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Here is Sunday’s early evening music & poetry programme ‘West Wind Blows’ with Kathleen Faherty. Broadcast Sunday the 28th Of July 2024 https://www.connemarafm.com/audio-page/
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Here is Sunday’s early evening music & poetry programme ‘West Wind Blows’ with Kathleen Faherty. Broadcast Sunday the 28th Of July 2024 https://www.connemarafm.com/audio-page/
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Here is Sunday’s early evening music & poetry programme ‘West Wind Blows’ with Kathleen Faherty. Broadcast Sunday the 28th Of July 2024 https://www.connemarafm.com/audio-page/
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This program is sponsored by Bounce Back Recycling, offering a sustainable way to dispose of old furniture and mattresses. The West Wind Blows is a weekly program of poetry, song, and story. The host, Kathleen Faherty, begins with a poem by WB Yeats called The Stolen Child. The poem reflects Yeats' love for Sligo and includes descriptions of the scenic places there. The program also features a poem by Antony Cronin called The Lovers, which explores the complexities of love and relationships. Additionally, there is a lighthearted poem called Please Mrs. Butler by Alan Alberg, and songs by Roy Orbison and John Martin. The program ends with a story called My Mother's Daughter by Ivy Bannister. This program is kindly sponsored by Bounce Back Recycling. Say goodbye to your old furniture and mattress in an affordable, convenient and sustainable way. Call 091-760-877. Hello again and welcome to the West Wind Blows, a weekly program of poetry, song and story. My name is Kathleen Faherty and Bridie Cashin is producer and technician for the program. So we'll begin the program with a poem by WB Yeats, The Stolen Child. This poem was written in 1886 when Yeats was only 21. In this poem he's remembering his beloved Sligo and naming local scenic places there, as in, where dips the leafy island of Sleuth Wood in the lake, and again, where the wandering water gushes from the hills above Glincar. And there's also some beautiful descriptions of the reassuring and peaceful sounds of home, like he'll hear no more the lowing of the calves on the warm hillside, or the kettle and the hob sing peace unto his breast, or see the brown mice bob round and round the oatmeal chest. And this poem is read by Marcella Reardon and it's from the CD, The Life and Works of WB Yeats. The Stolen Child. Where dips the rocky highland of Sleuth Wood in the lake, there lies a leafy island where flapping herons wake, the drowsy water rats, there we've hid our fairy vats, full of berries and of reddest stolen cherries. Come away, O human child, to the waters and the wild, with a fairy hand in hand, for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. Where the wave of moonlight glosses the dim grey sands with light, far off by furthest rosses we've footed all the night, weaving olden dances, mingling hands and mingling glances till the moon has taken flight, to and fro we leap and chase the frothy bubbles while the world is full of troubles and is anxious in its sleep. Come away, O human child, to the waters and the wild, with a fairy hand in hand, for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. Where the wandering water gushes from the hills above Glen Carr, in pools among the rushes that scarce could bathe a star, we seek for slumbering trout, and whispering in their ears give them unquiet dreams, leaning softly out from ferns that drop their tears over the young streams. Come away, O human child, to the waters and the wild, with a fairy hand in hand, for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. Away with us he's going, the solemn-eyed, he'll hear no more the lowing of the calves on the warm hillside, or the kettle on the hob sing peace into his breast, or see the brown-eyed bob round and round the oatmeal chest. For he comes, the human child, to the waters and the wild, with a fairy hand in hand, from a world more full of weeping than he can understand. All night around the thorn tree the little people play, and men and women passing will turn their heads away. From break of dawn till moonrise, alone it stands on high, with twisted sprigs for branches across the winter sky. They'll tell you dead men hung there, its black and bitter fruit, to guard the very treasure around which it twines its root. They'll tell you Cromwell hung them, but that could never be. He'd be in dread like others, to touch the fairy tree. But Katie Ryan saw there in some sweet dream she had the blessed son of Mary, and all his face was sad. She dreamt she heard him saying, Why should they be