The neighbors met in each others houses, to visit for a while
Every house had its turn for maybe five or so mile,
Some houses had batter catering, some no welcome at the door,
The less of the latter visitors found, they’d be sure to visit more.
There was one old wicked woman, who of her visitors would be sick,
Out dogs and more along with ye, shed roar, and wave a stick
He loyal dogs in fear for life, from her door would flee,
But her friends being friends stayed put, and watched her glower, with childish glee.
Such a house was ours, in Longford once upon a time,
When a complaint about a bodhran, led to a horrific crime…
A slaughter of an innocent, about which few men have wrote,
And one neighbour went to his grave, wondering what happened to his goat.
My father played the bodhran, he played it well enough,
It was his party piece, as his singing it was rough,
But a neighbour had for everything, the remark, quiet put down
Complained the bodhran was past its date – my father started to frown,
So he and a few other of the Good boys resolved to get even if they can
And bring his crashing down to earth, who knew all of every man,
At least according to himself, he to all declared,
As other muttered beneath their breath, and more in silent rage stared.
The neighbour, he had a goat, it was his pride and joy,
A fact known by all around, by every girl and boy,
He had no bodhran of his own, and barely one could play,
And became the butt of a cruel joke, from my father that fateful day.
It was hatched in a local bar, after one nights resolve,
That this mans arrogance about bad bodhrans was a problem they would solve,
So they made a bodhran, and they tested it, did they both…
It played well – the truth lets tell – it should, being the skin of the neighbours goat!
Well, the session that night started, in our home in Aughagreagh,
Folk invited all around, the new bodhran to be heard play,
Our tragic neightbour came to call, the bodhran invited for to try,
He declared it a wonder of bodhrans, and a tear in his eye,
For his goat was missing, which in his field had been,
He inquired of reliable neighbours, if any his goat had seen,
And all said nay, though it was a lie, about it they would not worry,
As the smell of the fresh goatskin undried made many leave in a hurry!
He went to his grave, did that old man, not knowing his goats fate,
Mirth and merry telling went with the retelling of the story great,
In bars and homes the length of the land, and I’m telling it here yet,
And will tell the tale for years to come, or to do so I am set,
For that’s what makes the Irish, the jovial people we are,
Begrudgery is a quirk of ours that gave us drive to go far,
And trickery of a jovial sort, to take another down a peg,
Is a national sport and talent that we call pulling ones leg.
Nyeucks and cnats, and blackguards, different names we call,
The quick witted and sharp tongued who in their own time fall
Victim to another who on them a prank will pull,
Such makes life more bearable, which can be sometimes dull.
With all our progress and modernization, this fun spirit we have lost,
As we ape outsiders, and our culture to history have tossed,
I hope when they met in heaven, he forgave, and all was well,
I hope the same if all found themselves at a Ceilidh at the bowels of Hell!