Dreaming on a chill December night,
Cocooning after Christmas,
I hearken to an old CD
Of John McDermott singing
Danny Boy and Auld Lang Syne
And sense my inner Celt begin to swoon.
Oh many times Iíve sworn
Thereís not a drop of Irish in me;
But my name is purest Scots.
Iím descended from a lad
Born a scant one hundred miles
Across the Irish Sea from Belfast.
And though the feuds and furies
That bloodied moors and sullied glens
Burned out before the Blairs reached Kansas,
I thrill to hear a bagpipeís wail,
Yearn for stony castles in the mist
And fancy what Iíd look like in a plaid.
My voice is rather baritone than tenor;
The Texas plains look nothing like the Highlands;
And I doubt Iíd ever dare to wear a skirt.
But when I hear McDermott croon Loch Lomond
I think I might consider marching off
To next yearís local gathering of the clans.