Berusa er med vin, med poesi eller med dygd, allt efter behag

Man måste alltid vara berusad. Det är allt: det är det enda det är frågan om.
För att inte känna Tidens förfärliga börda som knäcker era skuldror
och böjer er mot marken, måste ni berusa er utan uppehåll.
Men med vad? Med vin, med poesi eller med dygd, allt efter behag. Men berusa er!
Och om någon gång, på trappan till ett palats, på det gröna gräset i ett dike,
i ert rums dystra ensamhet, ni vaknar, och berusningen redan är förminskad eller försvunnen,
fråga vinden, vågen, stjärnan, fågeln, klockan, allt det som flyr, allt det som kvider,
allt det som rullar, allt det som sjunger, allt det som talar, fråga vilken tid det är;
och vinden, vågen, stjärnan, fågeln, klockan, skall svara er:
»Det är tid att berusa sig! För att inte vara Tidens plågade slavar, berusa er utan uppehåll!
Med vin, med poesi eller med dygd, allt efter behag.

Charles Baudelaire





When Lewellen comes around
And he goes through market town
You'll be on the Celtic Ray,
Are you ready?

When McManus comes around
On his early morning round
Cryin' "Heron 'a' lay"
You'll be on the Celtic Ray.

1st Bridge:
Ireland, Scotland, Brittany, and Wales,
I can hear those ancient voices calling,
"Children, children"

When the coalbrick man comes round,
On a cold November day
You'll be on the Celtic Ray,
Are you ready?

2nd Bridge:
Ireland, Scotland, Cornwall and Wales,
I can hear those ancient voices calling,
"Children, children, children".

Listen Jimmy, I wanna go home.
Listen Jimmy I wanna go home.
I've been away from the Ray too long.

Repeat

I've been away from the Ray too long.
In the early mornin', we'll go walkin' where
The light comes shining through
On the Celtic Ray,




On Raglan Road of an autumn day
I saw her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare
That I might one day rue
I saw the danger and I passed
Along the enchanted way
And said let grief be a fallen leaf
At the dawning of the day

On Grafton Street in November
We tripped lightly along the ledge
Of a deep ravine where can be seen
The worth of passion's pledge
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts
And I not making hay
Oh I loved too much and by such by such
Is happiness thrown away

I gave her gifts of the mind
I gave her the secret signs
Known to the artists who have known
The true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint I did not stint
I gave her poems to say
With her own name there
And her own dark hair
Like clouds over fields of May

On a quiet street where old ghosts meet
I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had loved not as I should
A creature made of clay
When the angel woos the clay
He'll lose his wings at the dawn of da