The Walfrid Inn Poem by Daniel McDonagh

Malachy Quinn, now he owns a pub,
That he christened, the Walfrid Inn.
He is there day and night, seven days a week,
To welcome visitors that travel over from Ireland.

They travel far by bus, and by ferry
From Dublin, Belfast and Derry.
“The first pints on the house”, you will hear him shout,
“To anyone who is wearing a Celtic jersey”.

He has lived in Glasgow for twenty-five years
Leaving the Donegal hills to lie in his dreams.
Bur Paradise was found when he entered the Holy Ground
And saw football being played by the Bhoys in green.

When you walk through the doors of the Walfrid Inn
You may hear Paddy Boyle playing a tune on his fiddle.
He will play a request at the price of a Guinness,
By closing time, he is passed out drunk under a table.

The walls of the pub are covered in pictures
Of Irish poets, writers, martyrs and legends.
And Michael O’Angelo, a gypsy lad from Sligo,
Has painted a mural of Brother Walfrid onto the ceiling.

It is on a Saturday afternoon that you will find me perched
On a Wexford-made stool that sits by the bar.
As I will have a few pints of Ireland’s finest stout
Before I make my pilgrimage, to dear old Celtic Park.

2007