When Paddy first played the pipes for me
I was transported back to ’68,
To a Skibbereen bar on a Saturday night
Where songs were sung of rebels’ fate.
Sixteen years old with fresh shaven head,
Rarely to be cut for five more years,
Heedless of the history of my hosts,
Oblivious of their eight centuries’ tears.
My first bitter pint of porter downed
And just as rapidly brought up again,
But my Irish roots were now confirmed,
From Tipperary via Hounslow I came.
And then a father staggering to his feet
In answer to the locals’ “your turn” shout,
Sang “My old woman and ‘er seven kids
Were a pickin’ all the big ones out”.
Instant celebrities we had become
Through this doggerel of a cockney lass,
Free drinks proffered and prolonged applause
And talk of the church next morn at Mass.
Vouchsafed the keys to Mrs McCarthy’s pub,
On fishing boats in cold Atlantic waters taken
To catch a multitude of mackerel and skate,
All these did my Irish heritage awaken.
When Paddy first played the pipes for me
I was transported back to ’68
To a Skibbereen bar on a Saturday night
Where songs were sung of rebels’ fate.
Tony Quarrington 