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How Are We Getting Home?
Release date: 8/3/2004
Track Listing:

I Miss My Home (Murphy/Twigger/Wehmeyer/Reid, Arranged by Gaelic Storm) This is a song about a young man coming of age and wrestling with some of life's most difficult choices. Forced to confront his deepest fears and desires, at death's door he learns the bittersweet truth that home is where the heart is and Mammy knows best... usually! It's a classic post-Freudian bildungsroman with pathos and verve... and harmonica. Then again, it might be a metaphor for the continual struggle of the lower classes against a violent imperialist system... (oh, there you go, bringing class into it again! For heaven's sake just go easy on the hot dogs and you'll be okay!)





When I was a baby boy,

Me mammy said to me,

"Don't mess around with them Irish Girls,

They'll never let you be!"

I went off to Dublin,

To see what I could see...

They filled me up with whiskey, boys!

They never let me be!


Chorus:

I miss my home!

The chimney stacks and the cobbled streets I roam,

Wherever I go, when I find myself alone,

I just close my eyes and the memories take me home.


When I was a little boy,

Me mammy said to me,

Don't mess around with them French girls, they'll never let you be,

I took a trip to Paris, France,

To see what I could see...

They filled me up with Ooh la la!

They never let me be!


Chorus:


When I was a young man,

Me mammy said to me,

Stay away from all those Yankee girls,

They'll never let you be,

So I went to New York City,

To see what I could see,

They put mustard on me hot dog, boys!

They never let me be!


Chorus:


It's finally plain to see,

They'll never let you be,

I should have listened to all the things,

Me mammy said to me!


Chorus:


And now I am an old man,

At the age of 93

I'm on my way to heaven, boys,

To see what I can see,

St. Peter's at them pearly gates,

And as he opens up the door,

He says you're not finished yet me b'yyyy!

You're goin' back for more!


Chorus:




(Murphy/Twigger/Wehmeyer, arranged by Gaelic Storm) This song was written over pints and sausage & chips at a table in the back of Frank O'Dowd's pub in Galena, IL. Any similarity between the song's protagonist and certain swingin' singles and smooth operators normally found at O'Dowd's or O'Brien's is absolutely deliberate! (Paddy, Chucky, Gavin... this song's not about you. Really.) The Motown flavor on this one just sort of crept in there when we weren't looking... and how could we resist? Here's to the single life!



Let me introduce meself,

Me name Ďtis Paddy Green

I am me mammyís pride and joy

A fine oulí buachaillin!

I come from the county Waterford,

Near the village of Tramore,

Iíve been living at home since I was one,

And now Iím forty-four!


Chorus:

I was born to be a Bachelor,

Iíll never walk down the aisle,

Me mam still makes me breakfast,

(Iím) Liviní it up in shtyle,

Girls, yeíll never catch me,

Stayiní single, thatís the plan

I was born to be a Bachelor,

Sure Iím yer only man! Hah?


Into town on the Saturday night,

All the bíys go on a spree,

If you come down to the dishco,

You can have a drink with me!

With the ladies on the dance floor,

Iím a wild and crazy guy,

In me white socks and me black suede shoes,

and me thin red leather tie!


Chorus


Then itís off to mass next morning,

Iím weariní me Sunday best,

Iíve got no wife to fight with,

So Iíve no sins to confess!

After church, the married men

go home, oh what a shame!

ĎCause Iím sculliní da pints down at the pub

Iím watchiní the football game!


Chorus


Iím a rambliní ranter, Iím a rolliní stone,

Iím a galavanterí gíwan an leave me alone,

If yer out to get married, youíll get no joy,

Cause I was born and bred to be a bachelor boy!

Up in Lisdoonvarna,

Theyíve an old matchmakerís fair,

The girls all go a huntiní

So youíll never see me there!

Iíve got a Russian sweetheart,

A fine oulí thing is she!

Sheís out in Vladivostok

And thatís close enough for me!


Chorus x2




(Murphy/Twigger/Wehmeyer, arranged by Gaelic Storm) History tells us that the Celts came from India and emigrated to Ireland, but the truth is MUCH stranger! After years of listening to songs about Irish ex-pats pining away for the lost homeland, we decided to write one with a difference... the hero of this song chooses Darjeeling over Dublin and never looks back. After years of painstaking research, we finally know the real reason why the Irish put curry on their chips! (And the Bengali Musician's Union confirms that no Sitar players were injured in the recording of this track).




I said farewell to Erin, only seven years ago,

When asked where I was headed, I said: ďJaysus, I dunno!?Ē

I stepped ashore near Bangalore, not a tosser in me hand,

By the time I hit Darjeeling, I was feeling mighty grand!


