Everybody stood to their feet; here was an Irish hero if ever there was one.
After the scrumptious meal came the entertainment. The bar had hired a band, and it was off to the races. There was ample room for dancing. Timothy shuffled around the floor with Lilian as often as he could; in a couple of weeks, this mirage would all come to an end. Mom did the same with Sean; she hung onto him as though he were the crown jewels. Towards the end of the evening, there were raucous calls for Lilian to do her stuff; she relented and got up. After a few numbers, the crowd shouted,
“Come on. Tim, get up and give Lily a hand!”
Timothy the lumbering giant meandered to the stage amid shouts from his fan club. With the cogwheels oiled, the occasion more holy than Lent, it was the recipe for a Mardi Gras. The evening ended with the singing of “O Danny Boy.” There wasn’t a dry face to be found. Ireland was honouring its heroes. A man who could stand at a bar on a Saturday night and down twelve pints of Guinness and still stand straight and talk sense, surely ranked with the greats of the world.
Sean stayed for another three weeks, and then Wyoming was calling. They boarded a ship at beautiful Bantry Bay. It took them around the periphery of Southern Ireland to Dublin, where they boarded a ship to Liverpool, and then an ocean liner to New York. Before they boarded their ship to Liverpool, they paid a visit to the pub. The Irish were sending them off in the only way they knew how: with a belly full of Guinness, the nectar of the Gods. A royal send-off. As the ship pulled away from the quay side, the entire group burst into song with a Scottish ballad, “Will He No Come Back Again.” What transpired in Wyoming is another story for another day.
Epilogue.
From Erin’s Isle came a wail, “Look after my daughters.”
From the Blarney Stone was heard a cry,
“And look after Ireland’s Sons.
And there on the shore was seen “The Wild Colonial Boy,”
arms outstretched, he shouted,
“I left Ireland, but my soul never did, God bless Ireland.”
