Lyrics © Mickey MacConnell

 

Absent Friends

Sweet Jesus Christ Almighty Sean, can that be really you.
It’s the first time that our paths have crossed since 1982.
Is this your wife and family, can the years have gone so fast ?
How could I not have realised we’ve both grown old at last ?
It’s really good to see you Sean, it makes me feel alive
like when we first met up in school in 1965.
In the days before the Troubles, before we grew to men
and you picked up the Armalite, and I picked up the pen.

chorus

Those summer days brought voices Sean, they would not go away.
And they spoke of youth and liberty and a different better day.
And the greying ghosts of freedom had whispered once again
about yet unfinished business and of many absent friends.

Well I guess I’m doing pretty well, no I’m really doing fine
tho’ things never really seemed the same since 1969.
If I’d thought to marry anyone I suppose it might be Kate
but there’s not much chance for sweet romance in young hearts that’s learned to hate.
And being a paper tiger’s not as simple as it seems
reinforcing pride and prejudice, reinventing myths and dreams.
And the waft of Fenian winding sheets drove my sails along
towards the multi-coloured sunsets of the brighter days to come.

Whatever happened to MacManus, Christ I thought that he was gay
I’d never have imagined him turning out that way.
And you heard about Big Joey who had studied law at Queens
one day serving beer in Brooklyn, next day U. S. Marines.
How could they draft a Derryman to fight for Uncle Sam.
Kindergarten in the Bogside - Graduation, Vietnam.
And we all were very sorry he couldn’t die at home
like all the other fine young men that you and I have known.

By the way, do you remember, not for me but for a friend
the girl I used to come her with in the days before the end.
I know I’m getting older, I know it sounds insane
remembering everything about her, when I can’t recall her name.
I recall the way she tossed her hair - I recall the way she smiled.
I recall the very special way she made me feel worthwhile.
And her smile comes back to haunt me, time and time again
remembering everything about her when I can’t recall her name

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Angel of Mercy

She sat at the bar, she called for a cider
her eyes hard as flint in a sun-freckled face
and I couldn’t reach her ‘tho I sat beside her
when she said that tomorrow she was leaving this place
to go out to work in the death camps of Africa
she was changing her life for the better, she said.
Not caring one damn as she watched my world crumble
into dreams freshly crushed and to hope newly dead.

chorus

Now she’s handing out food aid to totally black strangers
and she’s burying dead infants ‘neath African trees.
But his flinty-eyed freckle-faced Angel of Mercy
brings compassion to thousands and misery to me.

And here stands the fool who built his world round her
and promised her all she could possibly wish.
Who refused to believe when his friends tried to tell him
he was squandering his life on a cruel heartless bitch.
Who now stands appalled as he stares at the wasteland
she left in her wake when she savaged his schemes.
When the mask finally slipped she betrayed her true nature
a murderess of hearts and a rapist of dreams

In time I’ll forget that I ever loved her.
In time I’ll forget that she once made me cry.
In time I’ll forget who I am, where I came from
the mountains, the valleys, the rivers the sky.
In time I’ll forget, but that time won’t be coming
till the last spark of life in my body is stilled.
And I hope the good Christ in His Heaven forgives her
for in my heart of hearts, I know I never will.

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Boys of the Byline Brigade

It’s four in the morning, the paper’s in bed
the Newsroom’s as quiet as the tomb.
When the old man gets up from his seat by the door
another day’s nightwork has been done.
Like a greying old shadow he peels on his coat
and he knocks off the lights on his floor
and he melts with the shadows into the grey dawn
just before the presses start to roar.

chorus

And the glass in his hand feeds the pain in his eyes
alone, insecure and afraid
A victim of booze, overwork and old age
and the boys of the byline brigade.

That morning the byline brigade will arrive
those bright keen young men about town.
And they’ll shout into three different phones at one time
and get the whole damn thing written down.
When the country edition’s being flogged on the street
and the City’s being checked on the stone.
That old man who once interviewed princes and kings
is quietly drinking alone.

