Old Dublin Town
Old Dublin, ah, the tales you hold,
In cobbled lanes and hearts grown old.
Your whispers echo down the quay,
From Ha’penny Bridge to old Dalkey.
Gaslamps flicker in evening mist,
Where lovers once walked hand-in-wrist.
Horse-drawn carts on Grafton rumbled,
As street cries through the morning tumbled.
The Liffey flows through time and song,
Past Liberty’s echoes, proud and strong.
Where Molly Malone, in statue still,
Pushes her cart near Stephen’s hill.
A pint in hand at dusk’s fair call,
In snug old pubs with timbered wall.
The fiddle weeps, the bodhrán pounds,
In smoky air where joy abounds.
Tall tenements with washing lines,
Where children played in simpler times.
The echo of a skipping rope,
And dreams strung up with threadbare hope.
The chatter of the markets’ din,
Moore Street calls, a cheeky grin.
With apples, tales, and Dublin wit,
Where every stall was truth and skit.
A poet’s breath, a rebel’s fire,
A city’s soul that won’t retire.
Though times have changed and roads are new,
Old Dublin’s heart beats strong and true.
So raise a glass and tip your cap,
To all who walked your winding map.
Old Dublin, dear, you still enthrall—
The fairest city of them all.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 