This tracing fam’ly history can be a heap of fun.
You find out who your forebears were and how it all begun.
Who cares if they were convict stock, the black sheep of the mob.
They only stole to stay alive ’cause they were short a bob.
I found my poor old forefather, was tried in Lim’rick town.
He’d pinched a pig from some darn toff, and so they sent him down.
Down under to the colony, then known as New South Wales,
which roused my curiosity, so sought some more details.
My tireless search took eight long years and what a fam’ly tree,
but thought I’d take a trip to check its authenticity.
I packed my bags and took a flight to see the Em’rald Isle,
and thought I’d fly first class as well; yes, do the thing in style.
‘Twas via London that I went, St. George’s Channel too,
then saw below the native land; the home my forebear knew.
I hired a car in Dublin town, drove south along the coast.
My quest to reach old Limerick was on my mind the most.
For there I’d meet a Mrs. Dunn, an aunty whom I’d found,
and as we were both family, she’d show me all around.
The knowledge that the old dear had was inspirational,
along with all the photographs she shared with me as well.
The day I left, she came to me to ask a small request.
and keen to help out where I could, I said I’d do my best.
Six months ago her son called Neil had found himself a job,
in England, as an architect with some south London mob.
And in that time he’d dropped a line, though hadn’t written since,
which worried her dramatic’lly and made the old dear wince.
As London was on my way home, I’d see what I could do,
in tracking down the wayward lad, though first sought out a clue.
I asked if Neil’s last letter gave some hint to where he’d be,
but all the letter could reveal seemed rather strange to me.
There roughly written in blue ink was WC1.
‘Twas not a lot to go on like, when searching out someone.
I bid my aunt a fond farewell and thanked her for the stay,
assuring her I’d look for Neil, then set off on my way.
The journey back ‘cross hill and dale was soothing to the soul,
though pondered on arrival, how I’d go about my goal.
To weave a path through Heathrow’s crowds requires you do your best.
Diverting, though, to nature’s call, is quite a stringent test.
At last I found the little man that marked the place I sought,
but as I entered through the door, I stood there over-wrought.
Some fifty basins lined the wall, and cubicles galore,
each had its own identity imprinted on its door.
And there upon my very left a great phenomenon;
before my eyes, as large as life, was WC1.
Immediately I strode on up and knocked as I said “Hi,
you Neily Dunn in there, old mate?” and hoped for a reply.
“Too right I am, “came the retort, “but paper’s short here chum.”
“That’s no excuse,” I said to him, “write home to your dear mum.”