I had survived most of an off-night Monday doing a solo up in "The
Dubliner" on Capital Hill. Half my brain was engaged dishing out
the four green fields of left and right, while the other half was
focused on the ball and a half wedge that I'd soon be slipping into
my pocket. The night's crowd had been reduced to a dwindling throng
of loud, lobbying conventioneers.

A sad little man broke away from the gladhanders, gazed up (at "The
Dub" you sang aloft in narrow, dangerous, crow's nest of a stage),
and asked for DB. I told him that DB cost $12.50, like it was a menu
item squeezed between Mrs. Murphy's Potatoes and Mother Mularky's
Shephard's Pie. He dottered away,leaving me free to go back to the
comfort of my orphic dreaming.

Again your man interrupted my daze, presenting the required fee
counted out to the penny. I thought of a family relic - a note from
the actor, Mickey Shaughnessy, to my father, "Dear Dan, You sing
Danny Boy better than I do." With a quick dedication to
Shaughnessy, I began...

"OH DANNY BOY, THE PIPES THE PIPES..."

I must not have done too bad a job, 'cause the drunks went into a
hush. One of their lieutenants returned from the jacks' just as I
was conjuring the "Ave" at the grave. Having missed the gist of the
rendering, he DEMANDED that I sing it again. My little sad friend
informed him of the song's tariff, whereupon the pushy lieutenant
proclaimed he'd pay me twice the required fee to sing it again. UH
OH! I dedicated Round Two to Barry McGuigan's father (quietly
uttering a contritional Pater) and began again:

"OH DANNY BOY, THE PIPES THE PIPES..."

Regrettably the Bull Goose General of this assemblage (a fat-
fingered, red-eyed, man of apparant importance) arrived in from
Kelly's (next door) near the second round's conclusion. He was
livid to have missed the night's big moment, so he walked right up
and made an ostentatious contribution to have it sung again -
doubling the last offer. I quickly checked over my shoulder for
quick gathering lightening clouds. The barman was glaring at me -
clearly not amused. I thought of again of Mickey, and my Dad, and
the Clones Cyclone - then I thought of Harry Chapin. Stuffing the
bills into my shirt, I muttered something about braces for the wee
ba' and completed the triple play.

The lonely night's ride back through the McHenry Tunnel into smoky
Baltimore felt like a log flume amusement ride. The dirty old town
floated like a gleaming jewel on the Inner Harbor. Ahh, the magical
power of wampum!! I imagined (perhaps hoped) that my windfall would
end up as an entry under the "Miscellaneous" column of the
lobbyists' expense report(s).

Before I go, I will say these things about "Danny Boy". Taken on
it's own, it's a beautiful song to a lovely air. It's got a
challenging range and, IMHO, many who will not sing Danny Boy,
cannot. I might want to pay more honor to the song since it was
once a solemn unifying anthem of my caste - big-city, working-class
Irish America. My own people loved it.

In another circumstance, when McGuigan's father sang it in Belfast
before the bout with the Panamanian, it clearly served as a unifying
element in that city. Sadly, over the decades it's been abused by the likes of me, though I always try to make a good go of it. Thankfully, I can do it little harm.

Regards,

Danny