My mother loved her poetry
That’s where I get my rhyme
Funny how these facets get passed down
From a little school in Mayo
Far from the madding crowd
Her versifying could go on and on
She read Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare
And poetry by the yard
Dawn on the Hills of Ireland was a turn
And tales of Brian of Bamber
Were recited just for you
If I didn’t fall asleep they’d last till dawn
She had an undulation in her voice
We children used to mimic it so cruel
She couldn’t hold a note or sing a song
But she loved music
Brought records home from Ireland all along
And I grew up hearing Irish music play
Not Uilleann pipes but many a mournful lay
The songs of emigration and return
Of love long lost of memory to burn
Of raindrops falling on a window pane
The road by the river
Where you and I will never come again
Before I learned the words I knew the tune
The melody was anchored I could sing
Yes that’s a lovely song my mother said to me
As I was asking isn’t that ‘doadly shing’
So writing now these verses no surprise
Been lying dormant since that first sunrise
I have the melancholy gene in me
I am happy being miserable you see
Not really now I only jest and joke
I really like to write this trade to ply
If I can touch a feeling
If I can send you reeling
It’s because I like a really good good cry
Brian Fahy
8 April 2021
As a very young child I heard mammy’s records and sang their tunes with my own wordless words, and eager for approval (I haven’t changed) I would earnestly ask my mammy didn’t I sing well, or as I put it ‘doadly shing” – lovely song mammy?
Yes, Brian, that was doadly shing. Ever after in later life if I did something and looked to my mother for a response she would just say doadly shing.
Erris Poetry 