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.”