The Wizard

They called him hedge,
On the surface cause he was wild and wooly?
But maybe it was like how they call me blue because I had red hair? Where the opposite is true?
Because redwood or mountain or moon would be too ostentatious.
But any of those would have fit, the small man playing the tiny mandolin but casting the biggest shadow, carrying the longest history, the deepest roots, the most gigs, the truest vision.
He was a mentor to so many who’ve tried stages in this big town, little city.
And the same to enough of members of the eastern, for us to feel at times like a little brother band.
The barlands are unforgiving, but Ian strode them like a giant, like a warrior, like a wizard.
We honor him and his music and his faith and for the years and for the work and for the craic.
May his road forever rise.
Brendan sung this for Ian on Monday, sing it in your hearts today,

The minstrel boy to the war is gone
In the ranks of death you'll find him
His father's sword he hath girded on
And his wild harp slung behind him
"Land of Song" cried the warrior bard
"Tho' all the world betrays thee
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard
One faithful harp shall praise thee"
The minstrel fell but the foeman's chain
Could not bring that proud soul under
The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again
For he tore its chords asunder
And said, "No chains shall sully thee
Thou soul of love and brav'ry
Thy songs were made for the pure and free
They shall never sound in slavery"

Rest easy wizard

Leave a comment