A Long Time Dead

A farmer once worked hard a plot and a poor one at that.
Held his own in worn-out boots and a felt fedora hat.
Stood six-foot more of might and strength, dared none made threat his stead.
A hardy sort, as I recall, though he a long time dead.

He'd fatten pigs and thin the beet, a haggled fair and square.
Yoke a pair of chestnut mares, knowing spring was in the air.
He of his lot where toiled alone, he loved but never wed.
A lonely sort, as I recall, though he a long time dead.

And gifted he in many things, a ploughman, smith, a poet.
He'd shod a horse whilst quoting, Yeats and others, too, of note.
Done his day, queer stuff he'd read, strange ramblings in his head.
A clever sort, as I recall, though he a long time dead.

In dark a mood and whiskey tears, he'd damn his lonesome life.
He pining for his Rosaleen, "She should a been me wife!"
He dare not ask her for her hand for he in shyness bred.
If once but dared and said she, aye. Would he, a long time dead?

A farmer was, he of a time, he toiled where there but one.
He lived out yon, beyond the edge where few before had gone.
"If love be life," he'd oft' times say, "then truth in what I've read.
A man who shies from lovin’ is a man a long time dead."

Delirious when nigh the end, he a-beckoned her, "Come here!
Oh Rosaleen, me darlin’ girl, come hither to me dear."
And she, in dreams, approaching him, a tenderly, she tread.
A gentle sort, as I recall, though she a long time dead.