A Little Pub in London

In a little pub in London, Moriarity drank his beer,
And recited wondrous stories of his exploits far & near,
“Sing an Irish Song” said Kelly, “best of order one & all”,
Moriarity sang for them – The Hills of Donegal.

There was cheering at the finish, they called, “Encore, Encore”.
Moriarity said, “Listen lads, I can’t sing anymore.”
He stood there sad & silent & gazed into is beer,
And in his eyes there glistened, the starting of the tear.

“Are you going home for Christmas?” the kindly barmaid said,
But Moriarity fixed his gaze on her & slowly shook his head,
“Sure I haven’t been to Ireland now for twenty years or more,
My Mother would hardly know me if I walked up to the door.

“I was born”, said Moriarity, “on an island off the West,
The last place God created & the first one that he blessed,
My Father, God be good to him, was drowned one woeful night,
My Mother left all lonesome, & myself to work & fight.”

“So with Donald Rua McCarthy & Michael Og O’Shea,
we came across to England to earn & honest pay,
I told my dear old Mother I’d soon be home again,
But the curse of drink came o’er me & enslaved me in its chain.

Sure I haven’t been to Ireland now for twenty years or more.
But I know she’s still there waiting for my footsteps at the door,”
Then someone started singin’ – See Amid the Winter Snow,
It was like an old bell ringin’ far away & long ago.

Moriarity stood there silent & pushed his glass away,
And made a solemn promise he’d go home for Christmas Day.
So he scraped up every penny he could get into his hand,
And coming up to Christmas he sailed for Ireland;.

His heart was filled with gladness he felt content at last,
As the train rolled through the midlands & brought him to the west,
In the village of Kinsheelan that night upon the shore.
Far across the deep blue waters, he saw his island home once more.

The stars they shone so brightly, how they glistened like a dome,
On that little whitewashed cottage, that was Moriarity’s home.
“Tis a grand night for the sailin'” said the boatman, Thomas Bawn,
But Moriarity didn’t know him he’d been away so long.

As he climbed into the baidin, the boatman heard him say,
“Thank God, Thank God in heaven, I’ll be home for Christmas Day,”
In a little room in London, in Moriarity’s poor abode,
On a table in the hallway a message lay untold.

And in it read, “Dear Danny, your poor Mother has passed away,
She’ll be buried in Kinsheelan after Mass on Christmas Day…”