The Biddy Song
Written for a small folk trio I was in, some time ago.
They’re calling me Biddy, but that’s not my name.
I was born Kathleen Óg Lynch in Cranny.
I came to this country to try to survive,
And I fear I’ll be lost ‘mongst so many.
To die in the workhouse or starve on the road
Our choice and our shame, we were taught.
Between the Free Market and God’s righteous wrath,
Our fate wasn’t really their fault
They said we deserved what we got.
There was death on all sides at that crossroads in Clare.
The ship that we sailed was no better.
They turned back the sick, so I tried to look strong.
The mother of exiles’ true daughter.
Half dead for the taste of clean water.
The rats came to meet us right there on the quay.
Preying on poor men and women.
If I’d wanted the job they were offering me,
I needn’t have left dear old Erin
I’d just shift to the alleys of Dublin.
I clawed my way out and I’ve fought my way up
This country’s not soft, but I’ll take it.
The things I’ve been called, Biddy’s hardly the worst.
At least there’s a chance here to make it.
And when I’ve a thirst, I can slake it.
They’re calling me Biddy, but that’s not my name.
I was born Kathleen Óg Lynch in Cranny.
I came to this country to try to survive,
And I fear I’ll be lost ‘mongst so many.
I fear I’ll be lost ‘mongst so many.
Happy St. Pat's!
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