I heard this story ó mo athair,
(if you haven't Gaelic it dosen't matter)
This rural Ireland tragic tale
Narrates a sad seductive scéal
Concerning lust without discretion
Agus beagnach rudaí eile freisin.
Uair amháin - fadó, fadó,
On a little farm near Carraroe,
Lived buachaill maith named Mícheál mór.
An only son of thirty four.
When work was done at end of day
He'd settledown with cupán tae
And seldom felt the call to stroll
Or spend the evening time ag ól,
His intellectual needs were drawn
>From books like Peig and Iosagán.
And so it was bliain in, bliain out
Our Mícheál hadn't moved about.
He dreamt of cailíns - most men do-
But never sinned, an dtuigeann tú ?
Meanwhile - up in Átha Cliath -
a cailín deas had a bright idea
When laethanta saoire time came by
decided she would like to try
áit beag, ciúin, like Carraroe.
No foreign food - not far to go
and there to meet the native clan
Agus b'fhéidir, find herself a man.
This cailín deas with eyes so blue
Was known in town as City Sue.
The lusty buachaillí came crawling
And all agreed she was go h-álainn.
She left her men in state of shock
Oh Mícheál Mór - bí cúramach !
This scarlet woman knows each trick
She's heading west - beware a mhic !
The lights shone in the Parish Hall
For the local Fáinne-wearers Ball.
Bhí Mícheál ann..... Bhí Susie ann....
Dressed in a most seductive gown.
Our brave Cuchulainn of the West
His hurling medals across his chest
Exclaimed - when City Sue came in;
"In ainm Dé ! - well féach ar sin !"
Though nervous - still - he took a chance
"Céad Míle Fáilte - will you dance ?"
Go luath, on the floor they strut
Cheek to cheek - from mouth to foot.
She whispered into Mícheál's ear:
"Éist liom now, let's disappear,
We'll use my place, - the door's unlocked,
You'll stay the night - Seomra a h-ocht".
Chríost ! Mícheál's ceann was in a spin,
Ní raibh se thinking thoughts mar sin !
He blessed himself - this Jezebel
Would surely damn his soul to Hell.
He stood aghast - could hardly stutter
So off he bolted - ar a rothar
And straight abhaile - into bed
Decades of the rosary said.
Mícheál Mór still sleeps alone
In his leaba bheag - Ochón Ochón !
He often dreams of Seomra a h-ocht ....
What might have been, Oh Mícheál bocht !