for Joe Lordan

Of quavers and keys

Da haven’t a notion

But still an’all

he plays the melodeon.

He can white-puddin the moon

Beamish the ocean

Fry seventeen eggs

and play the melodeon.

Ignorin gales and floods

and coastal erosion

He climbs up Saint Fin Barre’s

and plays the melodeon.

He hammers the Trojans

and leathers the Spartans

As he snores on the sofa

and blows the melodeon.

One Christmas Eve well-on

he stripped down to his jocks

And he rodeoed a herd

of buffalo in the garden.

The horns enlocked

the whirlin snouts

The nipples of all

bellowed with emotion.

I loved all that

but was more thrilled

By his right left foot

that played the melodeon.

Of quavers and crotchets

Da haven’t a notion

Yet the muses adore him

when he plays the melodeon.

Oh yeh the muses adore him

when he blows that melodeon!


Note that in West Cork Melodeon is pronouned Mell-o-jin, with the accent on o.