And he stands at the bar and remembers the time
when he was as good as the best.
In those days when his shorthand was clear-cut and plain
and he’d work twenty hours without rest.
In the days when his copy ran just as it stood
lead stories and bylines galore.
The first with the angles, the first to the phone
the first with his foot in the door.

If he had only licked more arses and got drunk with the boss
God knows where he might have been today.
Not manning the doomwatch at the dead of the night
and curing the shakes half the day.
He had died on the day that his shorthand broke down
from too long pushing pen , soul and mind.
And they’ll bury his body along with his pride
in six lonely lines on page nine.

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When Daddy went to Heaven

The day my Father went to Heaven : Heaven went to Hell
For no sooner had the Mass been said and we rang the funeral bell
Than the rows and ructions all broke out and Paradise was lost
And the Father, Son and Holy Ghost began to count the cost.

I’m told the troubles first began when he reached the Pearly Gate
And began blackguarding Peter ‘cause he dared to make him wait.
When Peter pulled the ledger out that listed Daddy’s sins
My father swore t’ was all damn lies and could not refer to him.

He refused to hear another word, he said that dying made him tired
Then put his shoulder to the door and brushed the Saint aside.
He marched through the Gates of Heaven like it was his private club
And asked a passing angel for directions to the pub.

He lost the head entirely when someone handed him a harp
And told him reels and jigs were out and on the hymns to make a start
For Daddy would have none of that, his language turned obscene
He tuned it like a fiddle and played “Revenge for Skibbereen”

He ordered Padre Pio to go and buy him twenty fags
And suggested John The Baptist should go and fetch his bags
Blessed Michael the Archangel was alerted by the shouts
And dispatched the Angel Gabriel to sort my father out.

It proved a most unequal match poor old Gaby failed the task
For Daddy fractured both his wings and kicked him up the arse.
He left the Prophets at a loss when he called them dirty pups
And went looking for Jim Larkin to start a union up.

Before long the choirs of angels were at each others’ throats
Because Me Da demanded equal rights and one angel one vote
And the saintliest of saintly saints were somewhat at a loss
When Daddy called them losers and marched off to see the Boss.

He bumped into Michael Collins, there arose a big to do
O’er the signing of the Treaty in 1922.
Next he met with DeValera and he shook him by the hand
And told him he was proud to make him Second in Command.

When they reached God’s private quarters, an angel barred the gate
But me Da and DeValera they didn’t hesitate.
DeValera kicked him in the balls and poked him in the eye
My Father grabbed him by the wings and made the feathers fly.

God was chatting to His young lad when the pair of them burst in
They had been talking of the drastic fall in the numbers coming in.
DeValera roared for whiskey: My Father called for stout
And they told the Holy Trinity it was time to sort things out.

The Almighty quickly crumbled when confronted by the pair
He agreed He’d welcome some time off and would take it then and there
To hand o’er the reins of Heaven he confessed was a relief
And for the moment Heaven would be run by Daddy and the Chief.

Sometimes in Glorious sunsets I hear a ghostly fiddle play
And the thought slips through my mind it must be Daddy’s turn today
But until the time we meet again, I pray with all my soul
That God’s regained the upper hand and has taken back control.
The day my Father went to Heaven : Heaven went to Hell
For no sooner had the Mass been said and we rang the funeral bell
Than the rows and ructions all broke out and Paradise was lost
And the Father, Son and Holy Ghost began to count the cost.

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Footprints of John B

 

Lambeg Drummer

I met her on a far Greek isle,
our accents Irish, a glance, a smile.
This girl I could not love at home
I loved in Greece and later, Rome.
All through France and the dust of Spain,
Christ I’ll never love like that again.
All through that long grape-picking summer.
Now she’s the wife of a Lambeg Drummer.

She touched my cheek in Brittany
what a shame you’re Mick, not Sam, said she
or Stewart, Cecil, Ian or Rob,
Billy, Ivan, Jack or Bob.
You’re locked inside some Celtic dream
you long for things that might have been
but let’s not waste what’s left of summer
before I wed my Lambeg Drummer.