Chorus:

You can keep your forty shades of green, they only make me blue,

You can stick your eggs and bacon, boys, Iíll have a Vindaloo,

I found a place in India, so far across the foam,

You can call me Punjab Paddy, boys, Iím never cominí home.


I dreamed I got a letter from me darling Josephine,

She asked me would I marry her, back home in Skibbereen,

But the girls out here have almond eyes and jasmine-scented hair,

And thereís things in the Kama Sutra that they never do in Clare!

So Iíll spend me days relaxing in me Punjab paradise,

No more Iíll dig the praties, Iíll stick to tea and rice.

Iíll be sippiní mango lassi with the lassies in the shade,

While yer man called Ravi Shankar plays ďThe Boys of the Oulí Brigade!Ē


Chorus:

You can keep your Miltown Malbay, you can chuck yer Galway Bay,

Youíll never see the sun go down on Delhi or Bombay,

I found a place in India, so far across the foam,

You can call me Punjab Paddy, boys, Iím never cominí home.


From Bohola to Benares, Inchigeela to Lahore

Kamakura, Siliguri, Peshawar, Sahrunapore

Amritsar to Sanawar, Simla, and Pinjore

I got trolleyed on Dewali, and I'm going back for more!

Someday Iíll be a holy man with saffron on me nose,

Iíll shave my head like Gandhi and Iíll never wear no clothes,

To see the Irish Guru, theyíll come from near and far,

Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Whiskey in the Jar!


Chorus:

You can keep your Michael Flatley with his tattoos on his chest,

Fare thee well, Sweet Anna Liffey, itís the Ganges I love best,

I found a place in India so far across the foam,

You can call me Punjab Paddy, boys, Iím never cominí home,

Iím never cominí home!

Iím never cominí home!




(Rocking the Baby [Trad.]/Paddy's Leather Breeches [Trad.]/Galician Jigs [Trad.], Arranged & Adapted by GS)


(Murphy/Twigger/Wehmeyer/Sanders/Sellers, arranged by Gaelic Storm) We wrote this together with Mark Sanders and Tia Sellers, AMA award winning songwriters from Nashville. Celtic or Country, Tennessee or Tullamore: leaving the place you were born for the first time is always a heart-wrenching experience. But when thereís someone waiting for you on the other end of the journey, how can you say no?



These tired ghosts that haunt my nights,

Mistakes of my own making,

When I depart at dayís first light,

Itís them I wonít be taking,

If Iím to leave this place I love,

Iíll harbor no regret,

I cannot wait to see her smile,

I cannot wait, and yet....


Chorus:

I grieve to leave, I grieve to leave this native land,

Across the sea, she waits for me to take her hand,

My every breath, my every bone,

Have drawn what strength they have from home.

But love is stronger I suppose,

And thereís the tear upon the rose.


Iíve held my shoulder to the plow,

Iíve worked these fields for so long,

This earth has left its dirt on me,

And made my hands so strong,

It hurts to lay these reins aside,

My heart, and heaven, knows,

This rocky soil Iíve cursed and nursed,

Is no place to grow a rose.


Chorus


I understand the risk I run,

I love, and I may lose,

But I have seen there, in her eyes,

A Rose I canít refuse.


Chorus




Twigger, arranged by Gaelic Storm) Love is like weather... it can change when you least expect it. When it's too hot, there's no sunscreen in the world that can keep you from getting burned. Then Winter moves in, and you find yourself bitterly cold... but even then it only takes one warm spell to thaw out a chilled heart.




Chorus:

Summer's gone. It's winter's fault my summer went away,

Summer's gone, summer's gone and winter she's to blame.


Make up your mind,

Every year, you come 'round here.

Please shine your light on me,

I'm paper thin, you can look right in and see that I'm in love with you.


Chorus


Nights are getting long,

Swallows have gone, following the sun

There's a chill in the air

Dog days are off the leash, chasing snowballs on the beach

I remember lying hand in hand,

Sand got everywhere, ohhh, but I didn't care,

Got my factor thirty on,

We had safe sun but I got burnt,

Man that really hurt.


Chorus


I've got my beanie on,

I'm hot, I'm cold... This is getting old,

So I went to see the weather man,

He said "warm spells on the way."

This time I think it's here to stay!


