Christmas makes me realize how greatly things do change. Friends lose touch, people age, and family moves away. But it is what had stayed the same that gives me the most tears.
I used to be a farmer and I made a living fine. I had a little stretch of land along the C.P. Line. But times went by, and though I tried, the money wasn't there.
When you hear that I'm a cowboy. And I work the cattle trail. You probably assume I'm big and tough (big and tough). But the trail's worn me down. I don't wanna hang around.
Through the ages, through war, pestilence and sleet, the Celtic culture has survived, it's songs and dances passed from father to son, from mother to daughter, from uncle to goat. And though few still speak Gaelic, the ancient language of the Celts, all hearts are still stirred by the beautiful tones of this mellifluous tongue..
Once a year we celebrate. With stupid hats and plastic plates. The fact that you were able to make. Another trip around the sun. . And the whole clan gathers round.
Me work hard five days a week. Sweeping garbage from the street. Come home not want book to read. Not 'nuff pictures for me see. Sit right down in favourite chair.
The best things in life are not free. But you don't need to have money. To get the things that you want to own. You just have to get a loan. When you buy, small or large.
It's early in the morning, way before dawn. I down a cup of coffee put my lucky hat on. Get down to the water, before all the crowds. Gonna have more fun than the law allows.
Often on the weekend I'll jump in my car. I'll not fill up the tank although I'm going far. And if somebody asks me if I'm going to a bar. I'll say I'm shopping 'cross the border in the USA.
The table's set ant the turkey's out. Christmas is here, let out a shout. The family's gathered all about. Christmas, Christmas is here!. Everyone is wearing big smiles.
I'm out on the range, surveying the land. Thinking of the job that's to be done. My life is hard but I don't mind. Men like me, that's how the west was won.
Rien ne presse. Sur les fesses de la Vénus de Milo. Plus un geste, c'est la sieste des oiseaux. Rien ne reste,. Sur nos vestes se renverse le sirop.. Sans un tresse, nos réflexes sonnent faux.
Some poets sing of a noble king,. Or of a sweetheart fair.. Some tell a tale of ships that sail. With treasures rich and rare.. But my humble pen still drifts again.
My song for you this evening. Is not to make you sad. Nor for adding to the sorrows. Of this troubled northern land. . But lately, I've been thinking.
When all is said and done. You're still a lucky one. And I've lost out again this time. You said that we were strong. Said that we'd go on and on. Do you see that you were wrong this time?.
After the morning there comes an evening. And after the evening another day. And after a false love there comes a true love. I'd have you listen now to what I say.
In a land of O'Cahan where bleak mountains rise. O'er those brown ridgy tops now the dusky clouds fly. Deep sunk in a valley a wild flower did grow. And her name was Finvola, the Gem of the Roe.
The snow it melts the soonest when the winds begin to sing. And the corn it ripens fastest when the frost is setting in. And when the young man tells me that my face he'll soon forget.
Farewell to old Ireland, the land of my childhood. Which now and forever I am going to leave. Farewell to the shores, where the shamrock is growing. It's the bright spot of beauty and the home of the brave.
Waking up today, it was cold out. There's something I should say, but I can't get my head around. The bends in your brain, and your elaborate pain. Makes me tired.