Pilgrimage

God’s country I now leave behind

That sainted Emerald Isle.

To see Australia I’ve a mind.

In the Aussie sun I’ll smile.

And though my friends all gather near

To swear how much they’ll miss me,

I must confess, when I leave here,

I’ll mostly miss the Whiskey.

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The Irish Sea is much too cold

At all for me to swim in.

And I’ve grown tired of places old

And all the local women.

Now I’ll admit I’ve had grand times

With my favorite barman’s daughter.

But when I’m off in southern climes

I’ll mostly miss his Porter.

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I bid farewell to Drogheda Town

(Which Cromwell loved to plunder).

My present path, it takes me down.

To be precise, Down Under.

And when I’m in the Outback, dear

I’ll not be mourning Erin’s green.

I promise I’ll not shed a tear,

‘Cept for my long-lost love: Poteen.

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Now you that hear may think me daft

To leave my home, for here it’s

Where you shall find a mighty draught

That will raise all your spirits.

But I have something lofty planned

And I’ll accomplish it or die.

I travel to the Great South Land

To drink the Lucky Country dry.

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For down in Oz- or so I’m told-

They do not pray as we do here.

Nor do they worship land or gold.

Their Deity? His name is Beer.

So when at last I travel through

The gates of this new Heaven

There’d better be a decent brew

Or sure as Hell, I’m leavin’.