I never wound up my recent poetry season, mainly by reason of being increasingly forgetful.
Today I went to pay my respects to a recently deceased friend, comrade in struggle, and drinking crony. His political inclinations were mainly to the achievement of a thirty-two county Workers' Republic of Ireland, by peaceful means of course.
He was steeped in Irish culture, and not averse to a poem or two, though words set to music took precedent. In his memory I post a poem by John Philpot Curran (1750-1815) entitled

THE DESERTER'S MEDITATION

If sadly thinking, with spirits sinking,
Could more than drinking my cares compose,
A cure for sorrow from sighs I'd borrow
And hope tomorrow would end my woes.
But as in wailing there's nought availing
And Death unfailing will strike the blow
Then for that reason, and for a season,
Let us be merry before we go.

To joy a stranger, a way-worn ranger,
In every danger my course I've run;
Now hope all ending, and death befriending,
His last aid lending, my cares are done.
No more a rover, or hapless lover,
My griefs are over - my glass runs low;
Then for that reason, and for a season,
Let us be merry before we go.