I was too young to remember the day
when I first met Molly Malone,
that mile and a half of dark brook street
running to my home

That river is a constant,
never changing from wide and narrow,
‘Tween Queens and Drumbeg she twists and turns,
wheeling toward the barrow.

In the eve she rages a torrent,
at noon she is mild.
Her muscles that flexed to speed their way,
relax to coddle the child.

Has she always been a refuge?
In Belfast, fair city of war?
This night street is quiet now.
Was it ever Loughinisland, of 1994?

Why name her for a *****?
Compare the parallels
how the masses crowd and cram.
Only children follow her,
Maigh Lón, the plain of the lamb.