The daffodils' petals turned red in Kilmainham,
the vernal tranquillity came to an end,
and cowslip and furze voiced their paschal anger
with violet and bluebell all over the land.

The daffodils roared as the iron shepherd
led lambs to the slaughter for standing their ground.
A daffodil's petals must never be trod on;
the following springtime no shepherd was found.

On Sundays people go to Mass,
and some go on a hike,
and some go dancing with their lass;
I go and ride my bike.

Down Sackville Street by bike I go,
along the old canal,
from GHQ to GPO
so oft I cannot tell.

£10,000 are on my head,
but still my bike I race:
the foreign forces want me dead,
but they forgot my face.

Through all patrols, round every fence,
and, voicing my dislike,
through all the raids of Black and Tans
I go and ride my bike.

And now the foreign forces sent
their master spies to kill
the members of our government,
but I don't think they will.

At nine we're standing at their door -
the final blow we'll strike,
and then, a free man evermore,
I'll go and ride my bike.

(Click here to listen to Dublin Cycle performed on Radio Seagull.)

The Countess on the barricades
saw, as her snipers spread,
a man with a brown paper bag
he carried on his head.

As he approached the Green, she ordered
her men to hold their fire:
‘He’s gonna feed them bally birds’,
she guessed from his attire.

He was the park keeper; she told
her men to clear the way
so he could look after the ducks
and feed them twice a day.

Those who did not agree with her
could hear their chief declare:
We, comrades, do our duty here,
as he does his down there!

Would it not be hypocrisy
if we would use a war
to stop a man from doing what
we claim we’re fighting for?

The Celtic Boar still lies asleep
to rise again at break of day.
As long as he's in slumber deep,
he is a playground for his prey:
the lamb has climbed him in his bed
and makes the V-sign on his head.

Awake! Awake and greet the dawn,
welcome the blessing of the day,
and show thy tusks with every yawn
to scare the cheeky lamb away;
then from the god above break free
and wake the ancient gods in thee!

The Tara Moon stood full and bright
amidst a clouded sky:
that blue I've never seen a night,
no holy place that high.

Here is it where in olden days
the gods and kings did dwell;
now sheep are grazing in the place
where Erin rose and fell.

But midnight came, and then once more
the graves gave birth, and all
those bodies buried long before
went to the Banquet Hall.

And once again a cheerful crowd
would dance and laugh and sing
and each ten minutes cry out loud:
Long live the Tara King!

And once again his fellowmen
to him their sons would bring
and say as joyful as they can:
Long live the Tara King!

Another knight would offer here
his girl a wedding ring
and even louder join the cheer:
Long live the Tara King!

But then I heard a bleat from there,
and all those brave young men,
those merry girls and ladies fair
turned into sheep again.

Erin's ruins stand in blossom,
jewellery from Nature's store,
bounteous like the Hanging Gardens
Babylon was famous for.

Flowers, purple, pink and yellow,
red as blood, blue as the sky,
breaking through the walls of ivy,
bring a heaven to our eye.

Everything that man created,
Beauty conquers it at last,
and the Paradise is growing
over dwellings of the past.

I know an isle, and at its shore
no gods nor kings nor slaves
will cloud the vision evermore:
Hy-Brasil o'er the Waves.

It rises from the ocean's ground
all seven years and saves
a soul; he won't return who found
Hy-Brasil o'er the Waves.

Set sail and let us travel West -
ascending from our graves
we'll claim the Island of the Blest:
Hy-Brasil o'er the Waves!

Hard fists and whingy dirges,
hard facts and oral lore,
hard luck and emigration
and praties by the score.

Thick ferns and lofty palm trees
and nimbi in the sky,
and many an attractive
colleen to please the eye.

The lakes, the moors and mountains
where ancient rivers roll,
the farmers and the poets,
the children and the dole.

Rough coasts and rougher language
and gingerbread for tea,
and rugged hills and people
determined to be free.

Straight after she gives birth, her folk
welcome the little Don
to his new home while mother cooks
and puts the kettle on.

And when he brings a girlfriend home
he calls his pure white swan,
and talks of business plans with her,
she puts the kettle on.

And when, to help them get a loan,
his dad puts, slightly wan,
the house up as security,
she puts the kettle on.

And when at last they realise
his partner pulled a con
as Gards come in to search the house,
she puts the kettle on.

And when the bailiff’s at the door,
and everything is gone
that they have worked for all their lives,
she puts the kettle on.

As Paddy labours in the churchyard,
he thinks of all the cash he spent –
it’s rent day, and he won’t be able
to pay a quarter of the rent.

He minds the poet’s grave. The silence
of dawn is broken: he can hear
a busload of American tourists
arrive, which gives him an idea.

Under their watchful eyes he slowly
kneels down as if he were alone,
prays for the soul of the straying poet
and puts a coin upon his stone.

Not heeding all the tourists, Paddy
goes back to work some yards away,
only returning to the poet
after he’s finished for the day.

There he collects the coins the tourists
have left; the poet’s statue winks,
and after Paddy pays his landlord,
there’s still enough for several drinks.

