Letra de canción de Wolfe Tones: The Streets Of New York

The Streets Of New York


I was eighteen years old when I went down to Dublin
With a fistfull of money and a cartload of dreams
"Take your time," said my father, "stop rushing like Hell,
And remember all's not what it seems to be

For there's fellas who'd cut you for the coat on your back,
Or that watch that you got from your mother
So take care, my young bucko, and mind yourself well
And would you give this wee note to my brother"

At the time, Uncle Benjy was a policeman in Brooklyn,
And my father, the youngest, looked after the farm
Til a phone call from America said "Send the lad over"
And my old fella said, "Sure, t'wouldn't do any harm

For I've spent my life working this dirty old ground
For a few pints of porter and the smell of a pound
And sure, maybe there's something you'll learn or you'll see,
And you can bring it back home, make it easier on me"

So, I landed at Kennedy, and a big yellow taxi
Carried me and my bags through the streets and the rain
Well, my poor heart was thumping around with excitement,
And I hardly even heard what the driver was saying

We came in the Shore Parkway through the flatlands in Brooklyn,
To my uncle's apartment on East 53rd
I was feeling so happy, I was humming a song,
And I sang "You're as free as a bird"

Well, to shorten the story, whatI found out that day
Was that Benjy got shot down in an uptown foray
And while I was flying my wayto New York,
Poor Benjy was lying in a cold city morgue

Well, I called up my old fella, told him the news
I could tell he could hardly stand up in his shoes
And he wept as he told me go ahead with the plan,
And not to forget, be a proud Irish man

So, I went up to Nellie's beside Fordham Road,
And I started to learn about lifting my load
But the heaviest thing that I carried that year
Was the bittersweet thoughts of my hometown so dear

I went home that December cause my old fella died
I had to borrow the money from a fella on the side
And all the bright flowers and brass couldn't hide
The poor, wasted face of my father

I sold off the old far yard for what it was worth,
And into my bag stuck a handful of earth
Then I boarded a train and I caught me a plane,
And I found myself back in the US again

It's been twenty-two years since I set foot in Dublin
My kids know to use the correct knife and fork
But I'll never forget the green grass and the rivers,
As I keep law and order in the streets of New York







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