Pushbike Song – A Mighty Thing is my original composition – a rollicking, light-hearted “tall tale” in the long tradition of folklore. Like the yarns told about Paul Bunyan, Pecos Bill, or John Henry, it follows a hero who undertakes feats so improbable that they can only be told with a straight face for comic effect. In this case, the hero is a 25-year-old cyclist on a 1950 Raleigh who rides the length and breadth of Ireland, meeting wonders and oddities at every turn.
Tall tales thrive on exaggeration and hyperbole, and Pushbike Song leans into both. The hero pedals past pubs that can duplicate themselves in foreign countries, witnesses a Swiss-funded B&B on the Kilmore Quay waterfront, survives the thunderous roar of Father Pat’s 83-year-old harmonium, and finds the road to Doolin magically shortened by a sympathetic cowman. He even has a euphemistically magical encounter with Widow Murphy and cycles through Ireland’s holy ground, finally declaring that Egypt’s Nile and Sphinx aren’t a patch on the Emerald Isle.
Each verse spins a self-contained vignette – a local legend told as if it happened only yesterday. From French Saint Patrick’s Day celebrations to miraculous real-estate deals, from musical marvels to roadside magic, the cyclist is part participant, part amused observer. The chorus ties it all together: celebrating the thrill of roaming Ireland’s towns and hills, the joy of the bell on a pushbike, and the “song” sung by its whirring spokes.
I’ve arranged Pushbike Song for male folk lead vocal with a strong chorus response, driven by the rhythmic interplay of acoustic guitar and bodhrán. A bright whistle carries the melody in interludes, joined by fiddle for ornamentation and warmth. Bass adds grounding, while occasional flute lines and light accordion fills lend colour and a pub-session feel. The tempo is brisk but relaxed – a musical freewheel down a country lane.
In its closing flourish, the lyric compares the wonders of Ireland to the grandeur of Egypt. But in true tall-tale style, the verdict is swift and unequivocal: the pyramids, the Nile, and the Sphinx are mere trifles – “forty-winks” – beside the magic, hospitality, and beauty found on Irish soil.
It’s part travelogue, part comedy, part folk celebration – and entirely an ode to the joy of spinning a yarn while spinning your wheels.
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[Music] It’s a mighty thing, a mighty thing to be on Irish soil. Marvels lurk in every town from Bantry to the boil. If you think enchantment has been lost, or it’s only found in song, ride your bike around Aaron’s, you’ll find that you’ve been wrong. for it is a magic paradise. I solemnly declare the pubs can replicate themselves in countries everywhere. You’ll find a perfect copy of old Driscoll’s pub in France. They’re bursting out like chickenpox if given half the chance. It’s a mighty thing to roam this land. There’s a tail in every town. It’s a mighty thing. Makes me feel like a king. It makes the bell on me. Push bike ring and the woring spokes have a song to sing as I ride uphill and down. [Applause] [Music] Marin O’ Conor said she’d love a cottage by the sea. If only she could win the cash, she’d buy a BNB. The other folks soon heard her joke and quickly wrote a check. It wasn’t gold, but truth be told, there’s Swiss, so what the Now she’s good as new with the grand sea view down south in Kilmore Key, where the cash she craves comes in tidal waves that roll in from the sea. The sailors flock to her door and knock when the ocean seems too wet. And the NTA wrote a note to say, “Here’s a gift you won’t forget. It’s a mighty thing to roam this land. There’s a tale in every town. It’s a mighty thing. Makes me feel like a king. It makes the bell on me push bike ring. And the worring spokes have a song to sing as I ride up hill and down. [Music] Now, Father Pat’s harmonium is a marvel to behold. It still stands proud and the sound is loud, though it’s 83 years old. He’s just installed new pumps, so call to make the music swell. And Patrick says it gives him strength to ring the old church bell. That organ boys makes a thunderous noise that’s not been heard before. The faithful trail from Clarabel to hear its mighty roar. And good wives flock from Glendelock to raise a lusty song. They gather around its awesome sound and help old Pat along. It’s a mighty thing to roam this land. There’s a tale in every town. It’s a mighty thing. Makes me feel like a king. It makes the bell on me push bike ring. And the woring folks have a song to sing as I ride uphill and down. [Music] I pedled once from Miltown Pass out west to Dulan Shore. A grueling ride 100 miles, a 9-hour push or more. I reached the burn in by six. Exhausted, that’s a fact. The limestone slopes were still ahead and I was fairly whacked. A burning cowman saw me face and cast a pity spell. He shrank the 25 my stretch to five and truth to tell. Says he’ll make that 2hour run in 15 minutes. Friend, a weary man deserves a hand to reach his journey’s end. It’s a mighty thing to roam this land. There’s a tale in every town. It’s a mighty thing. Makes me feel like a king. It makes the bell on me. Push bike ring. And the woring smokes have a song to sing as I ride uphill and down. [Music] [Applause] Widow Murphy said she’d got a wondrous magic pot that in a flash could make me dash to some enchanted spot. I probed the dark for its magic spark and proved what she had said. For I shot straight to heaven’s gate and I wasn’t even dead. So take a hike on your old push bike round Ireland’s neighborhood. There are wonders found on this holy ground we know are twice as good. Your nin sphinx are a 40 winks. You can bury them in sand. There’s nothing there that can compare to good old Ireland. It’s a mighty thing to roam this land. There’s a tale in every town. It’s a mighty thing. Makes me feel like a king. It makes the bell on me push bike ring. And the woring folks have a song to sing as I ride uphill and [Music]