Donagh Mac Donagh

Has anyone else even fecking heard of him? There was a slim volume of his poems in my college library, the year that I decided Salome was my favorite opera bar none (I have wavered back and forth, but it is still in the top five), and I skipped in a little circle when I read this:

Saint John was a man with a mission,
He lived in a very poor way,
He ate locusts I’m told for his breakfast
And drank water neat for his tay.

He was preaching hellfire and damnation
And company-keeping he banned,
No Dance Licence ever was granted
While Saint John was abroad in the land.

For dancing he thought was unholy,
A shocking occasion of sin,
He advised the young men of the country
To avoid anything feminine.

Now there was a young one called Salome,
A divil to dance and to sing
And she took a great liking to Saint John
And she went to her father, the king,

“If I dance, will you give me a present?”
Says she, and the old lad agrees,
So she started to dance like an angel
And the king sitting back at his ease.

“Very nice,” says your man, when she’s winded,
“Very nice, and now what will you have?”
“Oh daddy,” says she, “give me Saint John,
That lovely young man for my slave.”

“Fair enough,” says the king, “you can have him.”
But Saint John, being a saint, said “No fear.”
So Salome was mad, and her father
Said “Right, you can cut off his ear.”

“No, No,” says Salome, “his head please!”
So she danced with the head round the Court,
And bonfires on John’s Eve remind us
That dancing is dangerous sport.

My late and ex’s birthday was on Saint John’s Eve, June twenty-fourth as is. I don’t know what that tells us.