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Poem

Listening to folk records in my room all day, 
as a kid, to another world I'd withdraw
to the streets of Laredo, as cold as the clay. 
Later, in music I heard, in pictures I saw,
the Irish roots that our happy and sad songs betray,
like the bold Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh.
So I raise a toast, to the wonder they bring - 
the melodies of Ireland that make us all sing.

Like Johnny, I'd come marching proudly home again.
Then, once I heard Johnny I Hardly Knew Ye play, 
it seemed then, that in bloodshed no one can win,
and from that gentle, green country, so far away,
I acquired a notion, that all war is a sin,
a message in the wind, still blowing today. 
So, here's to peace, and the end of war's sting, 
and the sad songs of Ireland, that make us sing.

It's a joy to laugh and it's fun to dance and drink. 
I say, "welt the floor your trotters shake". 
One for all and all for one, our glasses clink -
another noggin of whiskey for heaven's sake.
So raise your voices and give us a wink,
belting funny ditties like Finnegin's Wake, 
and here's to fun, and that sort of thing,
and glad songs of Ireland that make us sing.

A voice sings softly in the still afternoon,
and, under the trees, my mind starts to dream,
"who is it singing this beautiful love tune?", 
I wonder as through the leaves sunlight streams.
It's Liam Clancy singing Eileen Aroon,
sending me somewhere like heaven it seems. 
So, here's to love, and songbirds on the wing,
and the tender songs of Ireland we sing.

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