One night in Sligo, years ago,
When I was young and poor,
I played my whistle in the cold
Outside the chip shop door.

Benbulben’s shadow held me close,
The saintly trails were green,
The moss lay thick on standing stones,
The pubs lay in between.

I busked for pennies, silver pounds,
For chips or pints of beer,
Or else a bed in the White House Inn,
Or none, and sleep in fear.

(A German tramp with dog in tow
Would haunt the warehouse bare,
He’d trade this tale for company
Till the Laffeys broke him there).

So, on that night a murmur rose,
A crowd stood staring still,
Their faces turned to the ladies’ shop
That crowned the little hill.

And from its door the Devil strode,
A blouse upon his horn;
I prayed it came from hangers neat,
And not from one forlorn.

No cross was raised, no holy sign,
No chalk to guard the ground;
The chip shop keeper whispered low
For the Virgin’s aid profound.

He walked the street in solemn pride,
Holy-naked flesh laid bare,
His leathern bollocks swung side to side,
His eyes held secret glare.

He passed me by without a word,
Then turned beside the quay,
And vanished where the Garavogue
Runs silent to the sea.

The town resumed its evening trade,
Though hushed in look and tone,
As if the Devil, once he’d gone,
Had left the place his own.

…And, not a word of a lie, true lover.
Not a word of a lie.

Now, not a word of a lie, true lover.
Not a word of a lie…

Once, five-and-thirty years ago,
I saw the Devil in Sligo Town.
Strange to speak of it now,
from the hush of an Australian night,
forest whispering soft about me.

But then, under Benbulben’s skirts,
in the green-wet country of saints,
among moss-scalped stones
and the narrow pilgrim ways
between church door and pub,
it seemed no stranger than the rain.

I was busking for pennies,
for the flat, silver pounds
that might turn to chips and gravy,
a pint, or a night in the White House Inn;
or else to squander in the warehouse,
where the German tramp and his dog
dreamed amid the broken rafters.

Cold evening.
Leather gloves cut at the fingers
so my whistle could sing,
though frost slowed every tune.
A small crowd gathered,
pointing at the window
of the shop for Respectable Country Ladies.

And then,
they parted.
The Devil came forth,
a blouse snagged on one horn.
Whether torn from a rack
or a lady herself
I could not tell.

No chaos, no crosses raised,
no glyphs chalked in haste,
only the chip shop man
murmuring to the Virgin.
Perhaps the Devil
was no stranger to Sligo streets.

Naked, solemn, absurd,
his gait heavy with the drag
of leathery burden,
his slotted eyes glinting
with faint amusement,
he passed me by
and turned to the Garavogue.

Gone.
And the town, subdued,
took up its business again,
as if nothing at all
had passed among them.

…And not a word of a lie, true lover
Not a word of a lie.