(Click here to listen to The Poet’s Blessing performed on Radio Seagull.)

In Killyvale there stands a thistle.
In sunshine and in rain
he still recalls the joyous whistle
he heard from many a train.

Oft he would ponder: ‘I can’t take it,
life in this barren land;
I’ll take the train with which I’ll make it
to Crock or Ballysand.’

Yet he had second thoughts and faltered
each time the train went by -
thinking of home, his plans were altered:
‘I’ll give it one more try!’

But this time he’s determined. Humming
a tune (though lacking skill),
he swears: ‘I’ll take the next train coming –
honest to God, I will!’

Now that was fifty years ago. The
conductor’s evil streak
made sure he never got to know the
line was shut down that week.

And if you pass the Killyvale way,
in sunshine and in rain
you’ll find him standing at the railway
and waiting for a train.

The moon is full and pale,
and vapour fills the dale -
none of God's creatures is
out on a night like this;
even the water vole
retired to its hole,
the birds have ceased their song,
but I still ride along.
Only my life I claim;
with freedom as my aim
and hunger as my guide
across the moor I ride.

The fog grows denser now,
but I shall keep my vow
to ride until I find
peace for my troubled mind,
though I can hardly see
the trees in front of me.
The first time since I've fled
I slowly turn my head,
and in the humid grey
the workhouse fades away;
since there's no place to hide,
across the moor I ride.

My stallion raised his ears,
cause from the mist appears
a rider swift and grim;
I do not look at him,
but still my weary eyes
see a black cloak that flies
around a scrawny shade,
and they can see the blade,
reflecting through the haze
the pallid moonlight's rays -
a stranger by my side,
across the moor I ride.

Like a mountainous vessel that put out to sea
Benbulben's sheer face was the last thing I saw
once your images faded away at the pier
as the barque I embarked on was leaving the shore.

It was hunger that drove me away, and I slaved
on a number of ships so that we could survive,
but the sum I could send you was hardly enough,
and the sum I could keep barely kept me alive.

Oft at night in my cabin I dreamt of the days
I was with you, and each foreign harbour anew
oped my eyes to the voice of my heart which revealed
that I'd rather be home, and be starving with you.

For our hunger burns less with our loved ones around,
and no more through rough ports and strange countries I'll roam;
the grave prow of Benbulben still points towards the sea,
but the journey is over, the sailor is home.

Broken bottles on a tombstone,
crisp bags strewn over the graves
are convincing indicators
that we're not Tradition's slaves.

Children dying of starvation,
parents struggling to the last,
clans wiped out by epidemics
are mere spirits of the past.

Now there's no more thirst or hunger
as we see by those displays:
broken bottles on a tombstone
state we live in better days.

The tanks have gone, the walls remain.
It’s been too long; I did refrain
from coming here, I have to tell,
the town that I have loved so well,
not for the people I did meet,
but armoured cars in every street.

The friendliest people worked their charms
and welcomed me with open arms
to this quaint place when first I came;
yet I would never say its name,
and that’s because I never knew
which party I was talking to.

The one thing that I could not bear
was seeing soldiers everywhere.
At every corner of the town
they held their guns, marched up and down;
I feared, as I walked down the road,
they’d shoot or something might explode.

Those days are gone; for good, we hope,
since people now have learnt to cope -
one listens to the other side,
and hands are crossing the divide:
I took the bus, just like before,
to see the friendly folk once more.

And when the place and time was right,
I went into that magic night
of pleasures I’d enjoyed before
that the Republic knows no more:
a crowded pub, a pint, a smoke,
a live band and the casual joke.

A group of youngsters joined me there
and asked me who I was, from where,
and what I do; they got my stout
but spurned me when it was my shout,
saying: ‘We all want you to feel
welcome in Derry, that’s the deal!‘

Hungover I returned again
from my best weekend since the ban,
but I’ll be back there, I can tell,
before they ban the fun as well
and make us smoke on yard or lane:
the tanks have gone, the walls remain.

If you don't eat your tea and cease to fight
the praties with your fork,
the Drumcree Bogey will appear tonight,
and with a frown he'll gawk
at you and take you to his murky cave,
where rats and leeches keep his company,
where louse and cockroach live in unity
and many a child is working as his slave;
there, with an evil sparkle in his eye,
he'll murmur: 'I -, I -, anal spye!'
I'm not afraid, for I don't fear
his apoplectic face,
and I will run if he comes near -
I know that he can't race!

If you don't do your blinking homework right
and tidy up your room,
the Drumcree Bogey will appear tonight
and bring you to your doom.
He'll grab you with his paws and bring you down
into his black cadaver-flooded den,
where ancient fetid constipated men
pray to a brittle idol made of crown,
and with an evil sparkle in his eye
he'll bawl out: 'I -, I -, anal spye!'
I know that he looks fierce and grim,
but if he comes too close,
I'll throw green oranges at him
and punch him on the nose.

