A Touch Of The Poet Poem by John F. McCullagh

The doctors all were taken aback
They had never seen a case like his.
They suspected a stroke had laid him low,
but knew not what to make of this.
His eyes were bloodshot; his pulse raced.
At times his breath was like a sigh.
As he declaimed in a strange foreign tongue,
They sent him off for an M.R.I.

"Is iad glasa Emeralds súile mo lover.
Tá a cuid gruaige órga mar éirí gréine.
Scaipeann muid ár mblaincéad ar an talamh
agus chuaigh sé faoi bhabhla na réaltaí."

Was this disease communicable?
Was it airborne or spread by touch?
They watched as the patient resumed babbling
In a strangely musical Gaelic tongue:

"Tá na póga breoslaí is milis
agus muid ag dul ón domhan ar shiúl.
Is cinnte nach é seo an fáth a mairimid.
Níor rugadh muid ach ar ghlúine agus guí."

No sign of a lesion on the brain,
Nor a concussion could explain
Whya man who knew no Irish
Spouted poetry in the same vein.

"Suaitheadh bog agus osna croí
Bí páirteach i do phóg uile-íditheach.
Tá faomhadh faighte ag na réaltaí thuas thuas
De réir mar a ghéilleann muid dár aoibhneas."

"Nuair a dúisigh muid bhí an ghrian ard,
Bhí fuaim chrann na n-éan inár gcluasa.
Ólann mé mo líonadh de do chuid áilleacht pale.
Ní theipeann air riamh mo chroí a thabhairt dom."

"We must start quarantine right away
if containment will have any chance."
Alas, it was too late, for all of them
as the nurses began dancing the River dance.