Anno Domini nostri sancti Jesu Christi
Nine hundred and ninetynine million pound sterling in the blueblack
bowels of the bank of Ulster.
Braw bawbees and good gold pounds, galore, my girleen, a Sunday'll
prank thee finely.
And no damn loutll come courting thee or by the mother of the Holy
Ghost there'll be murder!
O, come all ye sweet nymphs of Dingle beach to cheer Brinabride
queen from Sybil surfriding
In her curragh of shells of daughter of pearl and her silverymonnblue
mantle round her.
Crown of the waters, brine on her brow, she'll dance them a jig and
jilt them fairly.
Yerra, why would she bide with Sig Sloomysides or the grogram grey
You won't need be lonesome, Lizzy my love, when your beau gets his
glut of cold meat and hot soldiering
Nor wake in winter, window machree, but snore sung in my old
Wisha, won't you agree now to take me from the middle, say, of
next week on, for the balance of my days, for nothing (what?)
as your own nursetender?
A power of highsteppers died game right enough — but who, acushla,
'll beg coppers for you?
I tossed that one long before anyone.
It was of a wet good Friday too she was ironing and, as I'm given
now to understand, she was always mad gone on me.
Grand goosegreasing we had entirely with an allnight eiderdown bed
picnic to follow.
By the cross of Cong, says she, rising up Saturday in the twilight
from under me, Mick, Nick the Maggot or whatever your name
is, you're the mose likable lad that's come my ways yet from the
barony of Bohermore.
Roger Doyle – composer, keyboardist and producer of own music, in concert and in the studio. Likes to work on large projects and to collaborate with others. Works with a multiplicity of musical languages and evolving technologies.