[David Callin]

This may be too parochial, being a romp through local history and culture. (I'm pretty sure I haven't posted it here before. It comes from last Christmas.) I won't burden it with footnotes - just yet, anyway. I hope at least you'll enjoy a festive sort of spirit in it.

Nollick Ghennal as Blein Vie Noa.
Three little boats are pulled up on the shore.
Melchior, Caspar and Balthasar
are stopping by for a pipe and a jar.
Manannan Mac Lir, honoured guest
has said to the waves “Lads, give it a rest.”
Finn McCool and Benandonner
come walking eagerly over the water
annually, to be reconciled,
in the healing light of Bethlehem’s child.

Illiam Dhone and good King Orry
are bringing more beer around in a lorry.
Orry points at the milky foam.
“I’m telling you, Bill, that’s my way home.”
As they back the lorry up to the door
they can hear from inside the convivial roar.

Lady Derby and Jinny the Witch,
one for the poor and one for the rich,
are getting up and getting down
with Bishop Wilson and T.E. Brown,
while Fletcher Christian and Captain Bligh,
who never quite saw things eye to eye,
dance cheek to cheek and hip to hip,
in a picture of good fellowship.

The captain of the Steam Packet boat
that tragically failed to stay afloat
converses with the Lords of the Isles.
He listens, but he never smiles,
and St. Patrick is sat in his favourite chair
as he croons to himself an old Irish air,
until Mona Douglas can stand it no longer
and gets him to join her in starting a conga.

It’s getting rowdy, without a doubt.
The cows are thinking of moving out.
You can hear the sheep from under the snow:
“There’s some of us trying to sleep, you know.”

The pigs have turned up their delicate noses
on hearing what Robin the Bobbin proposes,
but Richie and Robin and Jack o’ the Land
will find that the day doesn’t go as they planned –
the Moddhey Dhoo and the Buggane
are getting together to Save the Wren.

The wren! The wren! The king of all birds?
The raven is totally lost for words,
and ushag veg ruy ny moaney dhoo
is also taking a pretty dim view.

The music increases, as spirits grow high,
and the rest of the evening goes thundering by
with hullabaloo, and many a cry,
until someone starts up with “T’eh traa goll thie”,
and they drag themselves off to their resting places
with pounding heads and shining faces.

But I wish for them what I wish for us all
at this winter solstice festival –
palchey phuddase as skeddan dy liooar.
So Nollick Ghennal as Blein Vie Noa,
and here’s to you and here’s to me,
and here’s to the green hills by the sea …
Slaynt vie.