by Cara Chapel

In 2007 and 2008, the Brobdingnagian Bards hosted a vacation tour of Ireland with their fans. During the first tour, we were in need of dinner on our first night of the tour. We stopped off in the only pub that still had a kitchen open. We ordered our food, and it was quite pathetic. Cara had ordered chicken that looked so tiny we joked it most be “the last chicken in dublin”. I think that's when I said, “That sounds like a song. You write and I'll record it.” Cara wrote the song. I added the melody and we added it to my CD, What Color Is Your Dragon?.

There's many a tale
In these lands fit for tellin'
And some of them sad,
Like to bring the tears welling.
But if you don't find
These few stanzas too troublin'
I'll sing the song of
The last chicken in Dublin.

There once was a cock
Who lived down in the barnyard
It won't be a shock
That his life wasn't too hard.
Cooped up with the hens
Or in morning time crowing
He lived like a king
And had no thought of going.

But life is quite cruel
When you're only a chicken.
You soon learn the rule:
Folks find you finger-lickin'.
The farmer came out
With a cleaver and hatchet;
The cock saw a train
And he flew off to catch it.

The train took him far
To the east of the country
The cock thought 'twas fine:
“I shall dwell with the gentry!”
He got off the train
At the Connolly Station
‘Twas then he became
The last chicken in Dublin.

Now, Dublin's a town
Full of hardship and famine;
There's plenty of beer,
But best not ask for gammon.
So when the poor cock
Flapped his wings and went looking
To find him some corn,
He was ripe for the cooking.

He met with a maid
Who was pushing a trolley;
She gave him a look;
Thus he first knew his folly.
He flew with a squawk
When she lunged for his gullet;
She had to go back
To her job: selling mullet.

He sat on the stoop
And he ruffled his feathers
And almost got caught
By a fellow in leathers.
The pounce of a cat
Missed but made his heart quicken;
Things just don't look good
For that hapless last chicken.

“Alas that I came!”
Crowed the cock in high dudgeon.
“I never!” and then
He was struck with a bludgeon.
They plucked him all bare
And hung him from the ceiling
Though it wasn't fair
And was cold and unfeeling.

Now I must not fail,
Out of motives the purest,
To tell the true tale:
He was fed to a tourist.
And as of this date,
In a pot he is bubblin'.
Let's drink to his fate:
The last chicken in Dublin!