Lyrics

The Bord na M贸na Man

Christy Moore

She spent seven days creating the World, the Sun the Moon and the Stars
The Plough, and the Milky Way, then Jupiter and Mars
Then She opened up her rib cage, pulled out a little man
She put him down near Timahoe, that鈥檚 where it all began
As to why she picked the Shortgrass God only knows
Life began for the Bord na M贸na man without a stitch of clothes
Go forth says she and multiply God mam and I will begod
What better place to start the race then below in the Yellow Bog
Don鈥檛 you know he鈥檒l never go
Once he gets his foot half in the door
He鈥檚 sound as a bell he鈥檒l work like hell hire him if you can
鈥榗lare to God you鈥檒l never meet the beat of the B贸rd na M贸na man
At the edge of Tankard鈥檚 garden he built a lonely cell
Where he contemplated Limbo, then Purgatory and Hell
With the barbed wire in his Calvin Klein鈥檚 the poor man couldn鈥檛 sleep
All he had for company was jockey boys and sheep
When he鈥檇 converted Moorefield, Raheens and Ballitore
He set sail down the Grand Canal 鈥榯il he came to Lullymore
Where he broke up the Bordellos and smashed the Poit铆n Stills
Began to bale the briquettes around the Sandy Hills
And don鈥檛 you know he鈥檒l never go
Once he gets his foot half in the door
He鈥檚 sound as a bell he鈥檒l work like hell hire him if you can
鈥榗lare to God you鈥檒l never meet the beat of the B贸rd na M贸na man
He opened up the Klondike, and he blazed the Yukon Trail
Crushed grapes in California before Columbus had set sail
He Drank tea on top of Everest before Hillary was born
Blindfold up the North Face, backstroke around the Horn
Way back in the 1960s when the world was facing ruin
The East and West were neck and neck to be first on the Moon
When the Yankee steered his module down on the moon to land
Who was there to hold the ladder but the Bord na M贸na man
And don鈥檛 you know he鈥檒l never go
Once he gets his foot half in the door
He鈥檚 sound as a bell he鈥檒l work like hell hire him if you can
鈥榗lare to God you鈥檒l never meet the beat of the B贸rd na M贸na man

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What more can I say. Growing up we were surrounded by Turf; 鈥渃uttin it, footin it, clampin it together, bringing home the turf no matter what the weather鈥 – Luka. Those great black sods would glow in the hearth all the year round, centre point of the Dowling household. Thousands came to harvest the black loam. It fuelled the nation, but like all good things it has (almost) come to an end. I still love to walk the bog.