We played our tunes in Havana till the sweat ran down the wall,
Fiddles hot, the whistle sharp, we gave the night our all.
Guitars back in their cases, laughin’ as we roam,
When rhythm spilled out on the street and pulled us from the road.

There was laughter in the doorway and the brass was shoutin’ bright,
Congas talkin’ to the moon in the middle of the night.
A sign above the doorway said it clear as any tale—
Painted bold in dancing light: Casa de Baile.

We stepped inside, the floor was fire, the crowd was movin’ fast,
The local band just smiled and said, “Amigos—make it last!”
They waved us up upon the stage, no fear and no delay,
And Irish strings met Cuban skins in the warm Havana sway.

¡Casa de Baile, ven a gozar!
¡Que suene la salsa, no pares de bailar!
¡Casa de Baile, la noche es ley!
¡Todo el mundo bailando en Casa de Baile—Oye!

The fiddle chased the trumpet, the whistle kissed the clave,
Bodhrán talked to congas like a rolling ocean wave.
Reels fell into montunos, jigs learned how to swing,
As Ireland danced with Cuba in a mad and joyful thing.

¡Casa de Baile, ven a gozar!
¡Salsa caliente pa’ todo el solar!
¡Casa de Baile, sin timidez!
¡Ven pa’ la pista, baila otra vez!

Fiddle cryin’ — ¡Dale, dale más!
Tin whistle flyin’ — ¡Así se va!
Hands in the air now, feet on fire,
From Galway Bay to Havana choir!

¡Casa de Baile, ven a gozar!
¡Irlanda y Cuba se ponen a tocar!
¡Casa de Baile, no tiene fin!
¡Baila, baila, baila—hasta el amanecer, sí!

The storm came down like a white-haired beast,
Snow piled high from west to east.
Half the village found their way
To the pub before the light gave way.

Boots were steamed and coats were shed,
Breath hung low, the windows spread
With frost that danced to the fire’s glow
And the crackle told us we’d survive the snow.

Oh pour it again, keep the glasses near,
Let the cold stay out and the music in here!
When the night bites hard and the wind won’t go—
We dance with the fire and we laugh at the snow!

The barman worked like a man possessed,
Slidin’ pints and shoutin’ “Who’s next?”
Till in the corner, quiet and slow,
Old Liam lifted his fiddle bow.

He played a tune we all once knew,
Soft as memory, old as dew.
The room fell still, no word was said,
Just hummin’ voices and noddin’ heads.

Closer he stepped to the fire’s breath,
Strings grew wild, defyin’ rest.
The rhythm twisted, strange and deep,
Like somethin’ old had woke from sleep.

Oh pour it again, feel the floorboards shake,
That fiddle’s on fire for the old gods’ sake!
From heel to toe, let the night unfold—
We dance till the sweat beats out the cold!

The flames leaned in, the shadows spun,
Salsa drums where there were none.
Reels bent sideways, time let go,
Ireland swayed to a Latin flow.

Feet stomped jigs then turned and slid,
Hips found rhythms they never did.
Laughter rose with the fiddle’s cry,
As snow piled up—but we flew inside.

Oh pour it again, let the storm do its worst!
The fire’s our home and the fiddle’s our curse!
Irish feet and salsa soul,
Spinnin’ round till the night lets go!
When the gods come dancin’ in fire and snow—
You dance or be left alone!

Every Friday in the village when the workweek’s finally done,
All the lads come stompin’ in as if the night has just begun.
With pints as tall as mountains and the whiskey runnin’ free,
They’re swearin’ they can dance salsa as smooth as they can be.

But their feet are made of kettles and their balance made of smoke,
The band plays up a rhythm and the whole pub starts to joke.
They stagger toward the barmaids with a wobble and a grin,
And shout, “Come on now, darlin’, let the dancin’ begin!”

Oh the Friday salsa follies down the old pub lane,
Where the beer flows steady and the lads go insane.
With a stumble to the left and a sway to the right,
The barmaids laugh kindly at the boys each night.
Dance a little salsa, or pretend they might.

Bridget dodges Tommy as he spins the wrong way ‘round,
And Cathy nearly drops a tray from Seán’s dramatic sound.
Maeve slips past their clumsy steps like sea-wind through a sail,
While Nora taps her apron saying, “You’re drunk as Galway ale!”

But when the crowd grows thinner and the chores begin to slow,
The barmaids share a knowing look and soften up their no.
“Ah go on then,” says Bridget, “just one wee gentle song,”
And suddenly the lads stand straight—though not for very long.

Oh the Friday salsa follies down the old pub lane,
Where the beer flows steady and the lads go insane.
With a stumble to the left and a sway to the right,
The barmaids laugh kindly at the boys each night.
Dance a little salsa, or pretend they might.

The fiddle meets the congas, the whistle joins the clave,
And Pat falls into Seán again—same story every Friday.
But the barmaids twirl them gently with a patient sort of cheer,
For even drunken dancers bring a bit of joy in here.

Oh the Friday salsa follies, sure they’ll never end,
For the lads and all the barmaids know it’s laughter they defend.
With a sway and a stumble and a cheer so bright—
They dance through the village on a soft Irish night.
Salsa hearts and Irish pints—what a sight!