Poem: McSorley’s is McSorley’s

BY JACK BROWN |

When my Great-Grandfather

passed through Cork

on his way to New York

he turned his white collar round

and peddled fish bones to the fishermen.

McSorley’s was McSorley’s.

My Grandfather knew this sawdust spot.

Wishbones collecting dust.

Coal fire glowing.

The Twenties roared.

The streets were wild and hot.

McSorley’s was McSorley’s.

This Celtic pub

has hosted masses high and low.

Seen St. Paddy’s Day come and go.

A Harp is a Harp

and don’t you know

McSorley’s is McSorley’s.

So let’s hoist a mug

and all proclaim

however sacred and profane

the destiny of McSorley’s