The Dealer

The Dealer

Its Ballinasloe on a Sunday

And the Wran is out in style

On his back the dearest finery

On his face the warmest smile.

His hat is cocked at an angle

At his neck a scarf of colours bold

His waistcoat is brightly embroidered

His buckle sparkles like gold

The crease of his trous are like razors

His boot newly polished bright

He smiles to all new comers

Gold tooth reflects sunlight.

On plaited rope a stallion no less

All muscle and sinew and blood

The Wran bid hard to get him

Bettered Cash and Flood

Black as night, skin glistening bright

He stand proud and aloof from the rest.

For the green is awash with horses

Ponies and cobs of the best

The Wran is pride of the place

Tinker and dealer of renown

If those gathered selected a king

Then he would wear the crown.

Its Ballinasloe on Sunday

The Wran thinks without surprise

Its been a good week for the dealer

And the Stallion the ultimate prize.

The years march on and on

And men are broken and die

And the Wran had lost his plummage

Without wings he could no longer fly.

He has lost his airs and graces

His fame now just a memory

He is just a shadow man

Lost in time and history.

Its Ballinasloe on a Sunday

I sold all I brought to sell

I see an old man stumble drunk

And hear him curse us all to hell.

Old Dan is on the gargle

His temper it will soar

And as the crowds disperse

You will hear him roar.

Once I was the Wran

And I owned this fooking place

Now I am just a drunkard

A shadow man, a disgrace.

Now he is old, the dealer

His days all but done

His horses like himself

Are those that no more run

Old and worn and stiff

Nackers each and all

The man who cheaply trades their lives

Will himself soon answer the final call.

I see him at the marts and fairs

Trailing misery on a rope

Bags of bone pretruding spine

Eyes dead, devoid of hope.

Standing like a spectre

Away down on the green

At Ballinasloe on Sunday

A sight I have often seen.

His name was Dan OConner

A traveler of the old school

A trader in blood and bone

Always sharp, no mans fool

Those days they call him Old Dan

He is a shadow man

But in his younger days

They Called him Dan the Wran.

Its Ballinasloe on I Sunday.

Another year has past

I heard he died in August

Drunk and roaring to the last.

The younger men didnt know him

Others saw just a drunken old man

But I say a silent goodbye

To the dealer we called Dan the Wran

 

© Dave Kavanagh @ daithiocaomanaigh.com 2015

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