
The rifle brown and sabre bright
Can freely speak and nobly write
What prophets preached the truth so well
As HOFER, BRIAN, BRUCE, and TELL?
God guard the creed these heroes taught-
That blood-bought Freedom's cheaply bought
A soldier's life's the life for me
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
Then, welcome be the bivouac,
The hardy stand, and fierce attack,
Where pikes will tame their carbineers,
And rifles thin their bay'neteers,
And every field the island through
Will show 'what Irishmen can do! '
A soldier's life's the life for me
A soldier's death so Ireland's free!
Yet, 'tis not strength and 'tis not steel
Alone can make the English reel;
But wisdom, working day by day,
Till comes the time for passion's sway
The patient dint and powder shock,
Can blast an empire like a rock.
A soldier's life's the life for me
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
The tribune's tongue and poet's pen
May sow the seed in slavish men;
But 'tis the soldier's sword alone
Can reap the harvest when 'tis grown.
No more I'll sing, no more I'll pine,
[...] Read more
poem by Thomas Davis
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Old Upright Piano
For as long as I remember, when friday night came round
The family would gather out at grandpas house.
With supper over and the dishes done
It was then the best time came
At an old upright piano that only grandma played.
She played beautiful dreamer, my wild irish rose;
She never played em perfect, but there was love in every note.
Grandpa sat beside her, in harmony they sang,
At the old upright piano that only grandma played.
Grandpa was a stubborn man, they said it was his style.
Grandma called him ornery, but she said it with a smile.
Even he could not disguise the love he felt so strong;
We all could see it in his eyes when she played his favorite song.
She played beautiful dreamer, my wild irish rose;
She never played em perfect, but there was love in every note.
Grandpa sat beside her, in harmony they sang,
At the old upright piano that only grandma played.
I was almost 17 when my grandma died;
I stayed all night with grandpa; the old man never cried.
He sat at her piano, there was nothing we could say
It was the first time in my life I ever heard my grandpa play.
It wasnt beautiful dreamer or my wild irish rose
It was a song he played from memory & he never missed a note
I sat right there beside him until the morning came
What a friend we have in jesus was the only song he played.
She played beautiful dreamer, my wild irish rose;
She never played em perfect, but there was love in every note.
Grandpa sat beside her, in harmony they sang,
At the old upright piano that only grandma played.
song performed by Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Dead whno Died for Ireland
The dead who died for Ireland!
Oh, these are living words
To nerve the hearts of patriots —
to steel avenging swords —
They thrill the soul when spoken,
and lowly bend the head
With reverence for the memories
of all our martyred dead.
The dead who died for Ireland —
the noble ones — the best,
Who gave their lives for Motherland,
Who poured upon her breast,
In Freedom's cause, the blood she gave —
Who with their dying breath,
Sent prayers to God to heal her woes —
then sealed their love in death.
The dead who died for Ireland,
How hallowed are their graves!
With all the memories fresh and green,
Oh! how could we be slaves?
How could we patient clang the chain?
How could we fawn and bow?
How could we crouch like mongrels
'neath the keeper's frowning brow?
Be proud, ye men of Ireland!
Be proud of those who died;
Never men o'er all the earth
Had greater cause for pride —
Hope and strive, and league for freedom,
And again the souls will rise
Of the dead who died for Ireland
To cheer you to the prize.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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The Flag Issue at Parkhead in the Fifties
In Scotland in the fifties,
In football terms,
Protest was a blaze
From the grumpy old chairmen,
They took to a cause
That never since has died;
The flying of Ireland’s flag
Over Parkhead’s sky.
So bold Robert Kelly,
Born to Celtic’s dynasty,
Acted upon his heart
And wrote himself into history,
He sat at his desk
With pen in hand,
And wrote a letter, for a favour,
From the Irish PM.
“Dear Mr.DeValera,
How have you been?
Have you been reading the results
Of the bhoys in green?
Our attendance at Parkhead
Improves with every game,
I just wish our football
Would improve the same.”
“I have a small plea,
In this letter I ask,
As Celtic’s being condemned
For flying Ireland’s flag,
We’re proud of the fathers
Who built this club,
Proud of our heritage
As Ireland’s sons.”
“Ireland’s flag,
We’ll never take down,
But protest galore
May be reaching the crown,
So the teams in Scotland
Have gathered as a unit,
And turned the flag issue
Into a game of politics.”
“I took a walk around Parkhead,
It was a sunny day,
And noticed our flag of old,
Is starting to fray,
To the establishment of football,
[...] Read more
poem by Daniel McDonagh
Added by Poetry Lover
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