Ned Casey Poem by Matt Mooney

He'd come from Brosna,

and Breda drove the car

down by Parson's Cross

to nights in John B's bar.


He'd settle in the middle,

a fresh pint in front of him;

he'd be tuning the fiddle,

other players walking in.


He played sweet and low

as in musical confession

of rare polkas he'd know

from his life-long sessions.


A farmer not a showman,

who'd sing 'Brosna Town',

he was a jolly ploughman

who shared his joy-around.


'The Pride of Erin' player-

one time across the pond;

a man with a good nature,

who loved his native land.


Sang songs one stormy night

in a rambling house at home

and sadly after that he died:

the bad news on the phone.