Chorus




Murphy/Twigger/Wehmeyer, arranged by Gaelic Storm) Who doesnít dream of the tropics in the middle of winter? We started mumbling the lyrics for this one while taking the long walk home to some long-forgotten hotel long after closing time. It was, of course, raining. This song is affectionately dedicated to Pat Murphy's five-year-old niece, Lily, who just moved to Cork from Los Angeles. On her first phone call back to the states she asked "Uncle Paddy? Does the sun EVER come out in Ireland?!" Hang in there, Lily, in just 14 years you can finally have spring break in Ibiza!



La, La La La, La, La la la

La, La La La, La, La la la

Sheís working as a waitress in Dublin,

Filling up the tourists with beer,

Stashing away a little cash every day,

For a ticket to ride out of here,

Every night she feels a little bit older,

Every day a little wetter and colder,

No more rain for this Irish Rose,

Sheís gonna go (Sheís gonna go!) where the palm trees grow.



Chorus:

She wants a PiŮa Colada in a pint glass...

She wants to be where the summer wonít stop,

She wants gin clear water and milk white sand,

A sunburned nose and a drink in her hand

With a pink umbrella on top!




Sheís standing in line at the chipper,

Waiting for her curry and peas,

But dying for some of that papaya and rum,

And the kiss of a coconut breeze,

Every night she feels a little bit older,

Every dayís a little wetter and colder,

Sheís bought a thong bikini and a big straw hat

Sheís gonna go and sheís not coming back!



Chorus:



Every night she feels a little bit older,

Every dayís a little wetter and colder,

Sheís cleaning up the tables on Sunday,

But sheís dreaming of the tropical night,

Another five or ten in her pocket and then,

Sheíll be closer to the price of a flight!

Every night she feels a little bit older,

Every dayís a little wetter and colder,

She plays Beach Boys records and she dances alone,

And before (before) before she goes home...



Chorus x2


(Twigger, arranged by GS) The inspiration for this track struck somewhere in the west of France, in a warm and peaceful town with a babbling brook, and no cell phones, billboards, record executives, or deadlines. We eventually had to drag Steve Twigger bodily away from this paradise, but the damage was already done. He recently traded his fax machine for a tackle-box and disappeared downstream. So if youíre broke (see track *), broken hearted (see track *) and havenít yet won the lottery (see track *) then thereís really only two things you can do... (actually, the fishing part is optional, but you get the idea!)




I keep it goiní day by day,

Drink my coffee, smile and say,

ďDoiní fine... howís it treatiní you?Ē

My smile comes from a movie scene,

Words from Sundayís magazine,

Who I am, I only wish I knew.



Chorus:

I wanna fish and get fat, Iím done with all of that!

I wanna fish and get fat... I ainít cominí back!

Iím moviní backward stride by stride,

Iím sliced Iím diced, Iím crispy fried.



Cityís closiní in on me,

The windows to my soul are sad reflections of a billboard ad:

Buy one now and get another free!

Chorus

Iím genuine synthetic fake, lock me up and let me bake,

Turn me over now, I think Iím done,

Sprinkle me with MSG, a word or two of sympathy,

Slap me Ďround and throw me in a bun!

I keep it goiní day by day,

Drink my coffee, smile and say,

ďDoiní fine... howís it treatiní you?Ē

My smile comes from a movie scene,

Words from Sundayís magazine,

Who I am, I only wish I knew.

Chorus:

I wanna fish and get fat, Iím done with all of that!

I wanna fish and get fat... I ainít cominí back!

Iím moviní backward stride by stride, Iím sliced Iím diced, Iím crispy fried.

Cityís closiní in on me,

The windows to my soul are sad reflections of a billboard ad:

Buy one now and get another free!

Chorus

Iím genuine synthetic fake, lock me up and let me bake,

Turn me over now, I think Iím done,

Sprinkle me with MSG, a word or two of sympathy,

Slap me Ďround and throw me in a bun!

Chorus

River river, wash me clean, carry me away.

River river, wash me clean, carry me away.

River river, wash me clean, carry me away.

River river, wash me clean... Ďcause I canít stand another lousy day!

I move my mouth, the words come out,

First a whisper, then a shout,

No one hears a thing I have to say,

The sell-by date stamped on my neck is out of date, but what the heck

No oneís buying anything today!

Chorus

River river, wash me clean, carry me away.

River river, wash me clean, carry me away.

River river, wash me clean, carry me away.

River river, wash me clean... Ďcause I canít stand another lousy day!

I move my mouth, the words come out,

First a whisper, then a shout,

No one hears a thing I have to say,

The sell-by date stamped on my neck is out of date, but what the heck

No oneís buying anything today!

Chorus x 4



(Pretty Little Girl [trad.]/House of Hammill [Ed Reavey]/Humours of Ballyconnell [trad.]/The Twisted Bridge [trad.]


