Content with my lot!

Surrounded by beauty, and splendour, and love

Content with my lot, and with nothing to prove

I have, in my time, experienced such joys

I’ve dallied with strangers, with girls, and with boys

I’ve pleasured myself and been pleasured by many

Regrets there are none, did you think there’d be any?

My life has been one of immeasurable wealth

No gold, and no jewels, but good luck, and good health

No fortune, no fame, no great acclamation

Content with my lot, with no expectation

No honours, no medals, no titles to flaunt

Just happily passing through life’s daily jaunt

I cannot but think that my life has been blessed

All laid out in stages of good, better, best

Yet, were it all different, less thinking of me

Would it have been fettered, or would it be free

Would I now be wondering if it was in vain

Content with my lot, but tainted with pain

I leave it to you, your judgement is all

But damn it, admit it, I had such a ball!


A Corkman dies on the Somme

John McGuiggan, on his site Broadsides, writes brilliantly on all sorts of matters. History, reviews, interesting tales about life in general, and his life in particular. Born into a military family, serving in the army, then transforming into a union organiser, he then somehow ended up as a barrister. He has tales to tell, funny ones, sad ones, reflective ones, but always interesting ones. Do read, and enjoy!


The Pencil portrait of Private Christopher Coleman, from Cobh, County Cork, made by his wife.

The first week of September 1916 and the 16th Irish Division are engaged in the bloody advance across theSomme. At the village of Guillemont , men of the 7th Leinster Regiment manage to pass through the shattered village and secure and hold enemy trenches on the far side, but at terrible cost, losing some fifty percent of the soldiers engaged in the advance.  But in the bizarre ethics of war, it was a victory

Following the ‘victorious’ advance, non-combatant labour battalions are sent into the killing fields to clear up the mess left by the fighting soldiers. They clear away abandoned trenching tools, wire cutters, discarded equipment and bits and pieces of dead soldiers. It is gruesome and arduous work.

Among their number is an Englishman, Private George Wiles of the Royal Engineers. As…

View original post 868 more words

Song Lyric Sunday Theme for 25/02/18 – Letters

SLSHelen’s theme for this week is letters.

As I left home at the tender age of 16, to join the Army, letters were very important to me. I must admit I wasn’t very good at writing them but I did so love to receive them.

In later years I wrote to my fiancé, less than I should have, and managed to avoid direct involvement in arrangements for our wedding, as I was overseas. Letters were thus very important in the process. (Younger readers please note – no mobile phones,  no dedicated landline phone, and very expensive call charges!)

My Mum kept all the letters I wrote, for many years afterwards. Unfortunately, they were eventually disposed of so they are just a fond memory.

Letters to Mum, military service, and being parted by continents, leads to my choice of music for this week, Letters from War. I hope you enjoy it.

Letters From War

Mark Schultz

She walked to the mailbox
On that bright summer's day
Found a letter from her son
In a war far away

He spoke of the weather
And good friends that he'd made
Said I've been thinkin' bout dad
And the life that he had
That's why I'm here today

Then at the end he said
You are what I'm fighting for
It was the first of his
Letters from war

She started writing you're good
And you're brave
What a father that
You'll be someday
Make it home
Make it safe

She wrote every night as she prayed

Late in December 
A day she'll not forget
Oh her tears stained the paper
With every word that she read

It said, I was up on a hill
I was out there alone
When the shots all rang out
And bombs were exploding
And that's when I saw him
He came back for me
And though he was captured 
A man set me free

And that man was your son
He asked me to write to you
I told him I would
Oh I swore
It was the last of the letters from war

And she prayed he was living
She kept on believing
And wrote every night just so say

You are good 
And you're brave 
What a father that you'll be someday
Make it home 
Make it safe

Still she kept writing each day

And then two years later
Autumn leaves all around
A car pulled in the driveway
And she fell to the ground

And out stepped a Captain
Where her boy used to stand
He said mom I'm following orders
From all of your letters
And I've come home again

He ran into hold her
He dropped all his bags 
On the floor
Holding all of her letters from war

Bring him home
Bring him home
Bring him home

Holding all of her letters from war

Songwriters: Cindy Morgan / Cindy Lavonne Morgan / Mark Schultz / Mark Mitchell Schultz

Letters From War lyrics © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc

Twittering Tale #72 – 20 February 2018 – “Hopewell”

It’s time again for Kat Myrman’s wonderful challenge to tax our creative souls. Just take her photo prompt and write a story, inspired by it, in 280 characters or fewer.

pexels-photo-816501.jpgPhoto prompt by Leigh Heasley at

Here is this week’s prompt and my contribution. Check out all the fabulous entries here.

For a school founded in 2001 it sure was a strange old gate post.

Mo had chosen this particular High School for the sports, and he was looking forward to joining the athletics team.

He was a little wary though because to be accepted he knew he must first find the other gate post!

(280 characters)

The answer is blowing in the wind.

Those who know me may recall that, most days, I go for a morning walk.

Along the way I pass a canal side house that has a washing line. The line never has normal washing on it but will often have mysterious cloths parading in the wind. I have written about them before, and you can find pictures and poems here, there, and also here.

For several weeks now there have been no such appearances, until yesterday that is! Evidence can be found below, along with an “ode to the cloth.”

Oh cloth forlorn, well used, well worn,
what ails you now?

In winds you blow, we’ll never know
just what, or how?

We’ve seen before that several more
have come and gone.

It’s now your turn to work and learn