Love Death and Whiskey - 40 Songs Read online

crazy,

  star crossed.

  Together find

  what we need most,

  safe harbour,

  safe harbour, today.

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  The gauntlet

  Do not expect too much of grief:

  it will not question or confirm belief,

  it will not slam the door to doubt,

  not lock it in, nor keep it out,

  it will not orient the heart

  with whispers from a place apart,

  nor will it let the silence grow

  until we know we do not know,

  it will not sleep, nor offer rest,

  it will not satisfy a quest,

  and, so much milk and water spilt,

  it will not hone or temper guilt.

  The iron hand discards its glove:

  we would not grieve did we not love.

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  Deserve my love

  Deserve my love,

  only deserve my love.

  Save love, serve love,

  let love be magnificent.

  Only deserve my love.

  Do not shame my love,

  do not shame my love.

  Blame me, shame me,

  let me seem the innocent.

  But do not shame my love.

 

  My love,

  the light in your eyes,

  the strength of your arm,

  my love overcame me.

  My love,

  the hurt of your lies,

  the unthinking harm.

  Would you let my love shame me?

  Let me sing my love,

  let me sing of my love,

  sing proudly, sing aloud,

  innocent, magnificent.

  Let me sing my love.

  Note;

  Written for the stage play, Dear Maria. Two women married to useless men. In the liminal place of this quiet song the audience learns that the women are not fools – but are simply in love.

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  The plains of Mayo

  In the spring, when days grow longer,

  I will rise and I will go,

  my pledge I will not linger

  till I reach County Mayo.

  In Balla you will see me dancing.

  I’ll sing the song I know the best,

  and any song that takes your fancy.

  In Kiltimagh I’ll take my rest.

  It is as if the warm sun rises

  and all the mists of sadness go

  when I think of fair Claremorris

  and all the wide plains of Mayo.

  There I will be with my own people,

  there in Mayo, on the plain,

  then the years will surely leave me.

  I will be glad and young again.

  Note:

  Written for the stage play, Irish Night. With homage to Anthony Raftery ‘Anois teacht an Earraigh’ – ‘Spring is now coming’

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  The last train

  O the last train

  is a slow train,

  it meanders

  through the night.

  It’s the milk train,

  it’s the mail train,

  and it stops at

  every light.

  It is loaded,

  it is crowded.

  I’ll be riding

  in the van,

  I’ll be sitting

  on my suitcase.

  I’ll be talking

  to the man.

  As the night goes

  even colder

  I’ll be sleeping

  when I can.

  I’ll be dreaming

  of the morning

  when the sun comes

  on the right.

  I’ll be thinking

  of you waiting,

  waiting for me

  through the night.

  I will lean

  against the window,

  I’ll be counting

  sheep and farms.

  I’ll be longing

  for the morning

  when I’ll hold you

  in my arms.

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  Irish night

  I awoke one Irish night

  and listened to the stream.

  I lay awake one Irish night,

  still troubled by a dream.

  I left home one Irish night:

  the sky was full of jewels,

  the moon and stars were shining bright

  and silvering the ruins.

  Chase a star,

  hunt moonbeams:

  my Irish night was full of London dreams.

  My mother never looked at stars,

  I’m far too busy now.

  And if my father looked at stars

  he only saw the plough.

  Somewhere surely one bright star

  by right belongs to me.

  One Irish night I saw my star

  shine across the sea.

  Chase a star,

  hunt moonbeams:

  my Irish night was full of London dreams.

  Note:

  The title song for the stage play, Irish Night. And it does what a title song should do.

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  Just irrigation

  I never understood her tears.

  I tried, as best I could,

  to still her sadness, calm her fears:

  it didn’t do much good.

  She’d smile and simply pat my hand

  and give no explanation:

  you don’t need to understand,

  it’s just, just irrigation.

  Just irrigation,

  tears must flow,

  just irrigation,

  love will grow,

  just irrigation,

  tears must fall,

  just irrigation.

  There are many feelings words can’t catch

  though words still have to try.

  As I was puzzled by her words

  you’re puzzled when I cry.

  Though now I think I understand

  I can give no explanation

  and I must simply pat your hand

  and say, it’s irrigation.

  Just irrigation,

  tears must flow,

  just irrigation,

  love will grow,

  just irrigation,

  tears must fall,

  just irrigation.

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  In my heart

  In my heart a tender feeling,

  I never thought I’d find it there,

  something like a wish or promise,

  something very like a prayer.

