A Haven by the Docks of Liverpool

An Irish lass Liverpool’s streets once trod,
her heart as heavy as the leaden skies above.
Her life-weary Ma ’d been laid in the sod
like her rum-luvin’ sailor Da two years before.

Mindless of the dampening drizzle, she fled
through streets and streets to bustling docks,
Past St. John’s where years afore her parents ’d wed
long before life’s pain and tragedies unrolled.

At the foot of St. Nicholas, haven to lonely sailor's,
she fell and wept, spilling ’er pain 'neath its doors.
Slowly she rose, glancin’ at frigates and whalers,
afor’ trudgin’ the far way back t’ole Foley Street.

The neighbours ’re kind and all ’d be well she knew.
George, the eldest, soon would find labour,
and as a seamstress her sister Florrie too,
And she continue schoolin’ and later aworkin’.

By Joan McEvoy Rooney