The Singer

By Irish Poet Michael Walsh 1897 to 1938

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‘Twas in a field in Ireland

Beside a sedgy mere,

He started as a farm hand

At seven pounds a year.

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He coveted nor grass nor sheep

Nor seven pounds in gold…

Enough for him that grass was green,

And soft and white the fold!

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The earth’srich fields do others own,

But all to him belong,

Since one frail flower amongst their grass

Can stir his soul to song.