  Walk with me and stay beside me

  from this moment, ever more.

  Let me have your love to guide me,

  like a beacon on the shore.

  In my time of desperation

  let me only look to you

  to find hope and consolation,

  heart that’s strong and love that’s true.

  I think this life is like a journey

  and we are pilgrims on the road,

  clasping hands at every turning,

  share the task and share the load.

  I can face the mountain ranges,

  all the tempests of the sea,

  I can stand the seasons’ changes

  since I know that you’re with me.

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  Back to him…

  And so leave the bed,

  put on your clothes.

  When everything’s said

  everything goes,

  as you will,

  back to him,

  back to him.

  He gave you years,
<
br />   we’ve had our days,

  and after the tears

  everything stays

  as it was,

  back to him,

  back to him

  I gave you magic.

  He waits in your home,

  sure and lethargic,

  he knows you will come,

  and you do,

  back to him,

  back to him

  And we won’t know if what we have

  was worth the building on,

  and you will be just one more ghost

  when you’re gone, when you’re gone.

  And so out the door,

  down to your car:

  you learnt once before

  you’re safe where you are,

  as you were,

  back to him,

  back to him.

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  Midnight telephoner

  Dear love, dear loner,

  a lot like me,

  midnight telephoner,

  far across the sea,

  you feel lost, you feel lonely,

  you have nothing to say,

  of course, of course, you phone me,

  only an ocean away…

  only an ocean away…

  Across the canyons of the deep

  the transatlantic cables leap;

  while half the world is still asleep

  they bring me promises to keep,

  dear love,

  only an ocean away…

  Throughout the ocean in between,

  the haunt of whale and submarine,

  so many voices sing and keen

  of what once was or might have been,

  dear love,

  only an ocean away…

  You know I never tell you lies,

  I promise you the sun will rise:

  it pays the moon to advertise

  like neon in the night time skies,

  dear love,

  only an ocean away.

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  The finest town in Lancashire is Bolton

  The finest town in Lancashire is Bolton.

  Go there,

  knock on any door,

  say I sent you.

  The folk of Lancashire,

  will not make me a liar.

  They will take your hand,

  invite you in,

  and sit you by the fire…

  and the finest town in Lancashire is Bolton.

  The warmest town in Lancashire is Bolton,

  a working town,

  smokey.

  Smoke won’t hurt you.

  As if smoke could ever harm,

  that certain smokey charm

  of Bolton folk, so welcoming, hospitable and warm.

  The finest town in Lancashire is Bolton.

  There are some think well of Bury,

  but I see no need to worry.

  And some make claims for Wigan.

  I wouldn’t know where to begin.

  So I’ll keep it plain and simple,

  for I see you’re in a hurry:

  the finest town in Lancashire is Bolton.

  Note:

  Written for the stage play, Dear Maria. This song marks the end of Act 3, and the end of the play. Very music hall.

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  Angel in the gallery

  Forget your duchesses,

  noble dames and such as as

  sit in their stalls and boxes es

  in their silken frocks es es,

  with all their airs and graces es

  and their painted faces es.

  See me flee their clutches es:

  o yes, forget your duchesses.

 

  For the girl that I love

  is as pale as a dove,

  and she sits, far above,

  like an angel in the gallery.

  I need just raise my eyes

  to behold paradise,

  there she is, chaste and wise,

  my angel in the gallery.

  Though I may seem a bit of a fop

  my love isn’t one of your nobs.

  By day she works in a shop,

  but at night she sits in the gods

  When such love makes us strong

  we can all sing along

  and dedicate my song

  to the angel in the gallery.

  Note:

  One of the music hall songs written for the stage play, Semper Bella. The first two verses have to be sung with a stutter. I know it’s hard.

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  If you left him

  If you left him would he know,

  would he notice, would he care?

  Would he notice you had gone

  when he hardly knows you’re there?

  What’s the point of hanging on

  in hopes that things will change?

  You’re not lovers any more,

  just strangers being strange.

  I think you know you’ve given him

  everything you have to give,

  and somewhere, waiting patiently,

  your own life’s there to live.

  I suppose you once meant much to him

  though he finds that hard to show.

  Now your devotion only means

  he never needs to grow.

  If you left him would you go

  in autumn or in spring,

  the evening or the morning time,

  and would you start to sing?

  Or weeping for dishonoured time

  would you seek time to grieve?

  Or is it that you’ve kept yourself

  from knowing you can leave?

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  Irontown

  I live alone in Irontown

  where forge and furnace blaze.

