The Greatest Irishwoman

Oh, the greatest Irishwoman was my mother,
No husband ever had a finer spouse.
She’d never let my father or my brother
Do a tap of work around the house.

She never would disturb us watching telly,
But gathered scraps of food we might discard,
And while my father idly scratched his belly,
She’d hump the sacks of coal out to the yard.

We marvelled as she built the new extension,
Displaying all her latent building traits.
We spilt our tea in nervous apprehension
As she balanced on the roof to lay the slates.

She never looked for thanks for making dinner,
Nor sought our help to wash up all the delph.
She said it was her duty as a sinner
To run around and do the work herself.

I asked her once what kept her motivated,
As she climbed the wooden ladder with her chamois.
“Don’t you worry, son,” she remonstrated,
“Don’t be fretting ‘bout your poor old mammy.”

When she died we had to end our shirking,
And saw the world with quite a different focus.
Even in the graveyard, she’s still working,
Pushing up the hyacinth and crocus.

Yes, the greatest Irishwoman was my mother,
No husband ever had a finer spouse.
She’d never let my father or my brother
Do a tap of work around the house.