afraid? Why should they be afraid, when from a branch of a thorn tree the crown I wore was made? From moonrise round the thorn tree the little people play, and men and women passing will turn their heads away. But if your heart's a child's heart, and if your eyes are clean, you'll never fear the thorn tree that grows beyond the fields. And that, of course, was Count John McCormack with The Fairy Tree. Next, we have a poem by Antony Cronin, poet, novelist, and short story writer. He was born in County Wexford in 1928. He's a founding member of Age Dawna, and he lives in Dublin. Now this poem, The Lovers, is read by Paul Durkan. The Lovers by Antony Cronin I went for a walk one evening to the streets of the city wide. There were couples laughing and talking and kissing on every side, and I knew that for some that evening in the city's golden haze would glow as a remembrance through other different days. But some of them would be loving through times which would seem without end, passionate, gentle, caring, friend to sexual friend. And I laughed with the happy couples, lost in a fond embrace, till I saw some in the future stand in another place. Saw them glare at each other in anger and rend each other with words, like the claws of cruel leopards or the beaks of terrible birds. So a time which would come for many, when wounded and full of spite, they would even rue the loving of this lovely city night. And I prayed to Aphrodite that she might ease the pain which would flow from the bitter quarrels of parting if parting came, that the love which she now gave them might still somehow outlast the lies and the resentments, the twisting of the past, and asked that she might spare them as they tore themselves apart, the fearful loss of fealty, the freezing of the heart. But as I walked up Dame Street on my way home again, I knew time holds us hostage and that time brings us pain, and thought that the chimes of Christchurch are the ever-flowing stream, bearing us into the future as into another dream. Your baby doesn't love you anymore. Golden days before they end, whisper secrets to the wind. Your baby won't be near you anymore. Tender nights before they fly, send falling stars that seem to cry. Your baby doesn't want you anymore. It's over. She breaks your heart in two to know she's been untrue. But oh, what will you do when she says to you there's someone new? We're through. We're through. It's over. It's over. It's over. All the rainbows in the sky start to weep and say goodbye. You won't be seeing them anymore. Setting suns before they fall, echoes to you, that's all, that's all. But you'll be lonely some day after all. It's over. It's over. And that was Roy Orbison with It's Over. And next we have a poem by Alan Alberg. He's an award-winning British writer of children's stories, verse, picture books and short stories. Alan Alberg is renowned for his irreverent wit and unfailing ability to make the commonplace seem extraordinary. Now this is a very light-hearted poem and it's read by Susan Fitzgerald and the poem is called Please Mrs. Butler. Please Mrs. Butler, this boy Derrick Drew keeps copying my work, miss. What shall I do? Go and sit in the hall, dear. Go and sit in the sink. Take your books on the roof, my lamb. Do whatever you think. Please Mrs. Butler, this boy Derrick Drew keeps taking my rubber, miss. What shall I do? Keep it in your hand, dear. Hide it up your vest. Swallow it if you like, my love. Do what you think best. Please Mrs. Butler, this boy Derrick Drew keeps calling me rude names, miss. What shall I do? Lock yourself in the cupboard, dear. Run away to sea. Do whatever you can, my flower, but don't ask me. I'm going away to leave you. I'm going to leave you in disgrace. Nothing in my favor. I've got the wind in my face. I'm going home. Hey, hey, hey, over the hill. Over the hill. Hey, hey, hey, over the hill. Can't get enough of sweet cocaine. Can't get enough of the Mary Jean. Going back to where I've gone wrong. Going rolling back home again. Over the hill. Hey, hey, hey, over the hill. Over the hill. Hey, hey, hey, over the hill. Been worried about my babies. Been worried about my wife. Just won't place for a man to be when he's worried about his life. I'm going home. Hey, hey, hey, over the hill. Over the hill. Hey, hey, hey, over the hill. I'm going away to leave you. I'm going to leave you in disgrace. Got nothing in my favor. Rain in my face. I'm going home. Hey, hey, hey, over the hill. Over the hill. Hey, hey, hey, over the hill. Over the hill. Hey, hey, hey, over the hill. Hey, hey, hey, over the hill. And that was Over the Hill by John Martin. And now, Debbie Ruddy will read My Mother's Daughter, a story written by Ivy Bannister. My Mother's Daughter