Old pigeon Willie from Ballymacash
I remember him well as a child
He would march on the Twelfth
With his drum and his sash
Who'd have thought he would grow up so wild?
Feeding stray pigeons, what a terrible crime
I'm sure that, if that, Sir, were you
You'd expect to be given a fair bit of time
When you're aged about seventy two.
They gave him an asbo, the old reprobate
You could read of his crime in the news
At least all the righteous had someone to hate
As they knelt down in church, in the pews.
At school, he was smart, but never streetwise
A country boy, Bill, through and through
He pinched a few apples, he threw some mud pies
But was overall loyal and true
I heard some kids broke Willie's slates
I'm sure they meant no harm
But I'd rather have heard they paid his rates
Or kept his old bones warm.
There are more important things, I'm sure
That we could complain about
But I have a feeling that in days of yore
Good neighbours would have helped him out.
"We always help each other."
How often I've heard it said.
But no one's prepared to bother
Till they hear old Willie's dead.
Then we'll hear he wasn't too bad
That he just let himself go
But don't you think it's rather sad
Nobody listened, long ago?