Good Night, Ya Bastard
to my father
In Ballyferriter on holidays,
we stayed above Seáinín na mBánach’s shop,
and some nights
a crowd of locals
and summer visitors
would come back after closing time
in Daniel Keane’s pub.
We, the children, lying in suspense
feigning sleep in the bedroom
waiting for the soft murmur of the company
making its way up the stairs.
Things would start with a bit of chat,
stories being told and the odd joke,
you acting as shy host
’til the Beamish gave you voice
and you called for a song.
Everyone joining in the chorus,
the hiss as another bottle is opened.
And when the nights were over
we’d hear the people going,
down in the street in the early morning
someone shouts, "Good night, ya bastard,"
in the full of his voice on the village street.
My sorest wish
to have grown up in time,
before you died,
so I could have come
to a night you organised
above Seáinín’s shop
in Ballyferriter.
And when the night was over
and the company were going
I would head for my own lodgings too
in Baile Eaglaise or the Gorta Dubha.
Before I left I would turn to you
and say "Good night, ya Bastard,"
fondly, tipsily.
translated by the author Gaelic original
© Colm Breathnach 1999