  The yellow rust has stained the town:

  it stands but it decays.

  The yellow forges in the night,

  they burn like captive stars.

  But here we don’t know day from night

  and measure time in years.

  I give my life to Irontown,

  to bayonets and to guns.

  The yellow rust has stained my blood: 27

  it runs red when it runs.

  My eyes are iron-encrusted now,

  my hearty is iron-bound.

  I know that it would break my heart

  if I but look around.

  I live alone in Irontown,

  a life I cannot share.

  With so much life to iron pledged

  I have no life to spare.

  And if I left these iron lands

  to what land would I go?

  What other work would earn my bread

  when iron is all I know?

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  Kissed on the meridian

  We walked in the park

  as far as the sign

  where the earth is divided

  by an imaginary line –

  I tell you this because

  I was kissed on the meridian:

  he gave the world a shove,

  two hemispheres spun faster

  and I fell, in love.

  The transatlantic tourists

  and the frail Japanese

  their cameras clicked

  amazed by sights like these.

  But I didn’t care.

  I was kissed on the meridian:

  he gave the world a shove,

  two hemispheres spun faster

  and I fell, in love.

  I am told that in Samoa,

  on the other side of the world,

  because of this line,

  the people are confused, they

  don’t know if it’s Monday or it’s Tuesday.

  I feel fine.
<
br />   Though it is true that

  I was kissed on the meridian:

  he gave the world a shove,

  two hemispheres spun faster

  and I fell, in love.

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  The longest night

  My love, when we two meet again

  the winter will be just half done,

  the snow piled in the street again,

  the pavement never brightened by the sun.

  I will be cold and cheerless then

  but do my best to play my part:

  you must be bold and fearless then,

  you know the way to warm my heart,

  The sun so far away,

  so cold, and hid from sight:

  my love, the shortest day,

  but O

  the longest night.

  Outside the wind will roar again,

  outside the streets will fill with gloom;

  inside our spirits soar again,

  we make a tropic island of our room.

  A time for interlacing then,

  the bitter cold of winter gone;

  a time for warm embracing then,

  and safe until the distant dawn.

  The sun so far away,

  so cold, and hid from sight:

  my love, the shortest day,

  but O

  the longest night.

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  To be Irish

  You don’t know you’re Irish

  till you’re Irish no more,

  you don’t know you’re Irish

  till you walk out the door

  and carry your suitcase

  to some foreign shore:

  so is this what it means

  to be Irish?

  A son or a daughter,

  that’s how you were known,

  the child of your father,

  your mother’s dear son.

  You were never uncounted

  and never alone:

  you didn’t know what it meant

  to be Irish.

  You lived in the house

  at the head of the glen,

  you walked to the chapel

  as one of the men.

  You stood in the doorway

  then walked back again:

  it was easy enough

  to be Irish.

  You don’t know you’re Irish

  till your Ireland is gone,

  hull down in the mist of

  a soft Irish dawn,

  held down in the mist of

  a memory half gone:

  tell me, what’s it like

  This song was to be Irish?

  Note:

  Written for the stage play, Irish Night.

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  Weary angel

  (an epithalamion)

  I say an angel stands beside us now,

  a weary angel, longing for his bed.

  With trembling hand he mops his fevered brow,

  and says, At last I’ve got them safely wed.

  The other angels stand around and cheer.

  They never thought he’d do it, but he did.

  In heaven now they’re breaking out the beer,

  and singing, Here’s looking at you, kid.

  But our particular angel,

  his feathers all in a sweat,

  says, Hold on, lads,

  I can’t get drunk,

  cause they might need me yet.

  When he took on this job he took a hard one,

  he took a job that no one else could do.

  O go and get your pint, our weary guardian.

  We’ll manage for the moment without you.

  With trembling hand he reaches for his Bass,

  and with a crumpled feather mops his brow,

  and with a certain pride he downs his glass:

  a weary angel stands beside us now.

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  I dreamt you came to me

  I dreamt you came to me last night

  as though you’d never gone;

  you came in darkness, softly, lest

  you wake me from my dream;

  but I, to catch the morning light,

  had left the curtains drawn:

  a silver statue, you undressed

  and came into my arms.

  Came into my arms…

 

  And, lover, you were not surprised

  to meet my waiting arms;

  you knew that I’d pretended sleep,

  you laughed, and kissed my face:

  and then my flooded heart with joy

  awoke me from that dream

  to misery made worse by hope

  and nothing in your place.

