You looking for Maurice?
I'd try the Aras
and then move on to the Crane.
Failing him there
I'd quickly repair
to Taffe's, where he's sure to be playin'.
Now Taffe's is a pub
full of hub and of bub,
of hokum and smokum and trad,
but when he puts power on
his big-bellied bodhràn
the tootsies go tapping like mad.
Now Maurice himself
is no sylph and no elf.
There's weight in his whoppin' that goat.
'Hurrah!' say the tourists,
but one or two purists
begrudge him his Northern Note.
'How dare a mere drum
so boldly presume
to vie with Lorenzo's loud chanter.
A bodhràn's preferred
which is seen but not heard:
Lambegs are for Paisleyite ranters.'
But the Tate style bodhrànic
to me is a tonic,
a touch of the North crisp and clear,
and when Ireland is whole
and at one with her soul,
it's many a Maurice we'll hear, down here -
many's the Maurice we'll hear.
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©Renate Mitchell. May not be reproduced in any form online or offline without explicit written permission.