The Mornin's Mornin
THIS IS THE TALE that Cassidy told
In his halls a-sheen with purple and gold;
Told as he sprawled in an easy chair,
Chewing cigars at a dollar a pair;
Told with a sigh, and perchance a tear,
As the rough soul showed through the cracked veneer;
Told as he gazed on the walls near by,
Where a Greuze and a Millet were hung on high,
With a rude little print in a frame between—
A picture of Shanahan's ould shebeen.
I'm drinkin' me mornin's mornin'—but it doesn't taste th' same,
Tho' the glass is iv finest crystal, an' th' liquor slips down like crame.
An' me Cockney footman brings it on a soort of a silver plate—
Sherry an' bitters it is, whiskey is out iv date.
In me bran-new brownstone mansion—Fift' Av'noo over th' way—
The cathaydral round th' corner, an' the Lord Archbishop to tay.
Sure I ought to be sthiff wid grandeur, but me tastes are mighty mean,
An' I'd rather a mornin's mornin' at Shanahan's ould shebeen.
Oh, well do I mind th' shanty—th' rocks an' th' field beyant,
The dirt floor yellow wid sawdust, an' th' walls on a three-inch slant;
There's a twelve-story flat on the site now—'twas meself that builded the same,
An' they called it the Mont-morincy, tho' I wanted th' good ould name.
Me dinner pail under me oxther before th' whistle blew,
I'd banish the drames from me eyelids wid a noggin or maybe two;
An' oh, 'twas th' illigant whiskey—its like I have never seen
Since I went for me mornin's mornin' to Shanahan's ould shebeen.
I disremember th' makers—I couldn't tell you the brand,
But it smiled like the golden sunlight, an' it looked an' tasted gr-rand.
When me throat was caked wid mortar an' me head was cracked wid a blast,
One drink o' Shanahan's dewdrops an' all me troubles was past.
That's why, as I squat on th' cushins, wid divil a hap'orth to do,
In the mornin' coat wid velvit, an' a champagne lunch at two,
Th' memory comes like a banshee, meself an' me wealth between,
An' I long for a mornin's mornin' in Shanahan's ould shebeen.
A mornin' coat lined wid velvit—an' me ould coat used to do
Alike for mornin' an' evenin', (an' sometimes I slep' in it, too!)
An' 'twas divil a sup iv sherry that Shanahan kept—no fear.
If you can't afford good whiskey he'd take you on trust fer beer.
Th' dacintist gang I knew there—McCarthy, (Sinathor since,)
An' Murphy that mixed the morthar, (sure the Pope has made him a prince).
You should see 'em, avic, o' Sundays, wid faces scraped an' clean,
When th' boss stood a mornin's mornin' round Shanahan's ould shebeen.
Whist! here comes His Grace's carriage, 'twill be lunch time by and by,
An' I dasn't drink another—though me throat is powerful dry;
For I've got to meet th' Archbishop—I'm a laborer now no more,
But ohone, those were fine times then, lad, an' to talk o' 'em makes me sore
An' whisper—there's times, I tell you, when I'd swap this easy chair,
An' the velvit coat an' the footman, wid his Sassenach nose in the air,
An' th' Lord Archbishop himself, too, for a drink o' the days that ha' been,
For the taste o' a mornin's mornin' in Shanahan's ould shebeen!
In his halls a-sheen with purple and gold;
Told as he sprawled in an easy chair,
Chewing cigars at a dollar a pair;
Told with a sigh, and perchance a tear,
As the rough soul showed through the cracked veneer;
Told as he gazed on the walls near by,
Where a Greuze and a Millet were hung on high,
With a rude little print in a frame between—
A picture of Shanahan's ould shebeen.
I'm drinkin' me mornin's mornin'—but it doesn't taste th' same,
Tho' the glass is iv finest crystal, an' th' liquor slips down like crame.
An' me Cockney footman brings it on a soort of a silver plate—
Sherry an' bitters it is, whiskey is out iv date.
In me bran-new brownstone mansion—Fift' Av'noo over th' way—
The cathaydral round th' corner, an' the Lord Archbishop to tay.