by Ivy Bannister You're late, my mother says sharply. I am not. I take particular care not to be late, but I feel defensive nonetheless. My mother looks me over from head to toe. Although faded by age to a watery blue, her eyes retain their power to strike me with a sudden breathlessness, and all my inadequacies, both real and imaginary, bubble to the surface. That dress is too young for you, Polly, she says. One of your daughters should be wearing that dress. My three young daughters refuse to accompany me on these visits, but I don't press the issue. Perhaps I don't like them to see me through my mother's eyes. Her handbag waits on the bed, an exquisite relic of the 1940s, brocaded and elegant. With a vigour extraordinary for her years, she flings herself into her coat. And how is Victor, my mother demands, not waiting for the answer, as she bustles out of her room. I trot after her as though I were a child again. When people ask after me, she says, tell them the truth, Polly. Explain how you've put me into a cage and thrown away the key. I don't know how you can sleep at night knowing what you've done to me. It is six months now since my mother signed herself into the nursing home, before informing her few surviving acquaintances that I'd done the dirty on her. I overheard her on the telephone, basking in the badness of her thankless daughter, sharper than a serpent's tooth she enthused, wielding her most thrilling tones. What can you expect? You give up your life for them, then they dump you into the old people's home. My mother is a very dramatic lady. Indeed, nearly a lifetime ago she played Juliet at the Gate Theatre. I followed her down the green and yellow corridor towards the lift. In spite of her bad hips, her bearing is regal. The fine black cloth of her coat billows about her ankles like a coronation robe. It is impossible not to admire her. I have always admired her, and would have been glad of her admiration in return. I am like a caged beast in this place, she says. There is nothing stopping you from moving out. They're building new flats near Sea Point. Ah, she snorts. Flats are for yuppies. Besides, there are not enough people about the place in a flat. She bows her head, taking an imaginary curtain call before an imaginary audience. The corridor it smells, that tang peculiar to nursing homes, of cabbage and disinfectant and urine. The long corridor snakes around the corner, where the double windows let in a flood of light. In the recess, half a dozen wheelchairs are congregated, cradling the oldest and least competent inhabitants of the nursing home. A tidy row of ancient women and men, blankets tucked around them as they dribble and doze and stare. Just look at them, my mother sniffs. Old bats. I ask you, what does a woman like me have in common with the likes of them? They are an unanswerable argument for a euthanasia. If they hear her in their wheelchairs, they don't react. Old bats, she repeats, a shade lower, then grins, clicking her teeth. Out the windows you can see Bullock Harbour and the bay. A cloud passes, its purple shadows skimming over the green sea below. I have often watched that beautiful sea from other vantage points, watched it glimmer and swirl from blue to green to grey, then back again. All of a sudden I grab the nearest wheelchair, wheeling it around so that its aged occupant faces the water. Just what do you think you are doing, Polly? my mother asks. Why shouldn't they look out instead of in? Her lips curl into a lemony smile. You dare devil you. If the nurse catches you, she'll eat you. But I swing all the chairs around, just the same. Hurry on, my mother says, tapping her neat foot. You are too sentimental for words. No doubt you'd play Beethoven to them if you got the chance. My mother brushes an empty crisp packet off the passenger seat before she sits into the car. I didn't let you eat crisps, she says. Not when you were your daughter's age. It will give them spots. Cautiously I pull out onto Ulverton Road. Of course I should have drowned you when you were born, she adds reflectively. That's what they do with unwanted kittens. I am accustomed to her saying things like this. Most of the time I try to believe that she doesn't mean them maliciously, and that it's just her habitual way of communicating. At difficult moments you need to be pleasant, my husband Victor says, so I think pleasant thoughts about home and my work and my daughters. I was 42 years of age when you were born, my mother says, the same age that you are now. It was ridiculous age for calving, the single undignified episode in my entire lifetime. I concentrate on the road. As I turn onto the Black Rock Bypass, a few substantial drops of rain splatter onto the