Twigger, arranged by Gaelic Storm) Who ever said money can't buy happiness never played the lottery. Didn't you ever wonder what you'd do if you ever hit the jackpot? We do, and we've got a list of plans as long as yer arm. This song outlines just a few of 'em: like buying the Renoir for Ryan's bathroom, or the private limousine for Twigger's cats. We get woozy just imagining the party that we'll have to throw if, ummm, WHEN we win. Oh, and by the way... if our numbers do come up, you're all invited!



There's a house on a hill,

A great big spankin' beautiful house,

With a view to kill,

Out the back, there's a pool,

A turquoise liquid paradise, man that water's cool!

But do I live there? Do I live there? Do I live there? No, you do!



But when I win, you're gonna have to let me in!

And I'm bringin' all my friends, we're gonna have some fun,

When I win, you're gonna have to let me in,

We're singin' and dancin', We're stayin' until we see the sun!



A brand new car goes flyin' past,

One sexy set of wheels, that Maserati's fast!

The touch of steel, the smell of leather,

Hear the turbo squeal, squeal and whine with pleasure,

Do I drive that machine? Am I behind that wheel? Am I in that car? No, you are!



But when I win, you're gonna have to let me in!

And I'm throwin' out your Kenny G, I'm blastin' Eminem!

When I win, you're gonna have to let me in,

I'm crankin' up the stereo, I'm never slowin' down ever again!



A trendy club, so exclusive,

Prada and Gucci, models so elusive,

Red velvet rope security,

They're letting all the rich folk in,

Everyone but me,

But do I care? Do I care? Do I care? Yes I do!!!!



But when I win! They're gonna have to let me in!

And I'm wearin' what I want, I won't be dressed in black...

When I win, they're gonna have to let me in!

In my t-shirt, jeans, and yellow wellies, that'll be some mighty craic!



Now there's a boat, no it's a yacht,

Got a helicopter pad, it's huge, it's worth ... a lot!

Pretty girls, in bikinis,

Suckin' down beluga caviar, sippin' on martinis.

It's not me, no it's not me, it's not me... But it sure as hell will be!



'Cause when I win, they're gonna have to let me in!

I'm bringin' Guinness by the case, we're gonna have some fun,

When I win, they're gonna have to let me in,

We're drinkin' whiskey from the bottle and we're stayin!

We're drinkin' whiskey from the bottle and we're stayin, we're stayin

We're stayin' until we see the sun.


Traditional, with additional words and music by Murphy/Twigger/Wehmeyer, arranged by Gaelic Storm) This song, sung in Irish Gaelic, tells the woeful tale of an innocent lad who gives too much drink to a beautiful red-haired girl. He declares his undying love in poetry only the Irish can compose: "I prefer her to cows..." is one of his best lines. Is it any wonder the girl steals all his money and runs off with the shop-boy? The Irish word "Rua" in the title can be translated as both "Red-haired" and "Wild"... But seriously, is there really any difference!?



Nach doiligh domhsa mo chailin a mholadh

ĎS ni he amhain mar bhi si rua

Bhi si mar gath greine a dhul in eadan na gloinne

is bhi sceimh mhna na finne le mo caillin rua



Chorus:

Thug me liom i o bhaile go baile

Thug me liom i o bhaile go baile

Thug me liom i o bhaile go baile

Chuir me an deoch ar mo caillin deas rua!




Bífhearr liom i na bo is na serrach,

A bhfuil da loinghis aí tarraingt chun cuain,

Bífhearr liom aris na cios cluain maidne

Go mbeinn is mo chaillin in mBaile an Luain.



Chorus



Chuir me mo chailin go margadh Shligidh,

Bíe sin fein an margadh bhi daor,

Bhi scilling agus punt ar a pheice mine

No go dtug mise na fuinneadh do mo chailin rua



Chorus



Chuaigh si siar le broga breachíuirthi

Ribini glasuaine teannta Ďar a gruaig,

Díealaigh si uaimse le buachaill an tsiopa,

ĎS a Ri, nar dheas i mo chailin rua!


Murphy/Twigger/Wehmeyer/Reid, arranged by Gaelic Storm) From Cornwall, England to Springhill, Nova Scotia, to Harlan County, USA, this is a new song about an old story. A hard working man is caught in the crossfire between the Company and the Union, when the only thing that really matters is keeping his family fed. We always wanted to write a mining song, and we finally did, together with Nashville's finest Scottish songwriter, Johnny Reid. Hard, honest work is a rare commodity these days, but the folks who do it have every right to be proud of it... and they deserve our thanks and support...



