The Leprechaun's Lament

Me name is Mick McGonagle, 
a man so rare and bold.
I live beneath a rainbow 
with my pot of fairy gold.

I have seen the Kings of Erin,
from a thousand years ago,
And I watched them fall and perish 
in this land so full of woe.

I have danced the dance with fairies
 and I've loved a Fairy Queen,
In these trees, and fields, and forests, 
dressed in forty shades of green.

Now the land is filled with strangers 
preaching shame, deceit, and lies;
And false patriotic glory 
with Old Ireland as the prize.

They care not for love or honour 
who would rule by club or gun,
And see not the grave dilemma 
when a father grieves his son.

Can they hear not the mother, 
or the wife or sister's cries
Every time a son or brother 
or a faithful husband dies.

When the battle cries are over 
and the folk are free from fear,
Take a peek beneath a clover 
and you'll find that I'm still here.

Then the world will ring with magic bells, 
and fairy folk will thrive,
In a better world and greener, 
when Old Ireland comes alive.

Me name is Mick McGonagle, 
and one day  I'll be free
To play again my magic flute 
and dance in Innisfree.

The Dance of the Little People

There’s going to be a party.
We’ve made a fairy ring,
To celebrate the birthday
Of Finn, the fairy king

His majesty announced it
For everyone to hear
I’m making the arrangements
While Murphy brings the beer.

I’ve invited cousin Michael,
Himself from Donegal,
The scrawny Sean McCafferty
And Padraic Mor McCall.

The Queen of Connemara
Has promised she’ll be there
Wearing her best tiara
And moonlight in her hair.

Mick Doyle will play his fiddle
While Connelly calls the tune.
We’ll dance a fairy two step
Beneath a fairy moon.

And any mortal, passing by,
Will never hear a  sound
For deaf the ear and blind the eye
When fairy folk abound.

Each tiny elf and fairy,
Each magic Leprechaun
Will dance the dance of angels
Until the break of dawn.

Then, when the evenings over;
Before the break of day
The toadstools and the clover
Must all be put away

Though Humankind may look askance
Upon our fairy ring,
They’ll never know  we held a dance 
In honour of our king. 

An Irish Jig

If you listen very carefully in the Irish evening air
You may hear the strangest rhythm in the land
There's a humming and a throbbing, and a singing every where
It's the music of the Gaelic Fairy Band

Flynn O'Finnigan, the leprechaun, is thumping on his drum
And his pounding has this prehistoric beat
It will pluck and pull your heartstrings till your brain is cold and numb
But that still won't stop the dancing in your feet

Then there's twenty fairy fiddlers, their music loud and shrill
With a sound that sets your very soul on fire
They will keep your arteries racing, and your fingers can't sit still
As the volume and the tempo climb up higher

Now the elves begin to harmonise with magic silver flutes
Though they keep themselves away from human sight
And that wilful, wanton wailing reaches down into your boots
So you'll dance away each hour throughout the night

They're preparing for the party that will celebrate the day
When the bombings and the killings have to end
When the troubles are all over and an Irishman can say
That an Irishman is everybody's friend
 
Let us pray the truce is settled and that peace can have it's chance
Don't you think that life in Ireland will be grand
When we're free from all the slaughter and we join in the dance
Of a feisty, fairy, Irish Gaelic Band

The Drunken Spree of Ritchie Flanagan

If you’re into drinking Guinness
And you hate an empty glass,
If you’d rather sup a barrel
Than trade kisses with a lass.
If you drink for hours and hours,
And you wake up worn and wan
And you need a bit of company
Then Flanagan’s your man.

I remember well last year
When we went out on a spree.
There was Monaghan, O’Cassidy,
And Flanagan, and me.
We began the night at Casey’s
Where the drinks went down a treat
Until at last, just Flanagan
And me were on our feet.

We staggered from the barroom
And sang a bawdy ditty
But Flanagan sang extra loud.
He’d pocketed the kitty
Unhappily, our little noise
Brought out a Dublin bobby.
Then Flanagan grew angry,
Stating drinking was his hobby.

