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izquierdaFinnegan, Are You Really Dead?derecha

Shay Healy

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As I roved out through Dublin city early on a fine spring morn,
My thoughts were slowly turned to Joyce and to the town where he was born.
What would he think of Dublin now? A muse sang softly in my head.
Ah sure he was the quare one, fol the diddle Gowadat! Finnegan, are you really dead?

Though Eccles Street is cold and shuttered; Leopold Bloom is always home.
Down Sackville Street plump stately Buck and Blazes Boylan's spectres roam.
Sweet Anna Livia it flows to the sea, past Molly Bloom's immortal bed.
Ah sure he was the quare one, fol the diddle Gowadat! Finnegan, are you really dead?

Down along by Sandymount, the seagulls wheel and cry.
Young Stephen sees eternity stretch out before his eye,
And far beyond his exile that's calling him away
Far from his tower at Sandycove hard fast by Dublin Bay.

And like the seagulls high above, the thoughts spin through his mind
He soars above the city streets that soon he'll leave behind
He's blind to what he loves of her, he thinks he'll shake her free.
Even in a far-off land, a Dubliner he'll be.

And as I walked long through Dublin city, as the sun was going down,
Scenes and pictures from his stories filled my head with sights and sounds.
Ah, Dublin, how your son has served you! All across the world, his words are read.
Ah sure he was the quare one, fol the diddle Gowadat! Finnegan, are you really dead?



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