Poetry

To My Son as He Leaves Home; To My Daughter, Pregnant

Gabriel Fitzmaurice

To My Son as He Leaves Home

Son, just to have you ’round the house is good,
The way you make your presence felt. I’ll miss
The way that being with you was drink and food;
The future beckons, now it’s come to this.
You’re leaving, son, I wish you all the best,
May every good that life can give be yours,
Stand firm, love, when life becomes a test,
Remember that the good you do endures.
You’re leaving, son, take all you need from me,
It’s freely given as it was when you
Needed me, a baby on my knee,
Needed me as to a man you grew.
I love you son, I shed a happy tear
As I let you go in faith and hope and fear.

To My Daughter, Pregnant

She brings me eggs from chickens she has reared,
Cabbages and carrots she has grown,
All the things about her for which I feared
Have come to naught: she’s come into her own.
She brings me eggs from chickens she has reared,
Soon she’ll be a mother. I rejoice.
Daughter, from the moment you appeared,
You gave me songs to sing in joyful voice.
Soon you’ll be a mother and you’ll give
Not just eggs but a grandchild to adore,
Another reason for a man to live
For a grandchild adds its blessings to our store.
Pregnant with the life in which you bloom,
You bless us with the child within your womb.