The Muslin Dress

The Sunday train to Abbeyfeale
Came clattering past stacks of hay.
The prickly gorse and Hawthorn rows,
Brought home a girl too long away.

The band played Kerry polkas late
That night at Tommy Tobin's place.
The moment she walked through the door,
The color rose in each lad's face.

We watched her move across the room,
The scarlet muslin dress she chose
Revealing long and shapely legs.
We'd rarely seen the like of those.

And, oh, we thought, to be the man
Of all who danced with her before
To hold her in our arms that night,
A heap of muslin on the floor.

Mr. Heaney

How delightful to meet your man Heaney!

Such an elegant man for a reading.
He's conversant with frogs
And knows all about bogs,
Representing the best culchie breeding.

He's well versed in the arts, Mr. Heaney;
While he's swilling poteen,
With barm brack in between,
You can hear in the background Puccini.

Though he's somewhat sedate,
Unlike Larkin or Thwaite,
He's so damned debonair
With the thatch in his hair,
Like his hero, the charming Mad Sweeney.

How delightful to meet your man Heaney!

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