windscreen. You never fetch me out of my cage on a sunny day, my mother says. Yesterday the sun shone all day. You should have come yesterday. She snaps open her brocaded handbag, taking out a nail file. Her fingernails are still the perfect red ovals that I remember from my childhood. I used to wonder at those perfect shapes, longing to become a woman like her. In fact, I have not turned out badly. I work in biological research, and my opinions about viruses and related creepy crawlies are chronicled from time to time by the media. Victor and I get on very well together and our rearing of our children, if not exactly seamless, has so far avoided major disaster. Three peas in a pod, that's what my mother calls my daughters, reflecting unfavourably upon how they resemble their father. The traffic crawls around Stephen's Green. My mother is growing impatient. I hope that you won't park too far away. Last time I got a blister on my instep from the distance that you made me walk. Since the Drury Street car park is full, I settle for the double yellow line in front of the shoe shop, praying without conviction for mercy from the traffic wardens. I don't blame my mother for her impatience. At the age of 84, I expect that I'll be impatient too. In Beaulieu's she marches back through the crowd towards the plush seats under the stained glass windows, while I queue for coffee and sticky buns. By the time that I join her, she is daubing her eyes with tissues. This isn't the way that it used to be, she complains. There were waitresses then, and the almonds buns actually tasted of almonds. I remember it well, my mother in her prime, whooshing past the tables in full sail, dazzling in a red cape and impossibly tall fur hat. Heads turned for her then, and the air buzzed with excited recognition. But nobody knows my mother anymore. I understand that it's not absent waitresses or inferior buns that have brought tears to her old eyes. My heart aches, but I know better than to offer comfort. She would only brush me away. So, she says brusquely, tell me something interesting, Polly, impress me. There was no point in talking about my research towards which she manifests a studied indifference. So, I rattle on about my daughters, their enthusiasms and loathings, their flute lessons and mathematical prizes. I suspect that my mother is listening, even though her eyes sweep round and round the tea room. She smooths her hair with a stagey gesture. The high diamond still glitters on her hand, only her fingers have gone bony, and a loose ring has polished the skin beneath with its weight. I remember that moment, I remember that hand, taut-skinned and plump, buttering bread, spreading jam as thickly as any child could desire. I remember those eyes, laughing and loving me. I remember loving my mother so much that the very possibility of her going away or dying filled me with the blackest terror. Perhaps she was really not as bad a mother as she lets on to have been. A girl passes her table, in a flapping dress, unbuttoned from hem to crotch, exposing lavender tights and heavy black shoes. And she thinks she looks gorgeous, my mother sniffs. You used to do things like that to me, Polly. You shamed me with your vulgar clothing, not to mention those misfits that you fell in love with. I'll never forget that dreadful what's-his-name from Crumlin, the one whose eyes moved in opposite directions. I smile brightly at my mother, pretending that I feel no pain, but I'm glad that our coffee's drunk and it's time to go. She's quiet for most of the journey back, melted into the passenger seat, every muscle relaxed. It is the way she often behaves, as if reserving her energies for her next performance. Suddenly she pulls herself upright. What I resent the most about you, Polly, she says softly, is how happily you married. Your father was such a peasant, he never had what I wanted. Not when I wanted it. Cautiously I glance at her. It's a possibility I've never considered before, that she might be envious. She glints at me with the seabird's eye, about to devour a sprat. Then I remember a day trip, twenty years in the past, when she tried to cajole Victor, then my fiancé, into marrying another girl. I shiver once again at this treachery. When I was growing up, we had a maid named Polly, my mother hisses. She was an ignorant Welsh girl. I named you after her. I can't take any more. I pull the wheel hard, turning into the corner of the nursing home. I drive so fast that the gravel spits under my tyres. I speed recklessly through the narrow stone archway into the car park. I jump out. The passenger door creaks open. I am counting the seconds now. We drag through reception into the lift. My mother has begun to smile. She looks younger