GORTAHORK woman Marie Harte has captured the feelings of so many of you abroad in this poem.
And Marie – her friends tells us – knows a good bit about it all.
She spent a year in the Bronx, then two years in Australia and is now in London about three years.
So here it is:
Irish Abroad – by Marie Harte
There’s nowhere on earth us young Irish won’t fly
You’ll find us in Canada, New York, Sydney and even Dubai
At the airport you wave goodbye to the crying ‘auld dear’
Then you step through the gates and order a beer
You discover the drinks on the plane are free of charge
This is the life, make mine a large
You stagger from the plane with big swollen feet
Take a step outside and nearly die from the heat
First thing you do is light up a fag
And make sure Saint Christopher is still in your bag
Gaggin now for a proper cup of tae
But first you need to find somewhere to stay.
In every city, there’s always a place
Where you’ll find the Irish have made their base.
If you arrive at JFK ready for New York,
The Bronx is the place to find cash-in-hand work
The craic is mighty in Woodlawn and Woodside
This is also where the illegal Irish hide.
All the good bars are on the two streets
Eillen’s Country Kitchen is a grand place to eat.
Or maybe you would prefer Dubai to teach
To drink in the Irish Village and tan on the beach
Remember the rules and cover your knees
Stop eating pork and wear long sleeves.
Or why not try Sydney to get the start
Where everyone travels in a shopping cart
Bondi Junction is the place to be
Sunday in the bull and Friday in the tea’s
Christmas day drinking out in the Sun
A box of goon later you decide a swim would be fun
But don’t worry if you start to drown out at sea
Bondi rescue will come and you’ll make the TV
But wherever you go some things will never change
As Irish we will always keep our traits
In the bar for the All Ireland final no matter the time
The Irish bar owner ignores the fine
All the county jerseys form an Irish rainbow
Your mother still sends over tea bags and Tayto
If only a bottle of Buckfast could go in the post
You hate to admit it but it’s what you miss most
Singing rebel songs with your arms around Mick
That fella who always carries the hurling stick
And no matter how long you’re gone one thing will always remain
You’ll miss your home just the same.
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