I was too young to remember the day
when I first met Molly Malone,
that mile and a half of dark brook street
running to my home
That river is a constant,
never changing from wide and narrow,
‘Tween Queens and Drumbeg she twists and turns,
wheeling toward the barrow.
In the eve she rages a torrent,
at noon she is mild.
Her muscles that flexed to speed their way,
relax to coddle the child.
Has she always been a refuge?
In Belfast, fair city of war?
This night street is quiet now.
Was it ever Loughinisland, of 1994?
Why name her for a *****
Compare the parallels
how the masses crowd and cram.
Only children follow her,
Maigh Lón, the plain of the lamb.
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 11:26 PM UTC
I was too young to remember the day
when I first met Molly Malone,
that mile and a half of dark brook street
running to my home
That river is a constant,
never changing from wide and narrow,
‘Tween Queens and Drumbeg she twists and turns,
wheeling toward the barrow.
In the eve she rages a torrent,
at noon she is mild.
Her muscles that flexed to speed their way,
relax to coddle the child.
Has she always been a refuge?
In Belfast, fair city of war?
This night street is quiet now.
Was it ever Loughinisland, of 1994?
Why name her for a *****
Compare the parallels
how the masses crowd and cram.
Only children follow her,
Maigh Lón, the plain of the lamb.
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