Nice things have all been said now

The mourners gone away

He’s fast asleep

Down in the deep

In his lonely grave of clay.

He was nearly forty-seven

A man, but still a boy

A class apart,

With a fragile heart,

The bike; his favoured toy.


The country roads were heaven,

The hills he didn’t mind.

To reach the crest

He’d stop and rest,

New energy to find.

Then down into the village,

He’d free-wheel with delight

And all the clan

Shout ‘Howye’ Dan?

And he’d exclaim: ‘Alright.’


He was never good at speaking,

Indistinct and flat,

And very shy

When passers-by

Would stop for a little chat.

But never dull or boring,

With humour sharp and bright;

He had a view

And always knew

What was wrong and what was right.


As oft I went a walking

I’d meet him on my way

His charm and wit

I must admit

Would always make my day.

He could almost talk for Ireland

Had all the local news

With stutter and spit

Embellished in wit

He’d splutter out his views.


His Mum was his vocation,

Cared for her day and night

Two brothers gone,

Dad followed on,

He was her beacon light.

And now they’re all together

In peace, the happy clan;

No more he’ll ride

The countryside

We now all miss you, Dan.