He threatened the policeman.
The poor young fellow ran
With Flanagan in hot pursuit;
A most ferocious man
He screamed abusive  language
The bobby turned quite pale.
He thought he’s found a sanctuary,
He locked himself in jail.

Policemen came from miles around
To join in the fight
It took a dozen bobbies
To subdue our man that night.
His ranting and his raving
Would make a mother weep
Until a well placed truncheon
Put Flanagan to sleep

The next day, in the courtroom,
His head was stiff and sore.
The magistrate looked down and groaned
 to see that face once more
Thus comes the sad conclusion
The ending of this tale
Poor Ritchie's cooling off his heels
He's got six months in jail.

The Irish Question

Have you seen that little country, like an emerald in the sea ?
Full of mystery, and music, and romance.
Where the folk are kind and friendly, and the air is fresh and free,
And the leprechauns will lead you to the dance.

I've never been to Mayo, or laid eyes on Galway Bay,
And I've never set a foot in Donegal,
But my mind's eye sees the mountains on a mist enshrouded day,
And I hear that quiet, insistent Gaelic call.

Are there really magic rainbows, hiding pots of fairy gold  
Is the leprechaun still lurking there unseen ?
Are there mighty Irish poets full of stories to be told ?
Does the shamrock grow in forty shades of green ?

All these questions without answers help to keep my mind aglow,
And my spirit soars in primal ecstasy.
When I'm searching for my Heaven, then the nearest thing I know,
Is that special place set in the Irish Sea.

Tales of the Little People

The Garden of Eden was empty
For Adam, with Eve , his mate
Who, after they’d been evicted
Had forgotten to shut the gate

Seamus McFey and his pretty young wife
Had passed through the open door
And, rules being rules,
found themselves deep in strife
For they could not return, evermore

They were scared as could be 
of the sights they could see
As they ventured along, hand in hand
There were monsters galore,
 they could hear them roar
In the vastness of this savage land.

There were sabre toothed tigers 
and ogres and reptiles
And something incredibly worse
As soon as they saw
Their first Tyrannosaur
They decided to make themselves scarce

They ran far away,
Till at last, one fine day
They arrived at a wonderful scene
And they said with a smile
“ This is our Emerald Isle 
For it’s covered in emerald green

They decided to stay in this magical land
That their wandering days would be over
So they built a fine house, 
with walls strong and stout
And a roof that was woven from clover

Now just to be sure they would never be seen
And wouldn’t be scared any more
God shrank them a little,
 and painted them green
And a rainbow hangs over their door

And there they are still, 
after all of these years
Though they always remain out of sight
For they and their children
 still share those old fears 
Of things that go bump in the night.

O'Casey's Wake

The people started shouting,
 from Mayo down to Cork.
The message passed from Flaherty, 
 to Reilly and O'Rourke.

"Have you heard about O'Casey ? 
Bejays, he’s passed away.
He went and kicked the bucket
drinking Guinness yesterday.

Now isn't that the way to go?
All full of ale and cheer,
He died amongst his loved ones,  
drowned in a vat of beer".

The crowd all came a'calling
 to see O'Casey dead.
He lay there proud and regal
in his king sized feather bed.

Each caller brought a bottle,
and some brought bread or cake,
as they settled down to celebrate
the late O'Casey's wake.

The widow Prosser, first in line,
had come to wash him down.
Her usual fee was one and nine 
but they slipped her half a crown.

The priest took out his rosary beads
and gave the final rite,
then cheerfully drank the corpse's health 
from a case of Black and White.

The women raised their aprons 
and covered weeping eyes.
Their keening and their wailing
was rendered to the skies.

The stout and whiskey flowed quite free, 
The noise grew wild and loud.
The whole town danced an Irish jig  
 before O'Casey's shroud.

The widow of O'Casey, 
demurely dressed in black,
drank from a jug of neat poteen
and fell upon her back.

