An Irish Poem

The Milk from the Tinker's Cart
poem by: Josh Rogan

© 1974, 2004, 2016

This poem - eventually - became very useful in a comic interlude in a fantasy and magic novel of mine - Mike Miller and the Warlocks of Bucharest (formerly titled Mike Miller, Son of Pendragon). I say eventually as I wrote the original version many years before at the age of fifteen, before even having the idea for the book, but all it ever needed was the right vehicle to bring it alive again. I found this in the form of a ghostly Irish show-band who performed a concert from beyond the grave, terrifying students from Aberystwyth University into the bargain. So, sit back, and let ‘The Dead Leprechauns of Tralee’ entertain you with this little ditty.
 
The Milk From The Tinker’s Cart!

On a hot summer’s day on an old 
country lane, I walked along hot, 
dry and dusty,
When right round the bend came 
an old dear friend, 
It was tinkerman Jonah McLuskey. 

So I climbed up and sat on that old tinker’s cart, 
As the sun blazed away on that morn. 
I started to quaff on a big jug of milk, 
And chomped on some cob of the corn. 

Well I drank and I drank
and still there was more,
And it tasted so creamy and fine.
Then you’ll never believe what 
happened to me,
Just by the old Kerry mine.

With a twirl of his head, 
the tinker-man said,
We’re off to see Brian Boru.
The horse flapped his wings,
the cart took right off - - 
up high in the air we flew.
We soared up so high
and looked down from the sky,
Upon pixies a-ploughin’ the land.
And I’m sure that good old Saint 
Patrick had a jug of ale in his 
hand.
 
Then we heard a shout, it was
something about, ‘Now don’t be
late for the ball!’
Then I was amazed, as me eyes 
they did gaze,
Upon leprechauns two foot tall.
Then our journey was ended,
the horse he descended,
By a lake full of old Irish brew.
Then I lifted me head, and I saw 
straight-ahead,
The old castle of Brian Boru.

I walked off to see, what’s waiting 
for me,
In the grounds so wondrous 
and fine.
There were nymphs and fairies all
flying about,
And gargoyles a-gushing red wine.
Music and laughter were heard 
from the house,
When a little green man 
said,’Come in!
Is it whiskey your tipple’, he said 
with a giggle;
‘Or brandy, or maybe a gin?’
 
So I walked through the door,
And twas there that I saw,
A goblin a-bangin' a drum.
‘Well, who have we here?’ said 
Brian Beru,
‘I am awfully glad you could come!’

Inside that big house, well I 
feasted me eyes,
Upon maidens a-dancin’ a jig.
Then all those still able, then sat at 
the table,
And feasted on duckling and pig.
 
Old Brian himself he did stand up 
and say,
’Friendly elves, please welcome 
our friend!’
Then the dwarves who were 
seven, said,
‘Welcome to heaven!
This is our world without end!’

There was porter and stout,
And whiskey about,
And barrels and barrels of bitter.
So I had me fill, which made me 
feel ill,
And made everyone laugh and
then titter!
Then the lady elves stood
And they bowed and held hands
While the fiddles struck up 
Riverdance;
I was coaxed to take part but I 
hadn’t the art,
And fell down and split open my 
pants.

The dwarves, elves and goblins 
went right into fits
And the King laughed so hard he 
went blue
‘Argh now begorrah! he said
with a slobber
‘Is there anything else you can 
do?!
 
Well I’ve never felt so happy and free,
And I felt I was turning the tide;
Until I awoke on that tinker’s cart,
With an empty jug at me side.
I’d swear on me life, even swear at 
me wife,
That I couldn’t have felt more 
serene;
Till the tinker did say, in his kind 
Irish way,
‘You’ve drunk all me bloody
pocheen!’
 
(Yes, yes, I know it should be potin, but the phonetics do the job nicely methinks. But for those who don’t know, potin, indeed pronounced pocheen, is an incredibly potent - - and illegal - - spirit (Ireland’s moonshine)).
 
 
 

 

 

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