This poem, written by my friend Hal Roach, the famous Irish humorist, is a beautiful tribute to fathers. It may be a little late for “Father’s Day” but it is always appropriate.

I am presuming Hal’s permission to print it as I would not have time to contact him.

My Dad

My dad was seventy two last week

And he’s getting tired and old.

And lately he leans on the table a lot

And I notice he feels cold.

He used to go for a walk each night

or potter around in the shed.

But now, while we bustle about after tea,

he slips upstairs to bed.

You’d think he was head of the house no more,

He’s gotten awfully quiet and meek –

But that’s the man as I see him now.

He was 72 last week.

Oh, how I remember when I was a boy

The times we spent together.

He could take me up with a sweep of his hand

And hold me aloft like a feather.

He’d give me a cross bar or make me a kite

Or dress for a laugh like Nero

There never was anyone like my Dad,

He was my boyhood hero.

In summer he’d swin like a big shite fish,

So fast and smooth and sleek.

But it’s ten years now since he went to sea.

He was 72 last week.

Those wonderful Sundays I spent with him,

When we fished in the brook for fun

Will I never forget the say he fell in

And dried him out of the sun.

Or the evening we borrowed O’Reilly’s car

And ran into the ass and cart.

Sure I laughed myself sick to bed that night

And it did life upon my heart.

But time moves on and my boyhood’s gone

And the days before me are bleak.

His work is done and his songs are sung.

He was 72 last week.

Some nights I slip upstairs to his room

And we talk of old times together,

When his heart was young and his arm was strong

And he’d lift me up like a feather.

This man who gave me his golden years,

The years that so swiftly fled.

How grateful he is for that short half hour

That I spent beside his bed.

And sometimes I turn away my head,

As a tear rolls down my cheek.

My boyhood hero is passing on –