At the Ceilidh, skipping gaily,Shedding stick and shawl,Young folk prancing, old folk dancing..Up toes all!
Reeling, wheeling, laughing, squealing..Dancers big and smallWhirling, swirling, curling, skirling,Whooping down the hall
This the story of poor LindaWho is fast approaching fortyHer appearance love might hinderBut she’s longing to be naughty.She has gone to have her hair wavedWith all-over body tanHas her armpits and her legs shavedBut she still can’t
after a year - she returnedand the kettle sangand the log fire burned,and all was exactly the same.
at last, oh at last, she was backand the crickets sangand the dear old shackglowed in the evening light.she remembered the
Fancy coming for a beer?
Not for me, I’ve got to run
Come and have a swift one here!
Oh, all right, but just the one.
Thank you – could I have a half?
You know Matt and Loz and Suzie?
We’re all having a
Shortly before 5.00am the water reached the end of the garden.
Shortly before five(that’s five in the morning),they slept, still alive,when daylight was dawning.They had not an inklingthat, thanks to God’s tinkling
Sister of the sun and rainBring the dance to earth againGentle spirit, fair and free,Lady of The Dance is she.
Where the summer meadowsweetBlessed the pool at Bridgid’s feetWhere its essence filled the airShe danced away the
One kiss rememberedand I am in that place once morewater falling from earth to earthmemoriesdreamscascadingrunningstraight to my space of heart
I knew you were not mortal