He'd come from Brosna,
and Breda drove the car
down by Parson's Cross
to nights in John B's bar.
He'd settle in the middle,
a fresh pint in front of him;
he'd be tuning the fiddle,
other players walking in.
He played sweet and low
as in musical confession
of rare polkas he'd know
from his life-long sessions.
A farmer not a showman,
who'd sing 'Brosna Town',
he was a jolly ploughman
who shared his joy-around.
'The Pride of Erin' player-
one time across the pond;
a man with a good nature,
who loved his native land.
Sang songs one stormy night
in a rambling house at home
and sadly after that he died:
the bad news on the phone.
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