The Ballad of Moss-Free
The outlaw, he sings his own sweet tune,
nature an orchestra, his spotlight the moon;
his dreams for company, music his food,
the mountains his chambers, his bedclothes the wood;
a shadow in time, just misunderstood.
– – –
Talking philosophy with weirdos and fools;
bedding fine women who like to break rules;
fighting with clowns with small narrow minds;
teaching them manners to help me unwind.
Rambling by hedgerows with roses in tow;
Rolling in heather with no place to go;
whiskey on Sundays and porter the rest;
waking in strange beds beside heaving breasts.
Ignoring society and bureaucracy;
damn all your red-tape, roll on anarchy;
Down with your order, my boss is me;
to hell with your chains for I will live free.
The life of a troubadour, a bold rapparee;
take off your blinkers, the real world to see;
throw off your shackles and stand beside me;
as spirits both footloose and now fancy-free.
At gatherings you’ll find me where fiddles are bowed;
snug by the fireside I’ll sing you sean-nós;
wanting for nothing, contented in time;
floating on songs, kept up by fine wine.
And when the night ends and the stars go to bed,
I’ll sing you some more and I’ll sleep when I’m dead,
for soon we must rise to trek slowly home,
yet my arms are still full for I’m seldom alone
(she plays the harp you know).
And so shall I wander, for wisdom I seek;
my bones start to rattle, my knees they do creak;
but my elbow bends easy and my heart is still strong;
my furrow’s as deep, yet not just as long.
So, when I leave you to go on my way,
I’ll rest by a soft hedge and there pass away,
to drift in the sweet night from this silent place,
‘neath a light coat of frost with a smile on my face,
( slán libh mo chairde ).