The lingering sun spreads slanting rays On the sea behind Moveen, Whilst down by the shore the wavelets lap O’er the sands so smooth and clean. And in Kilkee Bay, as the evening falls, All alone with the friendly seals, Steve Carroll swims – giving a lesson to al – Showing a spirit that never yields. And soon we were driving in the gathering dusk, Through Thomond’s storied land; Then at last we reach Bunratty’s halls To relive its splendour grand. We have Miami’s sagart, Father “Franko”, Returned to bathe body and soul In the air of the land he was born in, Whence came the Faith to fulfil his priestly role. And then his brother, Dermie the Judge, ‘tis said he tempers Justice with Mercy. For me he is tops (sod the Pick of the Pops!) When he sings the songs of Percy. There also is Kitty, the judge’s gentle wife, So loving, so kind, so true, Quite nobly she moves by Bunratty’s groves In the spotlight’s golden hue. And her sister Nancy, who would charm the fancy Of any mortal man, With those winsome eyes and joie de vivre – Such beauty and such élan! Then, a stór mo ċroide, my own Maureen, Oh, how can I tell her true worth? I can only pray that each new day May bring more peace and joy to her heart. Also Sean Horan, that man of courtly grace And the easy way of singing With his charming Nora, no angel’s blend Could hardly match their voices ringing. The air seems pregnant with expectation Of the banquet and music to hear – Whilst the bagpipes echo by Owenegarney River, And around Cratloe Hill so near. Then with “Fáilte” we are greeted entering the Castle, Through the entrance hall so bright; But – m’anam ó’n Díabal – what do we see? And what? – do we hear aright? There are people here from many climes – We hear – “swell, honey!” and “such a wonderful sight!” There is laughter and excitement, Such a buzz! And then “Gee, this is some night!” We view the Great Hall and the Chapel too, Where a Papal Nuncio prayed In bygone days that Bunratty’s flame Would never droop or fade. Then the history we hear recited is strong, With meat a plenty on the bone, Through this rhymer might have added to it a few chapters of his own. And now we are seated at the Earl’s table, ‘midst splendour and revelry’ ‘tis a “Súgán Earl – sure to hear him speak, you’d know he’s from Milwaukee. But ‘tis only fun and he’s welcome too To his short-lived noble station; It’s the blood that counts, when all’s said and done’ But he’d surely need a transfusion! And the meal goes on, as in days of yore And the songs and the jests ring true. Such a pleasure to hear such voices blend With the harpists chords so pure. Ah! The country that treasures its song and harp Can never lose its soul! And whilst Irish hearts can sing like this – Let the world have rock and roll. But ‘tis only in Heaven that bliss can last For every single hour, Finally the Banquet’s ended – meal, mead, music and song- All too soon we must leave our tower. We leave the Castle, cross the drawbridge, Then find our feet on earth, With sweet echoes ringing in our heads Of music, song and mirth! ‘Though those echoes may grow fainter with the passing of the years, yet, how could anyone e’er forget this night of joy and cheer. Too soon it’s over, but the mood for song Simply cannot be quenched, So we go next door to Durty Nellie’s Pub Where many good nights we’ve spent. There once I listened to some cailín sing Jimín mo mhíle stóir; Whilst by the hearth, a returned exile’s tears Dropped to the flagstone floor. But what’s the score tonight, my lads? - no drink! The bar is closed! For a bodach now owns Nellie’s Pub And he a not so obliging bloke! “But yes, one drink for you and your party which seems to be quite exalted”. “Thanks, my good man, now what’s your name?” asks the Sagart in tones civil and undaunted. ‘Tis plain you’re not from here, but we’ll forgive you that, for time will change you and when moisturised, of the clock you’ll give no warning – more Irish than the Irish then, you’ll bid us stay ‘til morning”. Then later outside of Durty Nellies’ A gathering crowd was humming, Whilst someone with a steel guitar Its sweetest tones was strumming. He looked the part, this troubadour, With beard and tight-legged trews, As his fingers kissed the keyboard Whilst he lilted Roisín Dubh. We applauded then and the sagart asked In a friendly, kindly voice “would you please sing Jimín Mo Mhíle Stóir?” - the troubadour froze like ice. “Then maybe as a last request you’ll sing this song for me”, “It is Seán Ó Duibhir a’ Gleanna”. But oh no – not he! It seems he was a “one song” man, For meekly he did say: “I know not those, but if you will sing I certainly will play”. ‘twas then the strong clear tenor notes of Father “Franko” filled the air. A hush fell over the gathering then, For here was a voice forsooth, Developed in his early years As First Chanter in Maynooth. And he hardly ever could have sung so well – For all of the Church’s claim – As when he sang “Seán Ó Duibhir a’ Gleanna, Tá tú gan geím”. Then when those last soft mellow notes Had quietly died away - No sign of the erstwhile troubadour – He simply did not stay. But ere we left for Kilkee that night, Here beside the Castle tall, Another Dunleavy’s voice is heard, In answer to a brother’s call. And it’s “Dermie’s” to stir the hearts of everybody there And we chorus to the last, As he gives the best, as always, When he sings The Parting Glass. Mo bhrón, mo bhrón! Must time still go? Can it’s seconds be stalled never? For it’s then I would have stopped the hands of time Prolonged those golden hours forever.