The Never Ending Journey

This poem harks back to a time before the modern car ferries or planes made travel "home" to Ireland so quick and easy. In the days of the old "Mail boat" things were rougher, slower and uncomfortable. But it was going home and that's something the Irish will always do!

So!
I’m stood on the quayside
On a wild windy night
As the storm brews over the sea
And I wait in the rain
With a hundred others like me
For a boat that tosses this way and that
And just as I think
There’s no way we can make it
We will surely all drown
We’re rushed into the harbour
Of Dublin’s fair city
And a train that’s ready to leave
And it blows a loud shrill whistle
And we set off quite quickly picking up speed
Doing sixty as she crosses the Liffey
But slowing to a crawl up the hills
The heaters don’t work ‘cept in Summer
There’s no way on God's Earth to keep warm
And our teeth and bones rattle and shake
Through the Midlands, Longford, Roscommon
To Mayo at last
To be met at the station at Claremorris
By Pat the baker and his son
In their rickety cart
As we jolt and bump to Kilkelly
Where every man has the gift of the gab
And you can take the man out of Ireland
But you can’t take Ireland out of the man
So of course I join in their chatter
To tell of my journey last night
So!
I’m stood on the quayside
On a wild windy night
As a storm brews over the sea
And I wait in the rain
With a hundred others like me