Sure I ought to be sthiff wid grandeur, but me tastes are mighty mean,
An' I'd rather a mornin's mornin' at Shanahan's ould shebeen.
Oh, well do I mind th' shanty—th' rocks an' th' field beyant,
The dirt floor yellow wid sawdust, an' th' walls on a three-inch slant;
There's a twelve-story flat on the site now—'twas meself that builded the same,
An' they called it the Mont-morincy, tho' I wanted th' good ould name.
Me dinner pail under me oxther before th' whistle blew,
I'd banish the drames from me eyelids wid a noggin or maybe two;
An' oh, 'twas th' illigant whiskey—its like I have never seen
Since I went for me mornin's mornin' to Shanahan's ould shebeen.
I disremember th' makers—I couldn't tell you the brand,
But it smiled like the golden sunlight, an' it looked an' tasted gr-rand.
When me throat was caked wid mortar an' me head was cracked wid a blast,
One drink o' Shanahan's dewdrops an' all me troubles was past.
That's why, as I squat on th' cushins, wid divil a hap'orth to do,
In the mornin' coat wid velvit, an' a champagne lunch at two,
Th' memory comes like a banshee, meself an' me wealth between,
An' I long for a mornin's mornin' in Shanahan's ould shebeen.
A mornin' coat lined wid velvit—an' me ould coat used to do
Alike for mornin' an' evenin', (an' sometimes I slep' in it, too!)
An' 'twas divil a sup iv sherry that Shanahan kept—no fear.
If you can't afford good whiskey he'd take you on trust fer beer.
Th' dacintist gang I knew there—McCarthy, (Sinathor since,)
An' Murphy that mixed the morthar, (sure the Pope has made him a prince).
You should see 'em, avic, o' Sundays, wid faces scraped an' clean,
When th' boss stood a mornin's mornin' round Shanahan's ould shebeen.
Whist! here comes His Grace's carriage, 'twill be lunch time by and by,
An' I dasn't drink another—though me throat is powerful dry;
For I've got to meet th' Archbishop—I'm a laborer now no more,
But ohone, those were fine times then, lad, an' to talk o' 'em makes me sore
An' whisper—there's times, I tell you, when I'd swap this easy chair,
An' the velvit coat an' the footman, wid his Sassenach nose in the air,
An' th' Lord Archbishop himself, too, for a drink o' the days that ha' been,
For the taste o' a mornin's mornin' in Shanahan's ould shebeen!
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I am hoping somebody here
I am hoping somebody here could confirm my long held belief that there is a musical version of this poem, which was adapted for the 1963 film "The Cardinal".
A short version of this poem was used in Henry Morton Robinson's "The Cardinal" published in 1950, with "th' Lord Archbishop" replaced with "the Cardinal" in the verses.
The 1963 film of the same name, directed by Otto Preminger, had a theme song reproduced by several artists during that time. The soundtract for the movie, written by Jerome Moross, used only a short opening of the theme, cutting short the melody in favor of a simple fugue adaptation.
Listening to others' orchestral versions, and not Jerome Moross' adaptation, it is easy to follow its melody while reciting the words to the final verses of this poem.
This sliver of a review, listed in Google as a link to a Google Book page which Google has failed to retain, shows too briefly the words used in Robinson's book:
The Cardinal - Google Books Result
... of them makes me sore, An' often—there's times, I tell you, when I'd swap this easy chair, An' the velvit coat, an' me footman wid his Sassenach nose in the air,
And which ends (writing from memory) with:
". . . And a cardinal's elegant learnin' too,
For a taste o' the days that ha' been,
And a glass of mornin's mornin'
at Shanahan's ould shebeen."
The quoted line is preceded with this piece of Robinson's version:
" 'Tis fit I mix with the gentry,
I'm a laborour now no more,
But o'hon those were fine times lad,
To think o' them make me sore."
. . . which is then followed by the quoted line from above "An' often -- there's times . . ."
Are there any other baby-boomers here who could speak (or write) to my question? You would have heard several versions - with identical melodies - on what are now called "easy listening" stations back in the early Sixties. The Jerome Moross adaptation only dissappoints.
With a candle lit to Saint Jude,
Foster Blake
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