My mother tells me the only poet she know personally, was an old man, names Matthew Mahon. He lived near Kinvara in a village called Durras. When she first saw him, he was a very old man, and he was lame from his birth. He was very poor. He used to travel around the country on foot, taking notes of rivers and lakes, or any thing of note.
He would then go home and shut himself in for weeks, composing verses in thanks and praise of those who would be good to him or give him lodging's. A few of these verses are the only ones she remembers of the poems -:
I went to Turlough there for to sing,
To take down notes of each place I pass,
I arrived in Turlough just after Mass.
My mind at first was in great grief
Knowing they might repose it would give relief,
My feet were panting, for alas I'm lame
and to ask for lodging's I felt great shame.