For Micho Russell, Doolin, County Clare.

Oh for the days of the piper’s chair
When the stories filled the music, and the music filled the air
Is it just a trick of memory or did we live without a care?
When we sat and played our tunes upon the piper’s chair

When I was just a wee lad a growing in my spring
I would hear my mother’s stories and my father’s arms I’d swing
And with my brother Packy I’d run to the meadow where
We would sit and play our tunes upon the piper’s chair

And as our legs grew longer we learned our lessons well
The fiddle and the whistle casting over us their spell
When the old folks gathered round at night you’d want to listen well
For every song they’d sang there was a story they would tell

Oh for the days of the piper’s chair
When the stories filled the music, and the music filled the air
Is it just a trick of memory or did we live without a care?
When we sat and played our tunes upon the piper’s chair

Now Doolin’s just a small town a sittin on the bay
But the people came from miles around to hear us when we played
And O’Connor’s pub was crawling and the music filled the air
As I sat and played my flute upon the piper’s chair

But now I am an old man, my hills no longer green
And it’s two years since my brother’s gone; no more will he be seen
It’s it just and old man’s fancy or has the magic left the air
For there’s no music in the meadow from the piper’s chair

Oh they can play their fiddles but I fear that’s something’s wrong
For it seems they know the music but they cannot hear the song
The Irish tongue is dying and there’s no one seems to care
And you’ll find no children playing on the piper’s chair

Oh for the days of the piper’s chair
When the stories filled the music, and the music filled the air
Is it just a trick of memory or did we live without a care?
When we sat and played our tunes upon the piper’s chair

© Bill Harley, all rights reserved. Reprints with permission only.