Sometimes I’d watch her while she’d sleep
from firelight soft to shadow deep
and wonder how a Cupid’s dart
must miss the head to wound the heart.
And I knew it all too soon would end
two hearts not lost, just out on lend.
And one day I’d reclaim mine from her
and set her’s free, for her Lambeg Drummer.

We wandered a deserted beach
though I held her hand she was out of reach.
Side by side but both alone
as we thought about the news from home.
Then I knew ‘twas time for letting go
of this sweet and most beloved foe
for her ears were tuned to a tribal thunder
that called her home to her Lambeg Drummer.

In a drab Dutch town we said goodbye
I had to hitch, she chose to fly.
It was only as she turned to go
I told her what she had to know.
That had she been Mary, Breege or Kate
we’d have walked together through the airport gate
And I’d never more be parted from her
by time or tide or a Lambeg Drummer.

I watched the Orange Twelfth parade
I was half impressed and half dismayed
and there I saw the girl I loved
all hatted, sashed, bemedalled, gloved.
As lovely as she’d ever been
when she was Orange and I was Green
and her love outblazed a Spanish summer
that’s squandered now on a Lambeg Drummer.

And had she been Mary Breege or Kate
we’d have walked together out the airport gate
And I’d never more be parted from her
by time or tide or a Lambeg Drummer.

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Maggie Johnson

Five years ago on Friday last, old Maggie Johnston rose
and it took three-quarters of an hour to put on her Sunday clothes.
There was no need to light the fire as was her usual way
for this, the best day of the week was Maggie’s pension day.

And it’s little things that mean a lot, when you’re 80, life’s like that
with just a cat for company in a Corporation flat.
And the flight of stairs you have to climb isn’t that high anyway
when you can walk and meet and talk on Friday pension day.

The young thugs jumped on Maggie as she stopped to cross the street
for old folk are easy pickings, they’re feeble and they’re weak.
Her faded leather handbag held her purse and twenty pounds
and was ripped from Maggie’s fingers as she lay there on the ground.
As tears of rage and terror flooded Maggie’s age-dimmed eyes
there was no-one stopped to help her or heed her feeble cries.
And it wasn’t just her money that the muggers took away
but Maggie’s pride and love of life on Friday, pension day.

Now from that day five years ago Maggie Johnston lives in fear
and she stares from her barred windows when strangers venture near.
And Friday is the only time she goes outside the door
only hunger can cause Maggie to go walking anymore.
For Maggie sees the shadows in the sunshine on the street
and Maggie knows the bitterness of old age and defeat.
For Maggie’s independence was the price she had to pay
Another inner city victim one Friday pension day.

Five years ago on Friday last, Old Maggie Johnston rose............

 

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Old Wooden Boats

I steered my boat to the pier at Dingle
There I met an old man long home from the sea.
He caught my rope and with eyes sun-crinkled
he looked first at my boat and then at me.

And he told me “Son, I’ve fished these waters
for 80-years or more both man and boy.
And I was brave , but you’re much bolder
to dare to go to sea in that rich man’s toy.

Because that boat you stake your life on
it’s fibreglass and plastic stem to stern.
It bears the beaten soul of its’ factory builder
for it’s never known the love of a craftsman’s hand.

chorus
But old wooden boats scold like old mothers
when you drive them through a west of Ireland sea.
Old wooden boats are like no other
for they fight for the lives of fools like you and me.

He said oaken planks will groan and whimper
and will warn you when its time to feel afraid.
While a plastic hull will crack and splinter
and with no warning sweep you to an early grave.

And when the Northern Star leans on your shoulder
and it’s icy anger builds a troubled sea.
Then put your faith in God Almighty
and in the secrets that the winds once told the trees”.

