RatcheD


I know that road, I know it well,
Their well-worn ways — the heart can tell. 
Each ditch and those small fields they border
Last of an ancient, dying order.

At Barnathasona where they camp,
Those winter fields that hugged the damp, 
An ancient place na Déisi tramped; 
That hard road where god’s people camped.

Chorus
Though long the roads and chill the air,
They made the rounds to each horse fair,
With tin they fashioned vessels, round;
The famished grass their asses found.
Their song, their music, stirred each heart,
Although they stood among, apart;
They gave new music to each place,
Who soon forgot their song, their race.

And that old road it still abides,
Their voices in ghost winds still hide,
By that small ditch, their song still present —
Now a home to fox and pheasant.

Chorus
Though long the roads and chill the air,
They made the rounds to each horse fair,
With tin they fashioned vessels round;
The famished grass their asses found.
Their song, their music, stirred each heart,
Although they stood among, apart;
They gave new music to each place,
Who soon forgot their song, their race.

— Frank Callery.

Tinkers at Barr na Trasna

The Tinker’s Goat

The goat went before them along the highway,
She gave them the milk for the child and the tae,
She fed on sweet brambles, on ivy and thorn 
And rose and went with them when they left at dawn.

Each child knew her bleat and the warmth of her skin
And they heard the rhythm she carried within
When hunger came calling, they ate her sweet meat,
And then made a bodhrán they played on the street.

Chorus
Here’s to the nanny, the skin of the puck,
Who’ll foster your wants when you’re down on your luck,
Lie under the cart when the campfire is lit,
And fill your auld can from a life-giving tit.

When down the long pavement with purpose they went,
To fairs or to markets, where money is spent;
They went with their budget and their shining art,
While the nanny stayed home tied up to the cart.

There were cans to be made, and kettles to mend 
And music to give and songs they would lend
To those who would listen and those who had stepped 
To the rhythms they beat from a goat they once kept.

Chorus
So here’s to the nanny, the skin of the puck,
Who’ll foster your wants when you’re down on your luck,
Lie under the cart when the campfire is lit,
And fill your auld can from a life-giving tit.

On yesterday’s roads they were sure to be seen,
With the head in the ditch chewing anything green,
Goat face in the hedge, the horns and the smig,
Chewing the brambles, the bark of the twig.
 
But now they have gone, we’re the poorer for that:
The tinker’s auld goat who could chew your best hat;
Who wandered the byways to markets and fairs,
Like a difficult child with her graces and airs.

Chorus
So here’s to the nanny, the skin of the puck,
Who’ll foster your wants when you’re down on your luck,
Lie under the cart when the campfire is lit,
And fill your auld can from a life-giving tit.

— © Frank Callery.

The Tinker’s Goat

JUST MI ALL MI SINCE DAY ONE. 

HMU FOR A FREE BEAT.

New tracks tagged #TINKERS