The strains of Danny Boy
play shrill outside my window,
my mind fills with unbidden images
of sunlit glades and rocky, fissured shores,
the sounds of battle cries, thoughts of long-lost loves.
It must be in my blood,
this land my eyes have not yet seen
for whene’er I hear the bagpipes played
– a sound some cannot bear –
my heart is stirred and set afire.
I must needs travel one day hence
to survey those sweet heathered moors,
the deep dark lochs, the fertile glens,
the forests filled with fairy folk,
the haunted towered castles from antiquity.
My familial roots lie in this Celtic land
of fidelity, acceptance, inclusion,
morality, modesty, humour.
I’ve inherited their inner fire
that stirs when anyone is wronged.
the pipes, the pipes are calling me,
from glen to glen, and down the mountain side.
I bid you bide, ‘til I arrive
upon the ebbing tide.