  Nothing in your place…

  And if I sleep and dream again

  that you come in the night

  I must be firm, but I’ll be kind,

  I’ll speak to that dream you,

  I’ll tell that dream that you have gone

  and that it isn’t right

  of dreams to come and haunt my mind

  and trouble me with joy.

  Trouble me with joy…

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  The flowers of the forest

  Dawn is the time

  to rise and go faring,

  days are for work

  to earn our daily bread,

  dusk is return

  tired and near past caring

  to wearily find

  a pillow for the head.

  We live for a while

  like the flowers of the forest,

  the flowers of the forest

  that bloom and fade away.

  Though we can’t live for ever

  we can live good and honest

  and dance in the sunshine

  of our one bright day.

  There is still time for song

  at the end of the evening,

  there is still time for song

  in the darkness of the night,

  there is still time for singing

  at parting and grieving

  in the hope we will meet again

  in a new day’s light.

  We live for a while

  like the flowers of the forest,

  the flowers of the forest

  that bloom and fade away.

  Though we can’t live for ever

  we can live good and honest

  and dance in the sunshine

  of our one bright day.

  Note:

  Written as a wake song for the stage play, Irish Night.

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  The green hills of Australia

  When I wake up in the morning I lie in my bed

  and I pause for fear of losing the dreams in my head,

  for over the factory, and over the sea

  the green hills of Australia are calling to me.

  The green hills of Australia that I see in my mind,

  in a fold of the mountains, are gentle and kind.

  In a fold of the mountains, in an arm of the sea

  the green hills of Australia are calling to me.

  I will wander in the morning, bare feet on the grass,

  I will gather arms of daffodils from the fields as I pass,

  I’ll look over the mountains and over the sea

  at the green hills of Australia, still calling to me.

  Lilly’s Special Verse:

  I will pack up my trousseau, I will pack up my kit.

  Like Robinson Crusoe, on my island I’ll sit,

  until my Man Friday climbs out of the sea.

  The green hills of Australia are calling to me.

  Note:

  Written for the stage play, Dear Maria. The three Doorley sisters dream of a better life. The Au
stralia of their imaginations is very like Ireland.

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  That old song again

  Outside the trees are greening

  and singing in the breeze.

  Inside my heart they’re echoing

  and stirring memories.

  My heart once knew as sweet a song

  as sung by wind in trees.

  And I hear someone singing

  that old song again,

  I hear someone singing

  that old song again.

  I stand behind my window,

  I watch the clouds sail by.

  Sometimes the clouds must bear too much,

  I’ve often seen them cry.

  Today they sing a different tune,

  today they’re bright and high. 35

  and I hear someone singing

  that old song again,

  I hear someone singing

  that old song again.

  That song was meant for two to sing

  and can’t be sung by one,

  was meant for me and you to sing

  and finish, once begun.

  Outside the birds are singing

  and flying round in pairs.

  What secrets can the songbirds have

  that give themselves such airs?

  Some secret that I share with them

  for, taken unawares,

  I can hear me singing

  that old song again,

  I can hear me singing

  that old song again.

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  The Prince of Clouds

  He gave a brilliant lecture

  on the social life of clouds,

  how some live isolated

  and some collect in crowds,

  how some clouds cling together

  and mingle in the heights,

  and others clash with lightening flash

  and thunder in the night.

  And after, over coffee,

  I watched his calm blue eyes

  and wondered how he came to know

  so much about the skies.

  Just then a foreign stranger

  came up to him and bowed:

  at last I see this man must be

  the famous Prince of Clouds.

  The Prince of Clouds, soaring,

  the Prince of Clouds, sailing,

  the Prince of Clouds, floating,

  between the sky and the sun.

  The Prince of Clouds, searching,

  the Prince of Clouds, seeking,

  the Prince of Clouds, questing,

  where no one else had gone.

  And, yes, I heard him lecture,

  I heard every word he said.

  That’s how he works like you and me

  to gain his daily bread.

  I thought he did it very well,

  not humble or too proud:

  he earned his fee with dignity,

  the exiled Prince of Clouds.

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  Who lost the most

  It was only an elegant party

  and I thought I might stay for a while

  when I see you still hale and still hearty

  and still with that confident smile.

  We meet like old comrades in wartime

  with a cry and affectionate hug

  and soon start to talk about our time

  and who lost the most by our love.

  We were always a civilised couple,

  of course we decide we must meet,

  you’ll buy me a drink or a double

  and I’ll cook you something to eat.

