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Black Coddle

Eamonn Flynn
It's four in the morning, And I'm still awake, The city is sleeping, It’s coiled like a snake. Our Lady of Dublin Looks down on us all, Horatio Nelson's World is starting to fall, It's starting to fall. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, If God doesn't get you the Devil must, The black soot that gathers and makes a crust On the coddle that sits on the fire. Ten to a room in a tenement flat, The white lady's burnt face And the scurry of rats, Oh, black coddle’s in my soul. My mind goes walking down dark streets Whose names have all changed, Sackville to O’Connell, Cathal Brugha from Gregg Lane, Where some fought for freedom, Some gave up their lives, They were poets and teachers, Shopkeepers, husbands and wives, But why did they die? Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, If God doesn't get you the Devil must, The black soot that gathers and makes a crust On the coddle that sits on the fire. Leaving in thousands On boat and on planes, When the city that bore you Now turns you away, Oh, black coddle’s in my soul. When I open my eyes, It's there in the face Of the pale sun that's trying to rise. And the freedom they died for, That they cherished and prayed, To the priests and the bankers We gave it away, But we'll win it someday. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, If God doesn't get you the Devil must, The black soot that gathers and makes a crust On the coddle that sits on the fire. Someday we'll take care of the ones on the streets, Sheltering in doorways and trying to sleep. Oh, black coddle’s in my soul, Oh, black coddle’s in my soul.

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