"and the boys from the NYPD choir were

singing Galway Bay. . ."

version one. . .

version two:

If you ever go across the sea to Ireland,
Then maybe at the closin' of your day
You will sit and watch the moon rise over Claddagh
And see the sun go down on Galway Bay.

Just to hear again the ripple of the trout stream
And the women in the meadows making hay,
To sit beside the turf fire in the cabin
And watch the barefoot gossoons at their play.

For the breezes blowin' across the sea from Ireland
Are perfumed by the heather as they blow.
And the women in the upland diggin' praties
Speak a language that the strangers do not know.

For the strangers came and tried to teach us their way.
They scorned us just for bein' what we are.
But they might as well go chasin' after moon beams
Or light a penny candle from a star.

And if there's to be a life in the hereafter
- And somehow I'm sure there's going to be -
I will ask my God to let me make my heaven,
In that dear land across the Irish sea.

there isn't actually an NYPD choir, they're a pipe band and you can catch up with them tomorrow here


Mel said...

I'll take the first version, thanks. Gosh, that was beautiful.

Though, I do appreciate Bing's version....sorta...
There's just no comparison, yaknow?

NOW I'll go open my window/door and see what goodies await me on the Advent Calendar! :-)

zIggI said...

That Bing Scurra could crone couldn't he!