planxty

The butter churn was out in the yard,
the cream poured slowly, then mixed:
"Tizhh a haard elbow izh needed, boyo"!
My country cousins laughed at me
as well they might. At night
cycling home from the cinema,
seven or eight miles along darkened roads,
belching still from greasy chips
splashed with salt and vinegar,
we would pass the silent graveyard
and Michael, in his twenties, my hero,
would start up with his stories.

Tis a well known fact, he'd say,
on this very stretch of the road,
there's a man in the graveyard beyond
who stands up in the night
and comes after young fellas like you!!
And with a whoop and a shout
he'd race away from me, gone in an instant,
and there would be me, trembling, fearful,
my 12-year-old heart beating like a hammer.

An Clar! old, deep, and mysterious:
standing stones, ruined castles, ten thousand years
of history even before the famous elections;
dense, strange, marvellous things
have always been happening here
and do so now. The music, as ever,
remains the very best in Ireland --
with a cool little nod to Donegal!

Blackberry bushes line the narrow lanes
and in the summer, you can walk along
nodding, politely, to the cows in the fields,
(should you stand at a gate, they will
all of them, all, come down to you)
and if you happen to recite your poetry
to their appreciative liquid eyes,
they may well indulge in a casual dump
(ladies?? ladies!!) and flick the flies away:
ahh, what can you say? You're home.