Tis the Irish who says it best,

of love and tears,the kiss,

The quest.

The smiling Irish eyes that seem to know,

how to look into the soul,

So bravely he stands in the field.

Remembering the rose that has started to wilt,

Still he would raise his sword and offer his shield,

for the memory of the softest silk.

She is to the aging heart,

the soft winter quilt.

That warms the soul of a old Irish heart,

Still feeling her warm flame,

In the dark,

Love still flows through the vein.

He remembers her calling his name,

in soft beds of clovers in the dark


The Irish lover

The Irish Heart.