Say goodbye to the morning light,

Got my Jaffas and my flask of tea,

Sucking death with every breath,

Tryin' to feed my family,

No sanctuary for this yellow canary

Stuck in a black iron cage,

I'm blind as a mole in this bottomless hole,

I'm diggin' my own grave.



Chorus:

I'm goin' down, underground,

Down, underground.

Down, underground,

Down, down, down...




They say, walk away, and you'll get better pay,

I don't know what I should do,

Should I cross the line, like some friends of mine,

They were hungry too,

Those union joes in their spotless clothes,

Don't mean nothin' to me,

I"m sick and tired of stokin' the fires,

For them or this company.



Chorus



When the siren sounds,

And the sun goes down,

I finally get to wash my face,

The wheels don't stop,

They spin 'round the clock,

They send my son down to take my place,



Chorus:

(He's) goin' down, underground,

Down underground,

Down underground,

Down down down



Repeat Chorus.


Cab Ride to Kingston

(Twigger/Wehmeyer, arranged by Gaelic Storm) Of all the frightening things to hear at 1:45 in the morning, ďLast Call!Ē is probably the worst! ("Settle up this Tab." runs a close second!) We've been politely ejected from some of the finest watering holes in the world, and one thing we know to be true: there's a warmth, fellowship, and good humor you can only find at your local pub. In a hectic world we think people often forget: before therapists, there were Bartenders. Before Prozac, we had Pints... and before we go, we'll have another beer, thank you!



Chorus:

T...i...m...e, Drink 'em up!

Haven't you got no homes to go to,

Don't care where you go,

You can't be stayin' here

T...i...m...e, Drink 'em up!

The lights are on, the towels are up,

You best be on your way.




Now Billy's in the corner, he's been there all night long,

Story after story, song after song,

Tomorrow marks the day that he lost his dear ol' Da,

So tonight he's with his mates gettin' therapy at the bar.



Chorus



The football team is drinkin'. They lost another game,

O'Malley he is drinkin' cause his greyhound won again,

Barry he is drinkin,' his divorce came through today,

And the rest of us are drinkin' 'cause it's just another day...



The world keeps getting bigger, It makes you feel so small,

The CEOs you've never met are the one's who run it all,

You spend your whole life workin' they still forget your name,

Yeah the world keeps on changin' but the pub... remains... the same!



Chorus



I was born inside a pub if the tale's to be believed,

But I think it's much more likely that it's there I was conceived

And when it's time to die I hope the pub is where I'm found,

And I hope I go before I have to buy another round!



Chorus


(Twigger, arranged by GS) Bob: (n) English slang for coin. Small change. Skint: (adj): Flat broke. See also ďFolk Musician.Ē Get oneís Scoop on: (v) To consume large quantities of alcohol in a short period. See also ďGaelic Storm.Ē



Iíd say Iím in a pickle,

Me cash flow doesnít trickle

Thereís nothing in me pocket except lint,

Thereís no bread for me butter,

Me best friend is the gutter,

Do you get the bloody picture, boys Iím skint!



Chorus:

Iím short a couple a bob,

Since I started on the grog,

Iíve seen better days for sure,



Me head is all a throb,

Iíve seen better days for sure!




I spend me mornings clipping coupons,

Since I got me scoop on,

The church mouse is a rich man and Iím not

But I ainít a down and out, see,

The train just left without me,

I donít own a smidgeon or a jot!



Chorus:

Iím short a couple a bob,

Since I lost me job,

Iíve seen better days for sure,

Iím short a couple a bob,

Iíve run out of stuff to flog,

Iíve seen better days for sure!




The pot that I would piss in,

Is temporarily missiní

Iím not a pauper, Iím just poor,

Iím really not that miserable,

Though me lack of funds is considerable,

The wolf is selling crackers at the door!



Chorus:

Iím short a couple a bob,

I eat me chips without the cod,

Iíve seen better days for sure,

Iím short a couple a bob,

Thereís no corn on me cob,

Iíve seen better days for sure!




Well that silver spoon of mine,

Got stuck where the sun donít shine,

Good fortune ran away and doesnít call,

Iíve really fallen on hard times,

Ďcause Iíve just run out of rhymes,

So I better finish quickly while I canÖ stillÖ. finish.



Chorus:

Iím short a couple a bob

Thereís no bricks in me hod,

Iíve seen better days for sure,

Iím short a couple a bob,

Iím not the man you want to rob

Iíve seen better days for sure,

Iíve seen better days for sureÖ





 


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