than her eighty-four years and somehow radiant. I follow her into her room. I'm feeling quite refreshed now, she says. You'd be surprised how I look forward to our little encounters. My chest is tight. My head is thumping. I brush my lips against her stiff cheek, not bothering with the lift. I flee down the stairs, out, out into the sea air. I barely make it to the car before the tears come, and my heart aches. With shaking hands I light the single cigarette of my week. I smoke, gasping through the tears. Then I square my shoulders and become myself again, Polly McKenna, the capable woman created by my failed efforts to dazzle my mother, the woman that other people know and respect. And once again, I am no longer my mother's daughter, and I am no longer Polly McKenna. You always hurt the one you love, the one you shouldn't hurt at all. You always take the sweetest rose and crush it till the petals fall. You always hurt the one you love, the one you shouldn't hurt at all. You always take the sweetest rose and crush it till the petals fall. You always break the kindest heart with the hasty words you can't recall. So, if I broke your heart last night, it's because I love you most of all. You always hurt the one you love, the one you shouldn't hurt at all. You always take the sweetest rose and crush it till the petals fall. You always break the kindest heart with the hasty words you can't recall. So, if I broke your heart last night, it's because I love you most of all. You always take the sweetest rose and crush it till the petals fall. You always break the kindest heart with the hasty words you can't recall. So, if I broke your heart last night, it's because I love you most of all. If I broke your heart last night, it's because I love you most of all. If I broke your heart last night, it's because I love you most of all. If I broke your heart last night, it's because I love you most of all. If I broke your heart last night, it's because I love you most of all. If I broke your heart last night, it's because I love you most of all. If I broke your heart last night, it's because I love you most of all. If I broke your heart last night, it's because I love you most of all. If I broke your heart last night, it's because I love you most of all. It's because I love you most of all. It's because I love you most of all. If I broke your heart last night, it's because I love you most of all. If I broke your heart last night, it's because I love you most of all. If I broke your heart last night, it's because I love you most of all. If I broke your heart last night, it's because I love you most of all. If I broke your heart last night, it's because I love you most of all. If I broke your heart last night, it's because I love you most of all. If I broke your heart last night, it's because I love you most of all. In the park on a Sunday, I make quite a dash. The neighbours look on with surprise. With my Aberdeen surely torn over my head, I dazzle the sight of their eyes. At Patrick Street Corner for sixty-four years I have stood, no one can deny that while I stood there no person could dare say black was the white of my eye. You may travel from Clare to the County Vildare, from Francis Street on to Macroon. But where will you see a fine widow like me? Biddy Mulligan, The Pride of the Coombe. And she wheeled her wheelbarrow through the street broad and narrow crying cockles and mother and mother and wife. She was a fishmonger and sure was no wonder for so was her father and mother before. And she wheeled her wheelbarrow through the street broad and narrow crying cockles and mother and wife. She died of a fever and no one could save her and that was the end of Sweet Marlene. Sweet Marlene Now her ghost is gone through the street broad and narrow crying cockles and mother and wife and wife. And that was Sinéad O'Connor with Cockles and Mussels. And now over to Kathy Sweeney who will introduce a poem by Mairead Byrne. This poem is called Lying Awake with the Windows Open. It's by a poet called Mairead Byrne who's originally from Dublin but is living in Rhode Island. It's a poem I think that is very powerful for anyone who's ever been in love and is lying awake after the lover has left. The language is very simple and she repeats the words over and over again I heard I heard and it creates a very rich texture within the poem. Lying Awake with the Windows Open After you left I heard car doors closing across the river in Lafayette I heard crickets like ratchets I heard footsteps coming softly up the street and down the street and through all the alleyways I heard shiny green leaves load with raindrops and spill I heard the town grumble deep in its throat I heard darkness congregating in clumps like