You came to the grounds of Granard’s Church.
What could be worse?
Oh Anne, your were but a child and not much more
When the pangs of labour,
All alone, you had to endure.
Your labour bed was a sheet of glass,
Your midwifes were the clouds that passed.
Anne, your life was to end in sorrow,
For your, there were no bright tomorrow.
Those closed doors and twitching curtains,
Nuns and priest that turned the other way.
We will never know for certain,
The true story of your final day
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