Look at the palace,

O look at the tomb

Look at its pillars,

O look at its dome!

Don’t you be surprised,

For this isn’t all;

Just wait for our Rani

To enter the hall.

With mehandi filled hands

And with a face of a teen,

Wearing a hundred bangles,

In walks our queen.

Look at her emerald eyes,

For they are very rare

But not more than a moment,

For she isn’t a toy to stare!

Amidst the thousand girls,

Her anklets sound like a song

And if you think she is just a beauty,

You are totally wrong.

In our kingdom,

Not a beggar is seen

All are rich and happy,

And the reason is our queen.

Today in this saree,

She looks like a fairy

And her long black hair,

Is her crowning glory.

She is our Rani,

She is our queen

And she is the best one,

I have ever seen.

I will sing of Molly Maguire:

Come down to the pits of coal.

We’ll weep for Molly Maguire

And those good Irish boys of old.

Their axes dug the anthracite

That burned so hard and long.

They worked to death for petty coins;

The foremen done them wrong.

The blackness ruined lungs and breath,

Men worked their flesh to bone.

They dug their Catholic souls to death;

They’d die in the darkness alone.

For tons of coal were in the ground,

And Irish lives were cheap.

Their coal would fill the furnace and

The owners pockets so deep.

When a man could take no more,

Needed more than whiskey and piss,

He’d join the Molly Maguires:

A man would raise his fist.

They burned the company office down,

They cracked the foreman’s head.

When company men came lookin’ around

They knifed the bastards dead.

The Pinkertons came in October

When the moneyed men had enough.

They got more than just the Mollies:

Beat ‘em and shot ’em and cuffed.

They hanged the Molly Maguires

Before that year’s first snow.

Judge doomed each man on the docket

Whether he was a Molly or no.

Ghosts pace in the cells where they held them,

The hole where they broke ’em of hope.

Ghosts gaze at the beams of the rafters

Where they broke their necks with the rope.

And the Irish, they suffered and hungered

And struggled on down in the mines.

And the owners still lined their silk pockets

Just like they did beforetimes.

Let us sing of Molly Maguire:

Come down to the pits of coal.

We’ll drink to Molly Maguires,

All those good Irish boys of old.

Multiple liberties taken - in a folk song, shouldn't they be? - but here's a bit of history for the curious: https://explorepahistory.com/hmarker.php?markerId=1-A-3B9

a refraction of light

slithered down from the sky

dying stars

melting planets

danced over the sand

glided over the pebbles

of color and fangs

it held

songs

bittersweet

of memories

of wisdom

sweet echoing

notes pouring

out of

the craggy cavern

in which

it dwelled

and all

that heard

opened their

eyes to the

beauty of

existence

but the snake

was also

a creature

of hunger

and that same

jaw that spilled

lyrics and melodies

drew blood

knives were

drawn

eyes closed

beauty forgotten

it was not wanted

and what was

gone was gone-

in their place

parrots cloaked

in brilliant feathers

but not enough

and the serpent’s

scales tarnished

its voice turned

to dust

it plunged

into the earth

leaving salty

rivers

streams

oceans

of tears

and was...

When breeze blows down o’er the trees

and treacle flows down the tart,

my love lies cold neath the knoll.

My blood don’t warm at the hearth.

My bonny cries from the grave.

The sound, it near breaks my heart.

Cut down she was by the knaves,

her honor, forced her to part.

I know I ought to forgive.

I know I ought, though it’s hard.

For how am I to go on,

to heal this weary a heart?

A bird comes crying at night.

I spy it call from the trees.

I’ll have my peace when I die

enraptured by folds in the fleece,

enraptured by folds in the fleece.

A mournful tune sprang up in my head to accompany this original folksong that I just wrote. I sang it and played its tune on my keyboard and flute. I think it will sound eerily nice on my recorder, as well.