O'Casey lay there smiling,
his heart was full of joy.
He could hear O'Mara's tenor
singing  darlin' "Danny Boy".

Then drunken Ritchie Flanagan, 
in a spurt of sodden wit,
raised O'Casey's head and shoulders  
and gave the crowd a fit.

There were screams of fright and horror
as he tumbled from his bed.
"We should bury him tomorrow
but the poor sod isn't dead"

The widow jumped up screaming 
"We can't waste such a wake".
Then the corpse got round to moaning,
so she hit it with a rake.

They brought him to his coffin,
and they screwed O'Casey down.
Sure it was the finest funeral
they'd ever had in town.

The Moral of this story ?
If you're going to have a wake,
is first be sure the corpse is dead
for everybody's sake.

Michael McHale and the Magic Fiddle

Michael MacHale was a travelling man,
 a shiftless, but loveable rogue.
Renowned for his blarney and devilish charm,
 his wits, and his broad Irish brogue.
 
He wandered along,
with a smile and a song,
 his heart never carried a care. 
Though his shoes had no soles,
 and his coat was all holes,
 and his pockets were empty and bare. 

As he travelled the land 
with his hat in his hand, 
he took rest in a field in Kildare.
 He was sat on the ground, 
when he heard this sweet sound, 
a magic, melodious air.

 He raised his head high, 
with inquisitive eye, 
and looked on a wondrous scene. 
Saw the fiddle that played
such a sweet serenade
in the hands of a wee man in green. 

He arose with a start, 
with such greed in his heart,
and he stole that sweet fiddle away.
Then he took off and ran 
from the little green man, 
little knowing how he’d rue the day.

For he’d stolen the fiddle
from Liam O’Diddle,
a leprechaun, fiery and brave, 
and for better or worse, 
Liam uttered a curse 
which poor Michael would take to his grave.

 “You can’t throw it away, 
you are destined to play, 
you must fiddle the rest of your life
 There’ll be no time for bed  
till the day that you’re dead,
this old fiddle will serve as your wife.”

 So the end of this tale
 sees poor Michael MacHale; 
his laughter has turned into tears,
 It’s so sad to relate,
 he’ll be left to his fate,
as he fiddles away through the years 

The Divil of a Mess

Paddy was an Irishman, though you would never guess.
 He'd never dug a ditch or laid a brick;
He liked to be anonymous and that's why he'd confess,
He answered to his other name of Mick.

He liked to make his moonshine and he had this special brew,
a wicked blend of magic and poteen;
He liked to boast to everyone,"It makes a man of you"
(Before it rots your liver and your spleen.)

He went into the mountains, he was warming up his still,
throwing all his bits and pieces in the pot;
The magic of his potion was a tribute to his skill,
the actions of his customers was not.

O'Sullivan came calling and demanded a quick swig,
 so Paddy let him have a sip or two.
He did a double somersault and then an Irish jig,
 and departed like a manic kangaroo.

O'Casey, not to be outdone, was quickly on the scene.
 He had a dreadful thirst he had to slake;
He begged and cried and grovelled for a glass of neat poteen,
then he had to go get ready for his wake.

O'Cassidy, the moron, who had never been to school,
drank half a glass without the slightest  fuss;
He said that when he drank it,it had kicked just like a mule,
and then he started reading Calculus.

With all of the commotion and the quaffing of each cup,
poor Paddy found he couldn't concentrate;
The still just overheated, and eventually blew up,
and Paddy found himself at Heaven's Gate.

O'Hara's up in heaven, where he sings his drunken song.
 His halo hangs lopsided on his head.
The stuff that he'd been supping had a potency so strong,
He couldn't quite believe that he was dead.

Saint Peter called him sternly,"You must go back down to Earth
the likes of you will not be welcome here;
Your drunken days are over, and after your next birth
you'll just be drinking pop and ginger beer."