infantry at ease the nervous gear shifts of drivers circling for cigarettes I heard email arriving like an elevator at the right floor I heard insects colliding against furniture the din of the drowsing house I heard my own careful breathing the sky opening out above Fort Quechanon the scraping of trees against air You fill up my senses like a light in a forest like the mountains in springtime like a walk in the rain like a storm in the desert like a sleepy blue ocean You fill up my senses come to me again come let me love you let me give my life to you let me promise your laughter let me die in your arms let me lay down beside you let me always be with you come let me love you come love me again let me love you let me give my life to you come let me love you come love me again You fill up my senses like a light in a forest like the mountains in springtime like a walk in the rain like a storm in the desert like a sleepy blue ocean You fill up my senses come to me again You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain like the mountains in springtime You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk in the rain You fill up my senses like a walk Ah, the great hurling match between Cork and Tilfrary was played in the park on the banks of the Lee Our own darling hurlers afraid of being beaten they'd send for Mount Eddy to valandre Here he hurled on that ball right left in their faces and showed the Tilfrary lads training and skill If they trod near his line sure he swore he would brain them And the papers were full of the praise of Teddy Quill Ah, ramblin' for rovin' for football or courting you're drinkin' black porter as fast as you still In all your days rovin' you'll find none so jovial as a muskery sportsman of old Teddy Quill Ah, at the Cork exhibition there was a young lady whose fortune exceeded a million or more But a bad constitution had ruined her completely and medical treatments had failed lore and lore Oh, mama says she should I know what delays me and cure this disease that is threatening to kill Give over your doctors your medical treatments I'd rather one squeeze out of old Teddy Quill Ah, ramblin' for rovin' for football or courting you're drinkin' black porter as fast as you still In all your days rovin' you'll find none so jovial as a muskery sportsman of old Teddy Quill And that was Old Teddy Quill sung by the late Joe Lynch probably better known as Dinnie Byrne in Glenrow And now we have an Irish song Álán Fórnaise sung by Máirtín Tom Heoannín MacDonaghill I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise I wrote a letter to Fórnaise And now we'll play out with Tom Donovan singing The Rose of Kildare and this is from the CD A Taste of Ireland Love Songs Johnny was born in a mansion down in the county of Clare Rosie was born by the road side, somewhere in county Kildare Destiny brought them together on the road near Clarven one day Peter bright pretty shall she was singing and she stole his young heart away for she said meet me tonight by the campfire come with me over the hill never be married tomorrow please let me whisper I will all the neighbors are talking who cares if your friends stop and stare you'll be bound to be married to Rosie who was rare on the road up to there think of the parents who read you think of the family name how can you marry a gypsy oh what a terrible shame parents and friends stop your pleading don't worry about my affair for I've fallen in love with a gypsy who was rare on the road up to there for she sang meet me tonight by the campfire come with me over the hill never be married tomorrow please let me whisper I will all the neighbors are talking who cares if your friends stop and stare you'll be bound to be married to Rosie who was rare on the road up till there Charlie went down from his mansion just as the sun had gone down turning his back on his kinfolk likewise his dear native town in the roads of old Ireland with a gypsy he looked so sincere when he came to the light of the campfire these are the words he did hear for she sang meet me tonight by the campfire come with me over the hill never be married tomorrow please let me whisper I will all the neighbors are talking who cares if your friends stop and stare you'll be bound to be married to Rosie who was rare on the road up till there he said meet me tonight by the campfire come with me over the hill never be married tomorrow please let me whisper I will all the neighbors are talking who cares if your friends stop and stare you'll be bound to be married to Rosie who was rare on the road up till there This programme was kindly sponsored by Bones Factory Bones Factory Bones Factory Bones Factory Bones 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