A little warming Irish schmaltz on yet another chilly March day…be ye warmed and filled…knowing that if one is Irish, the world will break one’s heart.
Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling…from glen to glen and down the mountain side…the summer’s gone and all the roses falling…it’s you, it’s you, must go and I must bide.
But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow…or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow…it’s I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow…Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so…
And so it goes…and so it goes…
Spring winds at my back; I can almost see her behind galleon clouds…faded Emerald Isle; resting side by side with family bones, rocky soil and troubles.
A simple jig plays, as I search for green velvet hedges and my own leprechaun while sailing home on sturdy roads.
Thinking of a photo of my Grandfather McMahon at the age of twelve…wearing no shoes and working in a factory…the man with the lovely tenor voice…
690 Saint Paul 