It's so odd how one day the Makem Brothers can sound lachrymose, gluttonously sweet, and Mr. Rogers simple. And the next I can’t get enough of them. I’ve played the cd twice and it strikes some primeval nerve. I can feel again the magic in the strumming of the bodhran - somebody call the Cheiftains!
I'm homesick for Ireland so play me nothing but songs of Eire. I miss the old sod and old poems and the hint of sea dust in the air. I miss the medieval maps with the crypto-familiar names; Connaught, Mayo, Donnegal, Slivo. I hunger for a bit of the west wind's spray against my face, the froth of salt sea against my neck, the rush of white sail flying over the rhythmic blue.
Cén t-ainm atá ort
Oh sean behean-bhoct!
lined with your ancient names
sing, you creasing Shannon,
you weather-beaten land
flood me with your Inis’s
hide me in your Croagh’s
your Ard Mor’s
and your Eochaill’s,
find me in your Loch’s.
Flee back to thee,
Tongue, sound the ancient chord!
Tá mé i mo chónaí i
Bíonn gach duine go lách
go dtéann bó ina gharraí
An dtuigeann tú?
Is dóigh liom
Buíochas le Dia!
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