Last night the boy was thirteen
This morning he is thirty
To look out of his window
Asking ‘where did the days go?’
Like pages of an open book
Turned by the wind.
But that is truth and that is life
To sleep a child and wake a man
And your memory of all between
As clear as a pot of mud
While you are ready
Like a clown on the battleground.
The parade was organized by the Irish Society of Boston, a group
of merchants and tradesmen who had emigrated from Ulster, the northern province of Ireland.