TOUR BRIDGE 1841

It’s a monument to masons craft that age will not destroy,

A landmark and a meeting place for people that pass by,

It looks so grey in stature with slabs that seem a ton,

Erected by those skilful hands in eighteen forty one.

At every side it’s open gaze where pools of fish doth lie

Some miles away in Mullaghanish like a line drawn across the sky

The Iskule river comes bubbling down, and fowler, dog and gun,

You are a host to all of those since eighteen forty one.

Your battlement once stood danger, of a pending cattle call,

But diplomacy in all its guile, defended your down fall.

The trees beside where cuckoo notes, warning spring is nearly done

And rouse you from your winter sleep, since eighteen forty one.

The great thick walls are gazing up, where Holy Ita passed

The wooded slope and rippling rills, above are closely manned

The Mass Rock is still standing, no doubt it’s work is done

They all small on the bridge below, built in eighteen forty one.

Your mottled walls and offsets, to which the ivy clings

A home for gentle feathered folks and where thrush and blackbird sings

You encountered flood and famine, have stood your place and won

Thanks to the craftsmanship applied back in eighteen forty one.

The gull, the heron and the coot, you see paddle to and fro,

While musing on your reflection, pictured on the placid pool below,

Where the parish three years older, your age you cannot shun,

For you hold the cut stone on your sides, Tour-1841.