By Muireann Griffin, 2nd year.
Up on the shelf alone I stand,
Nothing special, no leader of the land.
Used by people of every class,
Made with any old tin or brass.
Packed in a suitcase to go far across the sea,
Along with my greatest partner, a bag of Lyons tea.
On my journey over the ocean I’ll go,
New people to meet, new customs to know.
My last goodbye, my final farewell,
In foreign lands I soon will dwell.
For the place I’ve known is out of sight,
It is all the fault of the potato blight.
Children cry, coffin ships a groan,
Nothing left of most only skin and bone.
There’d be nothing nicer than a warm cup of tea,
Lucky for them it is my speciality.
“Your huddled masses, yearning to breathe free”,
People see her now the statue of liberty.
I’ve arrived now America, a new life is here,
As long as there’s tea, we’ve nothing to fear.
Up on the shelf alone I will stay,
Thinking of others so far away.
Back home in Ireland without even a stove,
Nothing of their own, nothing to hold.
Just the whistle of the kettle filling the air,
Up on my shelf, without a care.
Water boiling, music to my ears,
Emigrating’s a memory, looking back through the years.