Me name is Mick McGonagle, a man so rare and bold.
I live beneath a rainbow with me pot of fairy gold.

I have seen the Kings of Erin, from a thousand years ago,
And I watched them fall and perish in this land so full of woe.

I have danced the dance with fairies and I've loved a Fairy Queen,
In these trees, and fields, and forests, dressed in forty shades of green.

Now the land is filled with strangers preaching shame, deceit, and lies;
And false patriotic glory with Old Ireland as the prize.

They care not for love or honour who would rule by club or gun,
And see not the grave dilemma when a father grieves his son.

Can they hear not the mother, or the wife or sister's cries
Every time a son or brother or a faithful husband dies.

When the battle cries are over and the folk are free from fear,
Take a peek beneath a clover and you'll find that I'm still here.

Then the world will ring with magic bells, and fairy folk will thrive,
In a better world and greener, when Old Ireland comes alive.

Me name is Mick McGonagle, and one day I'll be free
To play again me magic flute and dance in Innisfree.

Michael McHale and the Magic Fiddle

Michael MacHale was a travelling man,
a shiftless, but loveable rogue.
Renowned for his blarney and devilish charm,
his wits, and his broad Irish brogue.
He wandered along,
with a smile and a song,
his heart never carried a care.
Though his shoes had no soles,
and his coat was all holes,
and his pockets were empty and bare.
As he travelled the land
with his hat in his hand,
he took rest in a field in Kildare.
He was sat on the ground,
when he heard this sweet sound,
a magic, melodious air.
He raised his head high,
with inquisitive eye,
and looked on a wondrous scene.
Saw the fiddle that played
such a sweet serenade
in the hands of a wee man in green.
He arose with a start,
with such greed in his heart,
and he stole that sweet fiddle away.
Then he took off and ran
from the little green man
little knowing how he’d rue the day.
For he’d stolen the fiddle
from Liam O’Diddle,
a leprechaun, fiery and brave,
and for better or worse,
Liam uttered a curse
which poor Michael would take to his grave.
“You can’t throw it away,
you are destined to play,
you must fiddle the rest of your life
There’ll be no time for bed,
till the day that you’re dead
this old fiddle will serve as your wife .”
So the end of this tale
sees poor Michael MacHale
his laughter has turned into tears,
It’s so sad to relate,
he’ll be left to his fate,
as he fiddles away through the years

© By Mick (

Watch these pages for more poems by Mick.
In the meantime, click the links below for other poems and stories by the authors at Lara's Den.



Ode To A Japanese Garden

March Roared In

Fickle Spring

There Is A Link

Distant Voices

The Fountain

And.......for many others, click the index image.

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