  We dine by the light of one candle,

  you pour out rough wine from a jug,

  and all we can do is to wrangle

  about who lost the most by our love.

  And if one thing then leads to another

  it’s only because we’re old friends

  and I, for one, never could bother

  to untangle your means from your ends,

  and if after I flop down beside you

  to share one last smoke on the rug

  it shows no one knows more than I do

  who it was lost the most by our love.

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  Young men in winter, old men in spring

  Young men in winter,

  old men in spring,

  young men in winter,

  old men in spring.

  It may seem to make no sense whatever,

  and I try to explain it again,

  why I take only young men in winter

  and save up the spring for old men,

  and, though it’s my choice, I admit it,

  I question my choice now and then.

  For in winter I need conversation

  and young men, they don’t know a thing.

  In spring I want music and passion

  and old men get tired and can’t sing.

  But I follow my first inclination

  and welcome the old men in spring.

  Young men in winter,

  old men in spring,

  young men in winter,

  old men in spring.

  For young men are sweeter and stronger

  and warmer in winter’s cold sting,

  and old men have charm and take longer

  and are grateful to get one last fling.

  And it is right, one more winter over,

  to be kind to the old men in spring.

  Young men in winter,

  old men in spring,

  young men in winter,

  old men in spring.

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  Autobiography of a navvy

  There’s no great wisdom in the song I sing,

  but I know enough to know this one thing:

  a man’s no man unless he can work

  and there’s no work for a man in County Cork.

  I kissed my mother and put on my coat,

  I went to Dublin and got on the boat.

  Now I know enough to know I’m a fool,

  for I ended up on the lump in Liverpool. 39

  In a greasy café I buy my grub,

  my friends I buy with a drink in a pub.

  Like a pick and shovel I am bought and sold,

  I’m the subby’s man and I am not my own.

  I miss my family, but we’re not in touch,

  I pray too little and I drink too much.

  My face is bold, but my heart is cold,

  and who will care for me when I am old?

  I think the Irish are a cursed race,

  I think they’ll vanish and not leave a trace.

  From east to west and from pole to pole

  they work on every man’s land, but not their own.

  Note:

  The title pays homage to Patrick MacGill. One of the songs used in the stage play Irish Night.

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  You taught me to cry

  I had so much to learn

  when I met you,

  fresh from the country,

  like milk and eggs,

  innocent eyes

  of forget-me-not blue,

  tangled hair

  and coltish legs.

  And you were so wise

  in the ways of the world,

  you took me in hand,

  you guided my style,

  the way my hair curled,

  the clothes I should buy.

  You taught me to love,

  and you taught me to cry.

  You taught me to cry,

  you taught me to cry,

  I had so much to learn,

  and you taught me to cry.

  I can order in French

  and get what I want,

  I can talk of the wine

/>   of the Rhine and the Rhone,

  the sun on the isles,

  the snow in Vermont.

  I can travel the world,

  but I travel alone.

  You showed me the world,

  I saw through your eyes

  what was in good taste

  and what to despise.

  How should I judge you,

  my standards so high?

  I had so much to learn,

  and you taught me to cry.

  You taught me to cry,

  you taught me to cry,

  you taught me to love,

  and you taught me to cry.

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  The crumble song

  He bakes a good crumble

  for someone he loves,

  of apple and honey

  and scented with cloves.

  He makes a good ballad

  to tell of this feat,

  as fine as the crumble

  and almost as sweet.

  And he sings that song out of key...

  All this he has done for me.

  He spreads a good table

  and sits at the head.

  He likes to see friends there

  and to see his friends fed.

  He tells a good story,

  crouched over his ale,

  a long shaggy dog

  with a sting in the tail.

  And no one laughs louder than he...

  All this he has done for me.

  And yet he is quiet and humble,

  though he has every right to be proud,

  and - here is the cream on the crumble he

  loves me and says it out loud.

  Bright flowers spring up

  at his word of command,

  and apple trees bend

  to put fruit in his hand.

  The beasts of the field

  and the birds of the air,

  they gather around him

  to join him in prayer.

  And he makes a really nice cup of tea...

  All this he has done for me.

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  They have closed the border

  They have closed the border,

  I cannot get through.

  I will stand by the wire

  and hope to see you.

  If you stand on that hill, love,

  and if you wear blue

  I will stand by the wire

  and know I see you.

  Do not wave, do not sign,

  do not show you are mine,

  for who knows who will watch and will see?

  You must stand, and stand still,

  your blue gown on that hill,

  and no