I find myself imagining Hillary leading a choir singing "Donny Boy" so softly and sweetly to the one whom now must face the feckless fickleness of a populace that knows not what it wants, yet sternly demands perfect solutions to countless conflicts, demands perpetual holidays and circuses, demands the glorious rewards of limitless power, and demands to be absolved of any and all responsibility, effort, or cost.
Oh, Donny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side.
The summer's gone, and all the roses falling,
It's you, it's you must go and I must bide.
But come ye back when summer's in the meadow,
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow,
It's I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow,—
Oh Danny boy, Oh Danny Boy, I love you so!
But if you come, when all the flowers are dying,
And I am dead, as dead I well may be,
Ye'll come and find the place where I am lying,
And kneel and say an "Avé" there for me.
And I shall hear, though soft you tread above me,
And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be,
For you will bend and tell me that you love me,
and I will sleep in peace until you come to me!
"Dear Donny boy, may the very best of luck stand peacefully by your side, so very near, and yet, immensely far away. Sweet dreams."