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Bedtime Stories
Tell me tales of pomp and glory, speak of kings and campaigns won,
tell of diamonds and rubies, crowns and empires of the sun.
Sing me songs of trumpets blowing, calling noble knights to arms,
sound for me the battle's thunder, paint me streets bedecked with palms.
Mama, tell me of the soldiers bravely fighting to be free
and the ships that sail victorious across the mighty sea.
Let my bedtime story be about our glorious history
and the strategies that saved the day, that crushed the enemy.
I'll sing about an emerald set in a cold grey sea,
a place of joy and gentleness beset by jealousy,
of Danish kings and English kings with French and Spanish tools
who coveted the emerald to add to their crown jewels,
of the launching of the longboats to invade the peaceful shores,
of a thousand years ensuing steel and fire in bloody wars,
of a rich land kept in poverty by never ending strife,
of castles raised, and castles razed, the cycle of her life.
My son, I'll tell of kings and queens, of noble knights deployed.
I'll speak to you of four green fields divided and destroyed.
I'll tell you of their strategies, about the mass plantations,
of ownership made tenancy with all its connotations.
I'll sing of ancient conquest by the high and mighty names,
a mere four hundred years now since Elizabeth and James.
I'll speak of Tara broken and her once proud chiefs dispersed,
of treacherous apprentices, and William's name still cursed.
And then I'll tell you of the songs with which that land is filled,
of magic, love and mystery that never could be stilled,
the stories of the heroes with that special Irish twist
and the exiled generations with a bond that still persists.
So go to sleep my son and dream of kings and queens and power,
of waving flags and banners and the glory of the hour.
We'll bar the doors against the Ulstermen and IRA
and I will sit and guard you till the coming of the day.
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