Well if you be the lass of Aughrim
As I suppose you to be
Come give me the last token
Between you and me

Ah Gregory don't you remember
That night on the hill
When we swopped rings on each other's hands
Surely against my will

Mine was of the beaten gold
Yours but black tin
Yes mine was of the beaten gold
Yours but black tin

- Lass of Aughrim, by Ewan McGregor and Susan Lynch

I love songs that capture one's imagination and fires it up, and sends one to fields far away where a girl in an apron runs up a hill, followed by the lad of her dreams. Nay, the lad is now a man, returning from some great adventure - perhaps a war, even. She peeps out at him from behind her hands, still unsure whether this strapping, mature man is her childhood sweetheart.

But she isn't as young as she used to be either, for war touches everyone, even the ladies in their homes. Nights of pacing the floor, brows furrowed, eyes shut, lips moving in silent prayer have told on her, and her eyes are not as innocent as they used to be.

But he can recognise her, and she him. Is that not his ring on a string around her neck? And is that not her ring on his pinkie finger - the only finger on which it could fit?

So there they are again, on the hill where they pledged their love, and the lad who is now a man steals a kiss from the lass who is now a woman. No one can tell what will be in their future, but they do not care, for now they have each other, and only the bashful stars bear witness to their reunion.

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- - 2006-05-29
- - 2006-05-01
on The Ineffable - 2006-03-27
on being a matyr - 2006-03-23
- - 2006-03-17