Ballyhale Bridget : Sean

Love

A celebration of a beautiful and loving soul. Rest in Peace Nanny Bridget

How much life can one lady create?
A lot of the people here surely relate,
And how much love can one lady impart?
To answer that question, we’ll head to the start,
Where a 16 year old from ol’ Ballyhale,
Scared as a child but strong as the gale behind her,
Went off and started a tale,
In frightening Blighty, where some had prevailed

Just a face in a crowd to a certain degree,
All that she knew was back over the sea,
And so elbow grease was applied with vigour,
A natural skill, the drive she’d deliver,
Caring, repairing, cleaning and scrubbing,
And as fate would have it eventually loving

Snubbing the North for a youngster named Patrick,
If her life were the works, then he was the ratchet,
He offered his hand and she gleefully snatched it,
We can aim for their love, its not easy to match it

He was Paddy to us that were lucky to know him,
Long since departed, eternally glowing,
Preserved in our thoughts for the rest of our life,
With his loving, dutiful, beautiful wife

A family started, then just wouldn’t stop,
From Pat through to Jimmy that’s eight on the trot!
And I’m sorry to say it Dad, here at your Ma’s wake,
But at least one of those was terror incarnate

A Mostyn Grove madhouse, crammed like sardines,
Ten under one roof of quite modest means,
Changing the nappies and ironing jeans,
And feeding them all, it’s a tiring routine
But still she found time to look after lodgers,
Visiting Uncles and crooked old codgers,
She presided over her crazy domain,
As while Paddy worked, the Matriarch reigned

So her resilience really shouldn’t surprise us,
Not just a granny, but a motorcyclist!
Ninety years old, nonchalant as you please,
Whizzing along, bouffant in the breeze,
And always up dancing, leading the army,
The Godmother, MVP of the party,
She’d just always be there, as well I recall,
The smartest of ladies, the belle of the ball

When I look back at days in the garden,
Sausage and chips and a fruit juice carton,
Colouring books, my nose in the puzzles,
And snot on my nostrils blowing in bubbles,
Though childish thoughts were whirring in me,
Their love for each other was stirring to see

And now I look back at their photos together,
They look like teenagers, frozen forever,
In permanent smitten and loving repose
Outside the summerhouse, cuddling close,
And for twenty three years that he was without her,
I’m sure he looked down and couldn’t be prouder

So Bridget Roche of Cauriske, you will rest in peace
With a husband for whom your love never ceased,
And while we will mourn you, your role is complete,
From tired old bodies, young souls are released

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