It was the first Sunday of a new year
When this little girl was born,
The year in question was 1919.
'Twas a dismal wintry morn.
The second daughter to Agnes and Charles,
Her father, born a Scot,
Though granda McCrudden yearned for a son,
Four daughters was his lot.
In this capital city - Belfast east,
This little girl grew up,
But as a 'Good Templar', one vow was made,
Strong drink she would not sup.
When this girl was merely twenty years old,
A dashing young man she met,
The tenth day of May, in Carrick's old town
Is one they'll ne'er forget.
As previously told, her dad was a Scot,
So it was apt. and fair
That in married life, this young pair should live
In Carrick's 'Scotch Quarter'.
Her parents had girls, so it's ironic,
A girl was what she'd choose,
However, all of her offspring were clad
In lemons, whites and blues.
Before she had reached her fiftieth year,
Was born a babe so mild
A darling bundle of joy wrapped in blue,
Her number one grandchild.
At seventy years, eight grandchildren more,
Her last had fled the nest,
For one who wasn't to see her own raised,
She really had been blest.
So now the year is 1999,
Though fraught with joys and tears,
This sister, wife, mother, grandma, e'en great,
Has reached her fourscore years.
