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Here's a festive Irish poem I wrote for English class around Saint Patrick's Day. Both comments and critique are greatly appreciated.
A Beggar's Fortune
At the gates of Dublin,
On a cobblestone street,
I hopelessly begged,
At other men’s feet.
The passersby, with contempt, would scoff,
Quick to write my wretched plight off.
“Why, what a pitiful beggar,
Weary and worn.
Surely this outcast deserves our scorn!”
Livid as ever,
I marched out of town,
Determined to suff’ring my fate wouldn’t be bound.
“A life of my own—Yes! That’s what I’ll make!
From others I’ll never again have to take!”
I traversed over green hills,
And along Ireland’s coast,
Yet my life remained of nothing to boast.
Poverty trailed me–
Not a coin to my name!
So I pondered returning
To a poor beggar’s shame.
I trudged back to Dublin,
With shoes, ragged and torn,
Not a shilling richer,
Than the day I was born.
So at the door of a pub,
I sat myself down,
Rememb’ring my burning hate of this town.
As the clouds loomed above,
Watching the dismal sky bellow,
I spotted a teeny, shiv’ring fellow.
“Sit thee down,” I said with a smile.
“Come—rest your tired feet for a while.”
As a beggar he lived,
For I could tell–
The dirt. The patches. The tatters. His smell.
He gave no hint of riches,
Save for an emerald green hat,
And two shiny shoe buckles,
I couldn’t help but gawk at.
Yet his tousled, red hair
Hung limp in his face,
And his palms, blistered and filthy,
Were an utter disgrace.
Yes, he had a lifestyle I knew
Like the back of my hand,
These turmoils and struggles,
We never had planned.
With a mighty boom,
The clouds gave way,
Ruining a lovely, bright spring day.
Drizzles turned to a monsoon,
Yet we had no place to go.
Just this wee fellow and I,
Sharing our water-logged woe.
Nestling into my coat,
Safe, cozy, and warm,
I saw that my friend,
Lay bare in the storm.
“Take it, please,”
I begged him well.
All the selfishness in me,
I did have to quell.
His eyes sparkled and glimmered,
As he reached in his vest.
“My dear child,” he smiled.
“Why, you’ve passed my test!”
With a luminous grin and a wink of his eye,
A dazzling rainbow emerged in the sky.
And at its end, a gleaming pot o’ gold lay.
“Aye, little lass, it be your lucky day.
What I appear, I am not,
As you can see by my treasure.
But t’is your selfless heart,
That brings me true pleasure.
Oh, heavens, no! I’m surely not greedy.
We leprechauns share our gold with the needy!
T’is from the stingy and hoarding
That we conceal our wealth.
But you, my dear girl,
Are quite different yourself!
For an old man, lowly and humble,
You gave up your coat,
Without so much as a grumble.
As reward, take my fortune,
And travel the land.
All of my treasure, I leave in your hand.
I ask one thing in return,
Although t’is not hard at all.
Remember your roots, or you’re likely to fall.
Since you were just a beggar,
Tired and worn,
You must never show a needy man scorn!
Be generous to others,
As you were to me.
And a lass rich in friendship
You’ll surely be.”
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