|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| In a little pub in London | Take me back to where I rambled |
In a Little Pub in London - BY J. Kerr
In a little pub in London, Moriarity drank his beer,
And recited wondrous stories of his exploits far and near,
“Sing an Irish Song” said Kelly, “best of order one and all”,
Moriarity sang for them – The Hills of Donegal,
There was cheering at the finish, they called, “encore, encore”.
Moriarity said, “Listen lads, I can’t sing anymore.”
He stood there sad and silent and gazed into is beer,
and in his eyes there glistened, the starting of the tear.
“Are you going home for Christmas?” the kindly barmaid said,
But Moriarity fixed his gaze on her and slowly shook his head,
“Sure I haven’t been to Ireland now for twenty years or more,
My Mother would hardly know me if I walked up to the door,
I was born, “ said Moriarity,” “on an island off the West,
The last place God created and the first one that he blessed,
My Father, God be good to him, was drowned one woeful night,
My Mother left all lonesome, and myself to work and fight.”
“So with Donald Rua McCarthy and Michael Og O’Shea, we came across to England to earn and honest pay,
I told my dear old Mother I’d soon be home again,
But the curse of drink came o’er me and enslaved me in its chain,
Sure I haven’t been to Ireland now for twenty years or more.
But I know she’s still there waiting for my footsteps at the door,”
Then someone started singin’ – See Amid the winter Snow,
It was like an old bell ringin’ far away and long ago,
Moriarity stood there silent and pushed his glass away,
And made a solemn promise he’d go home for Christmas Day.
So he scraped up every penny he could get into his hand,
And coming up to Christmas he sailed for Ireland,
His heart was filled with gladness he felt content at last,
As the train rolled through the midlands and brought him to the west,
In the village of Kinsheelan that night upon the shore.
Far across the deep blue waters, he saw his island home once more,
The starts they shone so brightly, how they glistened like a dome,
On that little whitewashed cottage, that was Moriarity’s home.
“’Tis a grand night for the sailin’” said the boatman, Thomas Bawn,
But Moriarity didn’t know him he’d been away so long,
As he climbed into the baidin, the boatman heard him say,
“Thank God, Thank God in heaven, I’ll be home for Christmas Day,”
In a little room in London, in Moriarity’s poor abode,
On a table in the hallway a message lay untold,
And in it read, “Dear Danny, your poor Mother has passed away,
She’ll be buried in Kinsheelan after Mass on Christmas Day...
Take Me Back To Where I Rambled
Stephen McGuinness – Ardaghy, Omeath, who is well known for his “recitations” especially the poems of Robert Service came across the following poem in his files. The poem is attributed to A. Wood. The poem had five verses, when Stephens late Mother read the poem she was familiar with it and added the final verse, which was missing from the print.
Take me back to where I rambled when I was a boy,
To that lovely Omeath village nestling ‘neath Slieve Foy.
There my thoughts do ever wander filling me with joy:
Take me back to where I rambled when I was a boy.
Let me walk the roads and pathways, roaming where I will,
Salt from sea and scent from wildflowers, let my senses fill.
Weary years I’ve spent without thee, give again the thrill;
Take me back to where I rambled, ere this heart is still.
Up the road that led to Ardagh, through loved Knocknagoran,
Glad my feet to tread these ways, especially at the morn;
Freshest then is field and hedgerow, grand the waving corn;
Take me back to where I rambled and where I was born.
Ballyoonan’s ever calling, Bavan beckons me,
When the shades of night are falling cottage lights I see.
Cornamuckla comes before me; grant me, then, this plea:
Take me back to where I rambled, there I long to be.
Take me back to where I rambled when I was a boy,
I’d cast aside this busy life like tired child a toy.
How grand ’twould be to see again my own beloved Slieve Foy:
Take me back to where I rambled when I was a boy
Jim Jack would row me o’er the waters to the oars sweet noise,
He’d tell me how are all the folks, the Hardy’s, Howe’s and Hoye’s;
He’d tell me tales of bygone days, of sorrows and of joys,
Take me back to where I rambled, let my heart rejoice.
E & O E
|