I caught the tide in early morning
In the dawn I watched the Blaskets fall astern
and the wind recalled the old man’s warning
and it asked me “had I listened, had I learned”?
(chorus)

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Peter Pan and Me

We knew we faced the power that comes from money
When we marched against the Empire’s mighty schemes
They were armed with special powers and legislation
While we were armed with youth and foolish dreams
But it seemed so right in Derry all that summer
When we took them on and built our barricades
We were an army dressed in faded jeans and sandals
Too young and full of pride to feel afraid
And we believed in things like justice, truth and freedom
And we believed we had a right to liberty
And we believed that we could build a new tomorrow
That’s how it seemed to Peter Pan and Me.

But we soon learned the truth of street rebellion
As that city crumbled ‘round us, stone by stone,
Betrayed by those who promised they would help us
Against tanks and troops and guns we stood alone,
For revolution is no game for foolish dreamers
For dreamers never know the price that must be paid
And before long we learned all power comes from a rifle
And we learned to bleed and die and be afraid
And soon no one cared for justice truth and freedom
And soon no one gave one damn for liberty
For all we hoped was that we might go on surviving.
We grew up fast young Peter Pan and Me.

Then the Empire dealt us death and fear and prison
There’s no mercy from that military machine
So our street kids swopped their faded jeans and sandals
For hoods and guns with loaded magazines
And the years have wrought their cruel retribution
And our brothers and our sisters bear the pain
As each side tries for its military solution
And the politicians play their murderous games
And among the dead lie justice, truth and freedom
And among the dead lie hope and liberty
So if you care enough to mourn brave new tomorrows
Pull up a chair, join Peter Pan and Me.

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The First Good Friday

Sunlight claws a far horizon
bleeding, burning, blazing blinding
the darkness melts in a burst of crimson flame.
Sunlight pours down on the trees
and drips like honey through the leaves
on two countrymen met on a dusty lane.

Hello Daniel, you’re out bright and early
and by your clothes I’d say its fairly
safe to say you’re heading for the town.
Aye last night I heard the whole sad story
of what’s befallen Joe and Mary
and I thought it only right to rally round.

I hear they didn’t bring the body home
to bury him here with their own
some people say big Joe was too ashamed.
And herself, I hear, took it so bad
that she hasn’t spoke a single word
she’s just sitting there and whispering his name.

Sure ‘twas her that filled the young lad’s head
with things she heard and stuff she read
‘tis said ’twas that that drove the lad astray.
Aye when you’re not content with what you have
its easy to go to the bad
not like your young lad like all the neighbours say.

They’re not all as smart as our young Judas
he’s the sharpest, he’s the shrewdest
a perfect son, our constant pride and joy.
He’s got so much money stays out so late
now that he’s working for the State
That’s Judas, That’s My Boy.

Joe’s young lad really knew his craft
his joinery was a work of art
I’d say he was gifted with his father’s hands.
There was a lot of her in him as well
and she seemed to have him in her spell
as she sat there smiling, making all her plans.

Mind you he was the lad could shoe a cart
before he had to get too smart
and went mingling with the rabble in the town.
Aye and he mixed with whores and pimps and thieves
and mad prophets and their crazy priests
not like your young lad, he’d never let you down.

Well, I’ll let you be upon your way
I’ve caused you far too much delay
and at this time of year theres so much work to do.
I suppose my calling means no more
than to tell them that’s what friends are for
and I’ll let them know that you’ll be calling too.

When the evening sun goes down
I’ll dress myself and I’ll go to town
and I’ll say how much I’m sorry to big Joe.
And I’ll try not to look into his eyes
or listen to the mother’s cries
as I lift the latch and out the door I go.

Sunrise claws a far horizon
bleeding, burning, blazing blinding
the darkness melts in a burst of crimson flame.
Sunlight pours down on the trees
and drips like honey through the leaves
on two countrymen met on a dusty lane.

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The Little Drummer Boy

I’m the Minister for Justice in a proud divided land
I’m surrounded by rebellion, discontent on every hand.
You can see it in men’s faces as they draw their weekly dole
with their eyes as bleak as bullets and black murder in their soul.