Poor Paddy howled with anguish at such a dreadful blow.
 His heart sank, though he didn't have a body;
He offered weak excuses, then he hurried down below
to savour Satan's punch and hot rum toddy.

Now Paddy's very happy,for he's taken over Hell;
The greatest boss that Hell has ever seen;
The devils work like demons dragging coals up to the well
Where Paddy brews his very best poteen.

And in the Winter evenings, when the skies are cold and raw,
and icy winds are cutting like a whip,
Saint Michael and his followers may knock on Paddy's door,
and if they're good, he'll let them have a sip.

Colm McCallum and the Lucky Clover

Colm McCallum was gloomy and sad,
his days were so empty and bare.
The girl that he’d loved from a very small lad
Had eloped with a man from Kildare.

Colm went out and he searched high and low,
looking for four leaf clover.
But when he’d returned, she had said she must go,
Their childhood affair was all over.

His heart was so sick for this thoughtless young lass.
He’d looked for that clover for hours.
But she was disdainful, she thought he was crass,
He should have brought chocolates or flowers.

He wandered alone for the rest of his life,
and never once thought to replace
the girl that he’d wanted to take for his wife.
He’d always remember her face.

The clover he’d picked, he kept pressed in a book,
he opened that book once a year.
He’d gaze on that clover with sorrowful look,
and shed a sad solitary tear.

He ventured one day into old Donegal,
after twenty five years or more.
Where he heard this loud voice, like a clarion call
from the rear of a pub’s open door.

He entered the pub, for he fancied a drink,
to the sound of a slap and a blow.
There, to his amazement, before he could blink,
was his sweetheart of so long ago.

She stood at the bar, a phenomenal sight,
and she let out an ear splitting scream.
She lashed  to her  left, and she punched to her right,
and shattered his nostalgic dream.

She was built like a tank, and she weighed twenty stone;
She was dirty, and drunken, and bad.
When he thought of his past, he was chilled to the bone.
What a lucky escape he had had.

He ran from the scene, and he went home to pray,
thank God that his sorrows were over.
He opened his book and gave thanks for the day
He’d been lucky to pick four leaf clover.

Mylie O’Mallen and the Belligerent Rabbit

Mylie O’Mallen awoke from his bed.
He could hear the North Winds Blow.
He felt a cold chill as he raised up his head
for his forehead was covered with snow.

Winter had come with an icy cold hand;
He had undeniable proof.
Jack Frost, with an ice pick, and manner most grand,
had hacked a great hole in the roof.

Poor Mylie was freezing and couldn’t keep warm.
So he packed up a toothbrush and comb.
His house was unable to keep out the storm,
and Mylie must find a new home.

Mylie went out and he looked all around.
He didn’t know quite what to do.
Then suddenly, there he saw, deep in the ground
a rabbit hole, shining and new.

He peered through the darkness and lit up his torch
and crept on as quiet as a mouse.
The hole was the edge of a miniature porch
Which led to a very small house.

He entered the house with a manner so bold,
without even ringing the bell.
He was thankful of course, to be out of the cold,
till he met the Big Bunny from Hell.

“I’ll not have a leprechaun here in my home,
This warren is only for rabbits.
Go live with a pixie, an elf or a gnome,
Or someone with similar habits.”

To which Mylie said,“How can you be so rude?
I’m only a wee little man.
I don’t need much room, and I don’t eat much food,
And I try to keep quiet if I can“

This rabbit was hairy, and ugly and strong.
He had a belligerent air.
He drew back his lips, showing teeth white and long
and glared a belligerent glare,

“You don't understand, but I take great offence.
I detest little men who are green!
I eat lettuce, and cabbage, so this makes no sense, 
But I think that your colour’s obscene."

So Mylie went out at the first sign of day
and built a new home in an oak.
He vowed that he’d evermore stay far away
from the likes of such bigoted folk.

And that is why leprechauns hide from our sight.
Their faces are never more seen.
Because of a rabbit who wanted to fight,
and insulted a wee man in green.