(Sung to the tune of "Big John")
He stood six foot four, and weighed 238.
He had eyes like coal, and a purposeful gait.
From the Galway soil, his hands had grown thick,
From the Pennsylvania mines, he was built like a brick.
Big Mick. Big Mick. Big, Bad Mick.
His Pa had died when he was just fourteen---
The plague of '47--- and Great Famine.
Pa's name was Stephen--- he'd gotten the fever,
Then died one night, in the arms of a weaver ...
A woman brave and strong, his wife, Julia her name.
And from that day forward, life wasn't the same
For Mick. Big Mick. Big, Bad Mick.
On the day he died, Stephen left a small plot
to the boys he had--- ' twas all potato rot!
And the oldest son ... this giant of a man,
With the heart of a lion ... he needed a plan ...
Big Mick. Big Mick. What Now Mick?
He worked the land for over ten years,
With nothing to show but the sum of Ma's fears.
So in the Spring of ' 57, he set sail on a ship,
Bound for America, on a working man's tip ...
Big Mick. Big Mick. Sail on Mick.
The word had spread that the streets were Gold,
So he left out of Liverpool on a voyage Bold,
America his heading--- Brendan's Promised Land---
With soil so rich, it would blacken your hand.
Big Mick. Big Mick. Dream Big Mick.
Off to find fortune in America,
He left brother to care for sister and Ma.
Mick would find good pay, then send for them all.
And he'd find a good wife ... just like his Pa.
Big Mick. Big Mick. Big, Bad Mick.
Six weeks at sea, he saw many folk die---
He heard widows and orphans and captains cry ...
Rations were hard, and good water'd run dry,
But from the topmast came a jubilant cry!
Big Mick. Big Mick. Landfall Mick!
Ocean Monarch made land that morn in May ...
Yet, no one but strangers stood there on the quay.
Smokestacks, big buildings, throngs pushing their way.
Mick knew he wasn't home on Galway Bay.
Big Mick. Big Mick. Big, Bad Mick.
In New York's harbor, the ship tied in.
Big Mick jumped off, with a waive and a grin.
Nothing would daunt him, his courage was bold.
He'd be damned if he'd fail, get sick, or grow old.
Big Mick. Big Mick. Big, Bad Mick.
To the city he went looking for work,
But was soon turned away by each city clerk.
In the streets they threw stones and called him a "mick"
" 'Tis the work of the devil! ' Tis a terrible trick!"
Said Mick. Cursed Mick. Big, Bad Mick.
The streets that he walked were not paved of gold.
The lodging he lived in was dirty and cold.
There were many from Ireland--- but he knew not a soul,
At the end of the day--- barely soup for his bowl.
Big Mick. Big Mick. Big, Bad Mick.
So he drank and he fought and he scrapped what he could.
His fists were feared in every neighborhood.
Sure a man this strong could be put to work?
But when they shorted his pay--- he leveled the clerk.
Big Mick. Big Mick. Big, Bad Mick.
His Ma and sister, and last brother, too,
Back home in Ol' Ireland, they cried out from the pew ...
"We've nothing here now! We need you big Mick!"
So he gathered his strength, got in his last lick ...
Then married his sweetheart, and headed west,
To "Mockanoy" City--- the Irishman's nest.
Big Mick. Big Mick. Big, Bad Mick.
Into the tunnels of hell--- deep, black and dank,
He worked down in the mines ... then came out and drank.
Black diamonds were king! A man could do well.
And soon Ma and sister heard �Resolute's� bell.
Big Mick. Big Mick. Thanks Big Mick.
He paid for their passage, in ' 60 they came,
Travelin� by rail to the town with odd name ...
It means "salt lick"--- an old Indian word,
Mahanoy City--- (not spelled like it's heard.)
Big Mick. �Mocknoy Mick�. It's Home, Mick.
Now came his sweet Ma, and sis, Margaret,
Bearing linen, and brown bread, and cigarettes,
A long way from Ireland, shamrocks and gnomes.
They met wife and baby and made themselves home.
Big Mick. Ma and Sis. Nice Goin� Mick.
Who preferred to toil in the Galway sun,
' Til he came on over in ' 63,
Then died in Centralia, leaving miner sons, three.
Li'l John. Li'l John. Mick's Bro, John.
What came after that? We don't know for sure,
' cept that Mick worked the mines ' til ' 74.
His wife bore him five while they lived in town.
Winifred Callanan helped Mick settle down.
Big Mick.
From Galway herself, or Tipperary ...
(The stories today are still quite contrary.)
Mick met a fine lass from his other life,
And that is how Winifred became Mick's wife.
Big Mick.
Maria, then Bridget, Maggie, then John,
The last born was Annie, before they moved on.
But the town belonged to Molly Maguires,
Violence and shootings, explosions and fires.
No place to be raising four girls and a boy,
So, Ma, Mick and Winnie left Mahanoy.
Big Mick.
With all that they owned in three steamer trunks,
The family left town � and the Mollies and drunks.
Big Mick. Big Mick. Thanks, Big Mick.
The girls could find work now in carpet mills,
And John could escape mining deep in the hills.
Yonkers was modern--- part of Westchester County.
And Mick now could taste America's bounty.
Big Mick.
The years were quite good on Washington Street,
Work was abundant in this rich county seat.
Three more were born: Steve, William and Helen.
(� Twas a house of eleven with plenty of yellin' !)
Big Mick.
A flourishing city, their lives so sweet.
Then the family moved to Orchard Street.
And the good days would soon turn for the worse.
Just weeks before Christmas--- they called for a hearse.
Dear Winnie was gone!--- the mother of eight �
Now Mick would again have to carry the weight.
Big Mick. Big Mick. Big, Bad Mick.
Taken so young--- she was needed in Heav'n.
The year that it happened--- 1887.
She, just 47. Mick, seven years older.
And when Ma would cry-- Mick would just hold her.
Big Mick. Big Mick. Big, Bad Mick.
If this weren't enough, by June the next year,
Ma died of a heartache ... and then came the fear ...
Alone in the world, Mick wandered the streets.
Drunk, angry, and fighting with all that he meets.
Big Mick. Big Mick. Sad, Mad Mick.
Some nights he'd be locked up just for his own good,
... and to keep the men safe in the neighborhood.
From the bowels of Mick's jail cell others could hear,
(He would talk real loud, with a belly of beer---)
"Faced The Famine and Plague � a long voyage at sea �
worked in the coal mines in Mocknoy City �
But how can I raise eight kids on my own?
What's a family now with no mother at home?"
Then Mick cried. He cried. Big Mick cried.
What happened next? Well, we don't fully know.
� cept that Mick did his best with five kids in tow.
(Bridget, Maggie, Maria--- by now were older)
John, Annie and Stephen could offer a shoulder,
But William and Helen were still under ten ...
... so Mick found the strength ---
and was a mother to them.
Big Mick. Big Mick. Big, Bad Mick
---------------------
Michael Spring died on March 25, 1898. He is buried with his wife and mother in the same plot at
St. Mary's Catholic Cemetery, Yonkers, New York.
Written by Jack Spring
Great-Great Grandson of Big Mick Spring.
September 1, 2002
---------------------
Based on the life of Michael Spring. Portions anecdotal. Copyright. All rights reserved.
