MARIE’S POEM CAPTURES THE DONEGAL EMIGRANT ABROAD

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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