My Love, She's in America

Cigarettes in the morning
 Walking hallways of this strange empty home
 Cold whiskey in the evening
 Every day now she's gone.
 Connemara's on the bus route to Behan
 It's seven days since the last cow died
 And when the barley's gone and three lost women
 Like the girls and boys in Rome used to cry.
 Just give me cornbread in the morning so early
 For you took my rags in the fold of your hand
 And before you fall just like a feather and linen
 Make sure you've taken off that black velvet band.
 They say that roving's like a candle at midnight
 And some take it like the trot of a mule
 But when the road is blind and your own tender lady
 You'd take a match to find a firelit fool.
 How come the way's not like stairs in a castle
 With crimson pictures there to guide you along
 A gilded bottle with a few draughts inside it
 Makes the lights in the rafters look so strong.
 When your true love's gone to run like an engine
 After nine young women with no faces their own
 And in America she spins like a dancer
 With barrel straps and some shoes made of stone.
 I'd guess the porches there are all clouded over
 And pipes and fiddles might could use some repair
 And all the horses have been broken in stables
 And golden fleeces could be worse for the wear.
 But if you ever come to Clifden by sunset
 Just before the Autumn rains touch the shore
 To stroll along Cleggan's grey-hooded harbor
 Cutting hard like the blade of an oar.
 You take yourself to a hill past the pierline
 To find a cabin of whiskey and milk
 Where St. Coleman used to ply to his master
 Like colored linen and mulberry silk.
 Cigarettes in the morning
 Walking halways of this strange empty home
 Cold whiskey in the evening
 Every day now she's gone.