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Quarehawk
04:02
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Quarehawk:
I am the quarehawk,
I am the one whose head dances to a different beat
I am too straight for you not straight enough for you
I am part you but not with you
I am of you but i'm not like you
Your machismo choked me I was always on edge
I am the awkward, itching kid in the aran jumper,
I am the Irish kid doing that jiggy stuff
I am the English cousin doing the Irish stuff
I am the boy who could be a girl
I am that little boy who plays with dolls
I am that young man who had a crush on you
I am that young man you humiliated
I am big gay Mike, I heard you say it
I am the fluter who wants to play slow
I want to embrace you and say it'll be o.k.,
Find your own wild geese or other quarehawks like you
Though my wings are out stretched now and I can look you in the eye
my feathers remain ruffled
because I am a quarehawk.
Let them laugh all you like, go on have a gawk,
We'll choose my own wings whether fairy or hawk,
Because I was his quarehawk,
He made his own quarehawk
I made my own quarehawk
I am the quarehawk!
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3. |
The Shores of Lough Bran
05:40
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The Shores of Lough Bran.
Sit you down loyal comrades with me for a while
Till I spend my last hours round Erin’s green isle,
So, fill up your glasses and we’ll drink hand to hand
For tomorrow I’ll be leaving my home at Lough Bran.
Go brách brách ní shiúlfaidh mé timpeall Chnoc an Fhornocht
Nó fán sean mhuileann álainn, An aít úd gan locht
Nó fa na gleanntáin glas’ aoibhinn ar ghnách liom ‘bheith ann
‘baint sásaimh as a úlra ata fa chladach Loch Bran.
(Translation) No more will I wander round Farnaugh’s green hill
And the place I love fondest was the bound by the mill
And the green fertile valley where so oft times I ran
To inhale those fresh breezes round the shore of Lough Bran.
Los mios pas queden solos nun faen más que llorar,
cola murnia y les llárimes que-yos funden el coral.
Pero si pa ayudalos voi tener que colar
llueñe de la mio Erin y el verdor de Lough Bran.
(Translation) My father and mother you will now hear them cry
While the tears and bewailing shall moisten their brow
But I will assist them please God if I can
Far far from lovely Erin and the shores of Lough Bran
4. On the in-coming morning I will bid you adieu
From Leitrim, Drumshambo and sweet Carrick too
And no matter what fortunes I meet far away
My thoughts will be with you by night and by day
My thoughts will be with you while life hold’s span
Far far from Lovely Erin and the shores of Lough Bran.
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The Visitor for James Hugh Garry.
My father is with me, he visits me, calls to me from the dark.
Plays tricks, turning lights on and turning lights off, changing channels on TV.
Once, when I was sleeping, he shaved my eyebrow.
I could feel the warm water drips from his fingertips.
The soft, slow scraping blade, the dabbing of is off white handkerchief
And a kiss, a kiss so soft, it might never have happened.
My father was a fighter, hands like bricks, buckets for fists
Heart of fire, glowing golden, flowing and he loved the best he could.
For he knew little of love and hungered the most basic of things,
The very fundamentals, the glue that binds the heart and soul together.
But he did the best he could and I believe he loved.
My father was a dancer, feet like leaves on a breeze
He’d glide in and out and in and out and in and he stole the heart of my mother
with a single waltz.
Mesmerized her eyes and mind with a single dance and she swears she floated that night
just above the dance floor and by the look in her eyes when she told me,
she was probably right.
My father is with me, he visits me, he calls to me from the dark.
He plays tricks, turning lights on and turning lights off and changing channels on TV
And once when I was sleeping he shaved my eyebrow.
I could feel the warm water drips from his fingertips, the soft slow scraping blade
and the dabbing of his off-white handkerchief and a kiss so soft,
It might never have happened.
Copyright Michael Garry
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Come, me little son, and I will tell you what we’ll do:
Undress yourself and get into bed and a tale I’ll tell to you;
It’s all about your daddy, he’s a man you seldom see,
He’s had to roam, far away from home, away from you and me.
But remember lad, he’s still your dad though he’s working far away
In the cold and heat, eighty hours a week, on England’s motorway.
When you fall and hurt yourself and get up feeling bad,
It isn’t any use to go a-running for your dad,
For the only time since you was born he’s had to stay with you,
He was out of a job and we hadn’t a bob, he was signing on the broo.
But remember, lad, he’s still your dad and he really earns his pay,
Working day and night upon the site of England’s motorway.
Sure, we need your daddy here, sure it would be fine
To have him working nearer home and to see him all the time;
But beggars can’t be choosers and we have to bear our load,
For we need the money your daddy earns a-working on the road.
So remember, lad, he’s still your dad and he’ll soon be here to stay
For a week or two with me and you when he’s built the motorway.
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Michael Walsh Sheffield, UK
Manchester born, Sheffield based singer, fluter & poet. My music reflects growing up in the Irish community in Manchester my Yorkshire home & my love for the music of the Iberian peninsula. My flute playing is inspired by Irish traditional music from the west of Ireland. The album charts the last three years of my life. Celebration, loss, moving on & finding my own voice. ... more
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