Inside a tavern, near a road; also near a stream

A bonnie lass, so young and bold, stepped into his dream

Patches ‘pon her apron, she brushed back a copper curl.

Stepped across the threshold, this young lad’s perfect girl.

Made her way, between the tables to the barkeep, tall.

Standing there, hands in her apron, she looked very small.

He reluctantly acknowledged her, with a hardened gaze.

Didn’t seem to phase the girl. He was quite amazed.

“What’s yer name?” he barked at her, his pipe between his teeth.

“My name is Rosie,” she shot back. “Mary rose O’Keef.

He looked her up and down, this lass, as if she were a bug

Then from a keg, he poured a tankard; sipped ale from the mug

“If it’s a job yer lookin’fer, speak up now, girl! Be Quick!”

“Aye,” she answered, looking down. “Me father’s taken sick.”

“Well then,” the big man stammered, trying to sound gruff.

“I don’t really need the help. Besides, these times are tough!”

“Thank ye kindly,”Rosie said, then headed for the door

the young man ner the fireplace, held his breath a minute more.

“Hold on jest a minute, Lassie,”the barkeep beckoned her.

“I s’pose that you could serve the tea,and then, sweep up the floor.”

From his fireside vantage point, he watched her lips so sweet.

Curl into a lovely smile, an angel on two feet.

“Oh, thank ye Mister.” Then she stopped, waiting for his name.

“Flannigan,” he finished, “First or last, it’s all the same.”

He showed her to the kitchen; there were pots of every size.

Instantly, he liked the girl—determination in her eyes.

“Ok, Miss Rosie, here you go! He handed her a tray.

“There’s no time like the present—so, I guess you start today.”

She smiled and took it from him. It was heavy and she groaned.

With half-empty mugs upon it, it weighed nigh to a whole stone.

She went into the kitchen, where she washed those tankards clean.

Then out again and to the bar, she wiped down everything.

From the corner of her eye, she spotted a young gent.

He motioned for her to come near; obligingly, she went.

For a moment, he was lost—no words could his mouth form.

He had never seen a face so lovely; eyes so warm.

“Well, what be yer pleasure, Sir?” Patiently, she waited

smiling down, her eyes so blue; mute, his heart was fated.

At last, empty mug in hand, he managed a shy smile.

“I’ll be back, with yer ale,Sir. I’ll just be awhile.”

He watched her go, her silken tresses , bobbing up and down.

The folds , her simple dress employed, surpassed the best ball gown.

Rose filled the mug, then turned to see him watching her intent.

“My,” she thought, lifting the tray, “But he’s a rogue, no gent.”

Defty, she moved past the other patrons in the place

Returned to him a coldly polite smile fixed on her face.

She put the drink before him, then waited for the man to pay.

Shocked she heard him saying,”Me name is Sean Patrick O’Shay,”

When the barmaid didn’t answer, he pulled coins from his vest.

He placed three coins into her palm, said, “Please , you keep the rest.”

“Why, this is far too much, Sir! Surely, I cannot keep that!”

“Oh yes ye can,” he smiled, adding, “me friends all call me Pat.”

That was the start of what would one day come to be

A love so grand, throughout the land, that all would come to see.

The wedding of Mary Rose O’Keef, to Sean Patrick O’Shay.

Legend has it, that their love , lasts to this very day.

A pile of cinders near a road; also near a stream

Myth and legend wove itself, from love, into a dream

Any person waling near where that old tavern stood,

(It’s reported) that they feel the O’Shays spirits in the wood.