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lirik lagu loreena mckennitt - a child's christmas in wales, part three

“were there uncles like in our house?”
“there are always uncles at christmas. the same uncles. and on christmas mornings, with dog~disturbing whistle and sugar fags, i would scour the swathed town for the news of the little world, and find always a dead bird by the post office or the white deserted swings; perhaps a robin, all but one of his fires out. men and women wading, scooping back from chapel, with taproom noses and wind~bussed cheeks, all albinos, huddled their stiff black jarring feathers against the irrеligious snow. mistletoe hung from the gas brackеts in all the front parlours; there was sherry and walnuts and bottled beer and crackers by the dessertspoons; and cats in their fur~abouts watched the fires; and the high~heaped fire spat, all ready for the chestnuts and the mulling pokers. some few large men sat in the front parlours, without their collars, uncles almost certainly, trying their new cigars, holding them out judiciously at arms’ length, returning them to their mouths, coughing, then holding them out again as though waiting for the explosion; and some few small aunts, not wanted in the kitchen, nor anywhere else for that matter, sat on the very edges of their chairs, poised and brittle, afraid to break, like faded cups and saucers.”
not many those mornings trod the piling streets: an old man always, fawn~bowlered, yellow~gloved and, at this time of year, with spats of snow, would take his constitutional to the white bowling green and back, as he would take it wet or fire on christmas day or doomsday; sometimes two hale young men, with big pipes blazing, no overcoats and wind blown scarfs, would trudge, unspeaking, down to the forlorn sea, to work up an appetite, to blow away the fumes, who knows, to walk into the waves until nothing of them was left but the two curling smoke clouds of their inextinguishable briars. then i would be slap~dashing home, the gravy smell of the dinners of others, the bird smell, the brandy, the pudding and mince, coiling up to my nostrils, when out of a snow~clogged side lane would come a boy the spit of myself, with a pink~tipped cigarette and the violet past of a black eye, cocky as a bullfinch, leering all to himself
i hated him on sight and sound, and would be about to put my dog whistle to my lips and blow him off the face of christmas when suddenly he, with a violet wink, put his whistle to his lips and blew so stridently, so high, so exquisitely loud, that gobbling faces, their cheek bulged with goose, would press against their tinsled windows, the whole length of the white echoing street

- lirik lagu loreena mckennitt

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