Tura-lura

Over in Killarney, many years ago / My Mother sang a song to me in tones so sweet and low / Just a simple little ditty, in her good ould Irish way / And I’d give the world if she could sing / That song to me this day Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral / Too-ra-loo-ra-li / Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral / Hush now don’t you cry! Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral / Too-ra-loo-ra-li / Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral / That’s an Irish lullaby Oft, in dreams I wander to that cot again / I feel her arms a huggin’ me as when she held me then / And I hear her voice a hummin’ to me as in days of yore / When she used to rock me fast asleep outside the cabin door

Tur-a-lur-a-la, tur-a-lur-a-lae / A small bird sat on an ivy branch, and the song he sang was a Jug of Punch

Toora loora toora loo rye ay / And we can sing just like our fathers […]

“Well, off with you then, and I’m off too. Sing tura la, tura la, tura lura la.”

Bring your old iron, bits o’ brass / Tura-lura-laddi / Bring your old iron, bits o’ brass / Tura-lura-lido

Carole was gracious. “You don’t do so badly. They tell me Mick Kelly’s throwing too-ra-loo-ras in your direction.” “Mick’s swell,” Betsy agreed. “I like him a lot. He’s got ideas.” “Well, don’t let him get away with them.” Carol’s eyebrows arched.

Ava thinks I’m miffed because she didn’t use my suggestion of a shamrock garland so I could make a tura lura lei, but she’ll be sorry comes the day when someone else cashes in on the idea.

I heard a thing or two coming from that place, let me tell you! Tura-luras and the blood running high! and the squawks of the seagulls during the storms...