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Colleen O’Brien expected a ring,
To seal her betrothal to Shamus Glynn.
An emerald setting he was to bring,
With which he was certain her hand to win.
Before Shamus arrived, her brother said,
“He’s down at the pub flashing it around.
Your man substituted cheap glass instead -
From a green Guiness bottle it was ground.”
Colleen was shattered, and fit to be tied,
Impatiently, she paced and she waited.
By the time, up the lane, Shamus was spied,
He’d become the man she most hated.
Her hard mouth was set, her countenance grim,
As he entered to sweep her off her feet.
With one swift move, she snatched the ring from him,
And hurled it out into the cobbled street.
A trolley came by, the ring on the track,
Where the iron wheel crushed it to a lump.
The jeweler refused to take the gem back -
Her brother had made a fool of the chump.
A three faceted emerald before,
But now flattened to a peculiar form.
“It was no sham rock!” poor Shamus Glynn swore.
The bed of Colleen, he would never warm.
There it was, like a sprig of green clover
That Shamus kept as a sad reminder,
Of the affair he never got over,
Colleen? In a convent you will find her.
Since that time, long ago in Ireland,
The shamrock has become a lucky charm.
Irish bachelors seem to understand
While wearing one, they will come to no harm.
© By RickMack (Rmrickmack@aol.com)
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