#Whey Irish Eyes Are Smiling

[music-online]

Where can I find the lyrics and chords for "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling" on guitar?

You can easily find the lyrics and chords for the classic Irish folk song "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling." This timeless tune is a favorite among guitar players and is a great choice for beginners who are looking to learn how to play traditional Irish music.

To play "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling" on guitar, you'll need to know a few basic chords, including G, C, D, and Em. The song's simple, repetitive chord progression makes it easy for beginners to pick up, and the catchy melody is sure to have you humming along in no time.

At Find the Best Online Music Courses & Tutorials - Musiec, you'll find detailed chord charts and tablature for "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling," as well as instructional videos and helpful tips to help you master the song. Whether you're looking to play it solo or as part of a group, Musiec has all the resources you need to bring this beloved Irish tune to life on your guitar.

So, grab your guitar and start practicing those chords – before you know it, you'll be playing "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling" like a pro and impressing your friends and family with your newfound musical skills.

#chord #music #guitar #lyrics #classic #Irish folk #Whey Irish Eyes Are Smiling

[cathilde]

Tracy

Tracy Linehan heard the voices whisper through the mirrors and crawl under her skin like hypodermic needles moving and poking wide holes. Wider than the red circles of burn scars on her arms. She stood in the Macy’s dressing room, clad in a green dress for summer wear. She didn’t like her angularities in the dress, the way it hung shapeless over her waify figure. Her collarbones jutted out like airplane wings and her eyes were green and curious, seeming to see through the transparency of other people. She only half-liked herself. She had auburn hair and was twenty-seven years of age, still living with her mother and on government disability insurance. She was never one you could judge as normal. The voices in the dressing room talking to Tracy through the mirrors called her “whey-faced” and “diminutive”. She suspected them of being spies sometimes, other times thinking herself psychotic. Tracy was the girl who wouldn’t eat. She hated carbohydrates and foods containing lots of fat and starch. Her body grew more frail and more thin as the years went on and the starvation periods started to last longer. Tracy hung up the dress on the nail in the dressing room and decided to leave the mall and its music: a pop musician singing in a breathy voice about love. Tracy never knew how to love. She was cold and laconic in her black-lace nylons, jet-black jacket and Converse sneakers. A penetrating glare that never left her face bored deep into everyone around her and it seemed she was unbalanced to the public of her hometown, underfed and mentally ill. She was seen frequently talking to herself and the witches, demons and angels in her head. Some swore they saw her with a gilded halo suspended above her head in the park. Others saw black devil horns that curved like prehistoric cattle. Some saw blond women prettier than Tracy following her in black dresses with ankle-length high heeled boots. Many of these stories were either believed or disbelieved, depending on the listener’s religious opinions. “That girl should be burned as a witch,” said Mrs. Sallismore to her husband when Tracy walked inside her widowed mother’s house. The Sallismores lived next door and thought very little of mother and daughter. They were cranky, into taxidermy, hard liquor and poker games at the casino. They seemed to get lucky and always win a large amount of cash. Tracy heard her through their open windowscreen, but acted as if she didn’t. “Where were you?” asked her mom, sipping gin and watching The First 48. “At the mall, trying out a dress that didn’t work for me,” replied Tracy. “You really need to get some meat on your bones, you lousy bitch. Nobody’s going to find you attractive when you’re this bony and not taking care of yourself properly-“ “Mom, I don’t need this right now. I think I have wheat and gluten allergies because I took some blood tests that insinuate I had allergies to certain food ingredients, like those. I can’t eat all of the goodies that other people just chow down on. Like you, mom.” “Oh, if only you loved to eat as much as I do. Your father loved his big three meals a day and just ate it all off his plate.” “But he is gone, and he held a gun to my head.” “I killed him for you.” “I don’t live to make him proud. I’m not eating as much as that fatass.” Her mother stared through her blankly, and then focused her attention on the TV. Tracy went to her room and softly closed the door. She fell asleep, weak from lack of nutrients (so far she had consumed one apple), fully clothed and staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling. Tracy was born selfish and childish, and so was her mother before her. Maggie Linehan lived through tragic family circumstances where, in the mid 1960s, her mother, brother and father were murdered with a .38 by a burglar who let her live for a reason still unknown to Maggie. She could still remember their blood soaking into the floorboards, the brain matter and disemboweled guts strewn about the counter and the dining room table. Her horrified shrieks and the man giving her a five-dollar bill, leaving her in disarray that was almost post-apocalyptic. She was only ten years old when it happened. The red ribbon in her hair was taken from her by the murderer, like a symbol of innocence snatched away by a demon who brought only animosity, homicide and chaos. Her mother’s open, glassy grey eyes. Her brother’s baseball cap with a piece of brain inside, near the bill. Her father’s glasses shattered where he fell on his face. When she met Billy Linehan, she got pregnant with Tracy and Billy tried to kill their daughter when she was only eight years old. That was when Maggie withdrew her own .38 and killed him dead where he was standing. Maggie didn’t like to talk to her daughter this way, but she was so irritated with Tracy being defective with her health. In her room, Tracy saw things. She saw an angel, a demon and a witch. She called the angel Cathilde. She was a Madonna-faced woman who played the harp. The demon was Shesbit, who was a sharp-faced Irish banshee who often screeched and didn’t leave Tracy alone with demeaning, derogatory comments about her appearance. The witch was blond and beautiful, with a black dress. Her name was Cordelia, and she was always kind to Tracy and placing a hand on her shoulder, saying, “You’ll prosper one day.” Downstairs, Maggie thought of digging graves in the rain for herself and for Tracy. Murder was always a dark shade passing over Maggie’s mind and drifting in to entwine her in its insidious threads. Then the thought passed like a cold, swift snowfall. Blood ran cold in the basement.  A pretty girl with anime eyes and black hair rotting away by the water heater. Pipes leaked and a mouse nibbled her fingertip, taking a chunk in its mouth to feed on. “We still need to give that thing downstairs some nitric,” said Maggie to herself, smiling at a re-run of Criminal Minds. Tracy could hear her all the way upstairs in her room. “I know,” she said.

- Vivica Salem

#poetry