Lambeg Drummer
I met her on a far Greek isle,
our accents Irish, a glance, a smile.
This girl I could not love at home
I loved in Greece and later, Rome.
All through France and the dust of Spain,
Christ I’ll never love like that again.
All through that long grape-picking summer.
Now she’s the wife of a Lambeg Drummer.
She touched my cheek in Brittany
what a shame you’re Mick, not Sam, said she
or Stewart, Cecil, Ian or Rob,
Billy, Ivan, Jack or Bob.
You’re locked inside some Celtic dream
you long for things that might have been
but let’s not waste what’s left of summer
before I wed my Lambeg Drummer.
Sometimes I’d watch her while she’d sleep
from firelight soft to shadow deep
and wonder how a Cupid’s dart
must miss the head to wound the heart.
And I knew it all too soon would end
two hearts not lost, just out on lend.
And one day I’d reclaim mine from her
and set her’s free, for her Lambeg Drummer.
We wandered a deserted beach
though I held her hand she was out of reach.
Side by side but both alone
as we thought about the news from home.
Then I knew ‘twas time for letting go
of this sweet and most beloved foe
for her ears were tuned to a tribal thunder
that called her home to her Lambeg Drummer.
In a drab Dutch town we said goodbye
I had to hitch, she chose to fly.
It was only as she turned to go
I told her what she had to know.
That had she been Mary, Breege or Kate
we’d have walked together through the airport gate
And I’d never more be parted from her
by time or tide or a Lambeg Drummer.
I watched the Orange Twelfth parade
I was half impressed and half dismayed
and there I saw the girl I loved
all hatted, sashed, bemedalled, gloved.
As lovely as she’d ever been
when she was Orange and I was Green
and her love outblazed a Spanish summer
that’s squandered now on a Lambeg Drummer.
And had she been Mary Breege or Kate
we’d have walked together out the airport gate
And I’d never more be parted from her
by time or tide or a Lambeg Drummer.