The Immigrant Boogie Man

Moredaddy spent several year with his grandchildren,mending toys, telling stories and singing songs. He spoke Irish, but sadly none of us learned it until long after he was dead. Many warm nights he turned the streets of New York City into the Irish countryside bringing history and legend alive with his songs and stories for his eager "little people" sitting before him.  His wistful imagination changed our world as our fireescape became a large front porch and the lights below us became...

 

"The Immigrant Boogie Man"

 

 

Oh at 342, on East 53rd,

Those nights on the fire 'scape; what stories we heard!

As our grandfather sat with us, pipe in his hand,

Telling us tales of his own native land.

 

His eyes they would twinkle, or fill with a tear,

Depending upon the stories we'd hear

Of how he left Ireland, a very young man,

How he left all his friends and left all his clan.

 

He spoke of the colleen he met on the ship

Returning to Ireland on that mem'rable trip,

How her beautiful eyes looked into his soul

How he knew then and there that she'd make his life whole.

 

The evening would always include a lament

For some Irish hero the English had sent

Home to God, in His glory, before he was due.

And he'd have us all crying before he was through.

 

He spoke of the hero, the tinker, the rogue

and told us the stories about Tir na n'Og

And he spoke of the Boogie Man over the sea

who lived in the Bog, with his spirit so free.

 

Then he'd glance at the city lights twinkling below

at the RCA Building, with it's top all aglow

and he'd say: "That's the Boogie Man's house that you see!

Sure, he's an immigrant like grandmother and me."

 

For sure he would rather be dancing at home,

not here in this city, dancing alone.

But somehow he's come with us over the sea

to remind us of Ireland, how it use to be.

 

When the men of the bog would twinkle at night

casting their shadows 'twas a spooky old sight.

Yet the lore of our people for many a year

was full of such stories that we've all held dear.

 

And 'though we are migrating Westward once more,

we carry our spirits and carry our lore

and 'though children may tremble at the Boogie Man's sight,

somehow he brings peace to the immigrant's night.

 

Copyright 1998 Cáit Finnegan