Starting Out

Paddy on his way to Dublin
In his shoddy farmers’ boots
His brother Tom, his one companion,
Both ripped away from Galway roots.

Huddled third-class on the mailboat
Throwing-up for all they’re worth,
Pat comforts Tom under the one coat,
Sick jokes are all they have for mirth.

Five AM in Holyhead,
Two Irish boys on foreign land,
Shivering from their mailboat bed
Each holds one small case in his hand.

On mainland Europe, a storm is gathering
The madman Hitler, his flags unfurled,
With plans outrageous in conception
To swallow up the entire world.

As the gloom lifts, so the miles pass
Rattling southwards, on through Crewe.
Paddy sleeves the railway glass,
Remarks to Tom ‘Look at the view -

It’s not so different from back home.
There’s fields and farms the self-same green.’
The younger boy’s not one to roam,
He looks askance upon the scene.

As London’s slums come into view,
An endless swathe of poverty,
The Irish boys exchange a look
No word is said of Ballyshea.