Lilting of Kildare, Cork or Kilarney,
She says to lie oh so still oh;
(still as death, glad as a babe, o lucky me)
Hugs my face to her bosom tightly
As she drags a sensor firm and slow
Across my chest to sound and chart
A derelict heart full fathom five below.
Even my mother’s tired sighs
Can be heard down there still,
As she grudges a life to her son;
No, there are no lullabies;
A child herself, she never sang.
Now, all I desire is this Irish rose to sing —
By the Rising of the Moon, O Danny Boy,
Cole Porter, an ad jingle, any damned thing!
Your smile, your voice could forever cure this heart
but as you leave, I can only say, “Erin go bragh.”