(chorus)

So it’s time to blind the ferryman and break the piper’s hands
and lock up all the singers that the people understand
for there’s a dangerous wind a blowing through this sad divided land
It’s time to kill the little Drummer Boy.

For the poets and the singers are like the drummer boys of yore
they’re the ones help raise the banners and lead foolish men to war.
Little boys in scarlet uniforms who keep the troops in step
up to the muzzles of the cannon on that one way walk to death.

It doesn’t matter whose in power at any given time
if you want freedom and democracy, you have to toe the line.
The poor are always with us, upon that we’re all agreed
and the sooner they realise it then the happier they’ll be.

So I’m theMinister for Justice in a proud divided land
I’m surrounded by rebellion, discontent on every hand.
I’ll have to bring in stricter laws, I’ll have to make it wrong
to forge rebellion in poetry and weaponry in song.

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The Man who Drank the Farm

My Uncle Peter rolled his eyes and gave out a mighty roar.
He grasped his chest, he gasped for breath and he fell dead on the floor.
Then later, when the will was read, the family was alarmed
For Uncle Peter left to me his house and farm of land.

Now I was never into farming much, to the soil I don’t belong.
I much prefer the public house with the wimmin, wine and song.
That’s why the neighbours point at me and say behind their hands.
“Sure yonder goes Mad Mickey, he’s the man who drank the farm.

And first I drank the bottom field and then I drank the bog.
Forty little black faced ewes and Shep the collie dog.
The cattle in the byre, the bonhams and the sow
Now I’ve finished with the harrow and I’m starting on the plough

Now Hector was the Bantam cock and he was the first to go.
For long before the crack of dawn he’d stick up his beak and crow.
A neighbour woman up the road admired him in the yard.
So two pounds fifty later and bould Hector got his cards.

Now the hens got agitated after Hector went away
And their beady eyes suggested their suspicions of foul play.
I looked up the Yellow Pages, a pheasant plucker said he’d buy
That night in Biddy Mulligan’s, boys I made the feathers fly.

Then a few old friends invited me to a soccer match in Spain.
So a load of bullocks later and I climbed aboard the plane.
I must have took the long way home for I wakened up in Greece
Where I found that bed and breakfast cost me cutlets, chops and fleece.

Mind you sheep are awful awkward yokes, for when they choose to graze
They insist on climbing to the tops of mountains, hills and braes.
When I heard that the All-Ireland was being held in Ballina
Without the slightest hesitation, I flogged the flock to fund the Fleadh

Now the bank is getting nasty and they say they’ll take no more
And have started pinning statements with sharp daggers to the door.
They say when they come round again, they’ll bring the bailiffs in
So it looks as if I’m facing Ruination Once Again.

Ruination Once Again
Ruination Once Again
Without another load of bullocks, it’s Ruination Once Again.

Now things are getting desperate cause theres nothing left to sell
But to my joy I hear that Uncle Pat is quite unwell.
I think I’’ call to see him with strong drink to ease his pain
And if Lady Luck smiles down on me, I’m in business once again

So first I’ll drink his bottom field and then I’ll drink his bog
His forty little black faced ewes and his little hairy dog.
The cattle in his byre, his bonhams and his sow
For I will and I must get plastered for the humour is on me now

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The Politician Song

For twenty frantic fruitless years I worked in Dublin Town
Reporting for newspapers, I was busy writing down
All the words of politicians in my endless quest for truth
T’was at such a wasted exercise I squandered all my youth.
That’s the cause of my misfortune, as I’ll explain to you
For I find myself no talking like politicians do
So if somebody should ask me “Do I take sugar in my tae”?
I grasp them warmly by the hand and this is what I say.

(chorus)

Well I’m very glad you asked me that for at this point in time
In the circumstances that exist there is in the pipeline
Infrastructural implications interfaced with lines of thought
Which lead to grassroots viabilities which at this point I’d rather not
Enunciate in ambiguities but rather seek to find
Negotiated compromises which are the bottom line
For full and frank discussions which could serve to integrate
With basic fundamental principles to which we all relate
Not in doctrinaire philosophy which any fool can see
In inescapable hypothesis confronting you and me
But in the interests of the common good then you need never fear
For I have the matter well in hand and I’m glad I made things clear.