If you don't go to bed, switch off the light
and sleep before we're back,
the Drumcree Bogey will appear tonight
and put you in his sack.
Then, in his gloomy dwelling, rife with age,
you'll listen to his fits against mankind
and to the ravings of his bilious mind
and to the thunder of his blinkered rage,
and with an evil sparkle in his eye
he'll bellow: 'I -, I -, anal spye!'
I'm conscious of his decadence,
and if he rants like that,
I'll hide my face behind my hands,
and thus I won't get wet.

When Ireland was the land of famine,
a lot of men escaped their fates
by setting sail and populating
Australia, Britain and the States.

But now that one can live in Ireland,
they guard their coast and keep at bay
the handful who are seeking refuge:
‘This is our country - stay away!’

‘I command this family, right or wrong!’
Michael Corleone (Al Pacino) in The Godfather III

They call me Don Aherno
(I don’t know why they do):
I never condemn wrongdoing
and expect the same from you.
I am this country’s Taoiseach –
in English that means chief,
the German word is Führer,
and I shall never leave.
I am the boss of Ireland,
and I get paid up front,
and I can do whatever
the bloody hell I want!

The public keep on whining
they can’t afford their bread,
but if they starve, why don’t they
rather eat cake instead?
No more he roams these forests,
the tiger of the Celts,
and it is time our people
learnt tightening their belts.
I am the boss of Ireland,
and I get paid up front,
and I can do whatever
the bloody hell I want!

Worldwide no man is dearer
as head of government,
and I have just awarded,
with all the best intent,
myself another pay rise
that has the public rage
and equals twenty incomes
on national minimum wage.
I am the boss of Ireland,
and I get paid up front,
and I can do whatever
the bloody hell I want!

A man in my position
sure needs no bank account:
my cash is in the attic
where it is safe and sound.
And if I give positions
to business friends on plates,
it’s not because they paid me,
but just because they’re mates.
I am the boss of Ireland,
and I get paid up front,
and I can do whatever
the bloody hell I want!

An anorak of Teflon
serves as my royal cloak –
though stuffed with large backhanders
it looks like I am broke.
I’m such a lucky fellow:
who else could ever say
they’ve highly paid positions
where tips outweigh the pay.
I am the boss of Ireland,
and I get paid up front,
and I can do whatever
the bloody hell I want!

I’m telling all my subjects
what and what not to do –
they won’t turn from their master
though they complain, but who
would dare to disobey me?
I tell them who gets fed,
and how to heat their houses,
and when to go to bed.
I am the boss of Ireland,
and I get paid up front,
and I can do whatever
the bloody hell I want!

I’m a self-righteous tyrant,
and yet the voters see
in me the undisputed
head of the family.
They fear the raging despot,
the grump who tolerates
no question – the unjust father
who everybody hates!
I am the boss of Ireland,
and I get paid up front,
and I can do whatever
the bloody hell I want!

or

How the Celtic Tiger Became Extinct

A long time ago, when the Taoiseach
once again didn’t know what to do,
his advisors came up with an answer
and brought him to Dublin Zoo.

At a cage which he thought was empty
they stopped. ‘Now here’s our surprise:
he’s called the Celtic Tiger
and can only be seen by the wise.

‘Just look at his beautiful pelage,
his clear eyes and strong sturdy neck -
you will see that in no time or faster
he’ll get things on this isle back on track.’

And people came from the four corners
of the world to see and festoon
the Tiger that came out of nowhere
and was to return there quite soon.

‘How he’s grinding that bone like a cupcake!’ -
‘My gosh, what a beautiful brute!’ –
‘Watch, he’s dancing the tarantella
in a skirt on two paws; ain’t he cute?’

And the Tiger grew bigger and stronger,
and soon he came of age.
‘He’s been growing a lot’, said the keeper,
‘and he’ll need a bigger cage.’

‘He is right’, the advisors admitted.
‘I think I will give it a miss’,
said the Taoiseach. ‘He’s only a keeper,
what the hell would he know about this?’

But then, on the following morning,
the keeper was hanging his head,
and he went to the Taoiseach and told him:
‘I’m afraid the Tiger is dead!’

‘That can’t be’, cried the Taoiseach and hurried
to the cage where he asked for the key
and leaned over his pet and caressed him:
‘Quick, bring me an AED!’

The keeper looked slightly bewildered
and lit a cigarette:
‘With his head being cut off so neatly,
I can’t see much point in that.’

The advisors soon found a solution:
‘If you wear his fur as your new
cloak I’m sure you’ll convince all your voters
that his power has passed on to you!’

So the Taoiseach called tailors and watched them
sew, gather, embroider and soak
it in spirit of turpentine, anxious
to try out his amazing new cloak.

He first wore it to Mass on a Sunday
where some loyal supporters did perch
on the wall, donned their heads and saluted
as the Taoiseach entered the church.

But as he sat down for the service,
a girl pulled her mother aside:
‘Look Mum, the Taoiseach is naked!’,
and everyone laughed till they cried.

We claim the thirty-two counties, but
I think we should be dropping
the subject, for with thirty-two counties
where would we do our shopping?