Now as you can imagine this has greatly changed my life
And example was the fateful day on which I wed my wife
All went well until the moment the priest asked me with a smile
“Do you take this woman for your wife”? and swiftly I replied.

(chorus)

Now I’m lying on my deathbed and I’m filled with mortal dread
For I know that very shortly I will certainly be dead
And when Saint Peter asks me do I want to come on in
I’m sure to face damnation for I know I’ll say to him.

(chorus) TOP

The Prince of The Dark

The day that they tore the old cinema down
Was the day my world came to an end.
When the bosses decided I’d screened my last reel
And I no longer mattered to them.
But I once was important to the badly dressed wives
And their badly broken down world-weary men
Who hid from their lives in my Palace of Dreams
From eight until twenty past ten.

(chorus)

But I helped them escape from their world for a moment
I made them forget who they were.
In twenty-four fairytale frames every second
With Garbo and Hedy Lemar
In twenty-four fairytale frames every second
With Garbo and Hedy Lemar.

As the sprockets were driving the film through the gate
And the take-up reel started to whirl
All their worries and cares were erased for a while
By my Hollywood Fairytale worlds
As I tended the twin Bell and Howell projectors
Adjusting the carbon rod arc
In my Kingdom on high over circle and stalls
I ruled as the Prince of the Dark.
(2)

(chorus)

The day that they tore the old cinema down
Was the first and the last time I cried.
For the only stars left were the ones in the sky
As my Wonderland withered and died.

But I helped them escape from their world for a moment
I made them forget who they were
In twenty-four fairytale frames every second
With Garbo and Hedy Lemar
In twenty-four fairytale frames every second
With Garbo and Hedy Lemar.

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Xanadu

(The Alzheimer’s song)

Down in the caverns measureless to man beside the sunless sea
In the legions of the lost and found it’s there I’ll likely be.
Won’t you tell the Gentle Lady with the tragic haunted eyes
I’ll see her in the common room if she’ll promise not to cry.

My Guardian Angel wakes me up with a morning cup of tea
My angel’s name is Mary…or maybe its Marie
Or maybe…wait a minute…what am I trying to say?
My mind seems to be wandering quite a lot these last few days.

But the Gentle Lady visits me at least three hours a day
And she seems so lost and lonely it’s only kind to let her stay
And because she seems bewildered and so badly needs a friend
I just sorta go along with her as she sits there and pretends.

And to light the lanterns in her eyes and keep at bay the tears
We pretend that we were married the best part of forty years,
And we pretend I built a house for her on a hill above the sea
Where we’d sit outside at sunset – herself, the kids and me.

And we pretend that I was clever, we pretend that I was strong
And though I made a lot of money yet I still knew right from wrong.
But sometimes glancing in her eyes as we play her foolish game
I catch echoes of a time and place and of something I can’t name.

There was a man at our Christmas Party and he played the violin
And my fingers started trembling – you know it was the strangest thing
For there was something in his music that swept me far away
To a far off distant time and place in another world and day.

Was it somewhere that I used to go before it slipped away
That warm spider web of safe old friends who’d sing and talk and play
And the ghostly faces flame and burn and flicker in my head
Till the Guardian Angel breaks the spell when she says “It’s time for bed”.

I’ve got some important things to do, what they are I can’t recall
But I think I’d like to be alone if you don’t mind at all.
For when I weep from not remembering no matter how I try
I just sit out in the Garden Room and watch the clouds go by.

Down in the caverns measureless to man beside the sunless sea
In the legions of the Walking Dead it’s there I’ll likely be.
Won’t you tell the Gentle Lady with the tragic haunted eyes
I’ll see her in the Garden Room and we’ll watch the clouds go by.

 

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