A torrent of green furry hats, drink-reddened faces, vomit-flecked green t-shirts, and plastic leprechaun ears rushes in front of my eyes. The House sound-systems blares out selections from Probably The Worst Irish Record Ever Committed to Vinyl. Which is mercifully, if painfully, occasionally drowned out by howls of deafening feedback as the soundman tries to figure out why our P.A. which was fine up until we started to play, is now only fit to broadcast sonic destruction. The Twister competition (yes!) in one corner of the bar produces drunken howls of delight as contestants collapse in groping piles.
I sit back on a chair and sip a McGuinness. If I had a Hamlet, now would be the time to take it out and smoke it, but I don’t have one. Instead I blank it all out and nod occasionally at whatever Jerry is saying to me (I can’t hear him over the cacophany), and let words swirl around in my head. Occasionally they coalesce into a sort of rough doggerel....
So here are two new poems for Paddy’s Day. They’re not good enough to be worthy of titles
Poem No. 1
How does the ascetic
Who drove out the snakes
From the land of lakes,
View the frenetic
Consumption of beer
On his day of the year?
Poem No. 2
So, Irish Patron.
If you were indeed Welsh
As the scholars insist,
How come you had
A good old irish name
Like Patrick?
Eh?
Maybe some others of you out there in mustard-page land have some. then we could print a book, and sell it for charity at a stall next St Patrick’s Day. We could set up our stall between the Twister Competition and the stall where the lady swaps the collected Guinness vouchers for the furry hats ....
And of course there was the Christy Moore version of Patrick was a Gentlman.
St. Patrick Was A Gentleman
by Bachman Turner Overdrive
album:
Saint Patrick was a gentleman, he came from decent people,
In Dublin town he built a church and on it put a steeple
His father was a Callahan, his mother was a Grady,
His aunt was O'Shaughnessy and uncle he was Brady
Chorus :
Success to bold Saint Patrick's fist,
He was a Saint so clever,
He gave the snakes an awful twist
And banished them forever
There's not a smile in Ireland's isle where the dirty vermin musters
Where’er he put his dear forefoot he murder’d them in clusters
The toads went hop, the frogs went plop, slap dash into the water
And the beasts committed suicide to save themselves from slaughter
Nine hundred thousand vipers blue he charm’d with sweet discourses
And dined on them at Killaloo an’ in the second courses
When blind worms crawling on the grass disgusted all the nation
He gave them a rise and open’d their eyes to a sense of their situation
The Wicklow hills are very high and so’s the hill of Howth, sir
But there's a hill much higher still, Ay, higher then them both, sir
And it was on the top of his hill, Saint Patrick preach’d the "Sarmint"
That drove the frogs into the bogs and bothered all the "varmint"
What I like in Poem No. 1 is that when I think of St Patrick, I think of the era of strong Irish Christianity, arguably the strongest ascetism and faith of that time in the world. Someone meditating in a cell all day, fasting or taking a vow of silence is the exact opposite of what is liberally demonstrated on St Patrick Day each year.
That's a cute tune breandan. That could be enacted in a playful way for children that would really work well. I need to revisit Christy Moore and Planxty again. Best Wishes.
A poem for poor old St. Patrick
A poem for poor old St. Patrick
A torrent of green furry hats, drink-reddened faces, vomit-flecked green t-shirts, and plastic leprechaun ears rushes in front of my eyes. The House sound-systems blares out selections from Probably The Worst Irish Record Ever Committed to Vinyl. Which is mercifully, if painfully, occasionally drowned out by howls of deafening feedback as the soundman tries to figure out why our P.A. which was fine up until we started to play, is now only fit to broadcast sonic destruction. The Twister competition (yes!) in one corner of the bar produces drunken howls of delight as contestants collapse in groping piles.
I sit back on a chair and sip a McGuinness. If I had a Hamlet, now would be the time to take it out and smoke it, but I don’t have one. Instead I blank it all out and nod occasionally at whatever Jerry is saying to me (I can’t hear him over the cacophany), and let words swirl around in my head. Occasionally they coalesce into a sort of rough doggerel....
So here are two new poems for Paddy’s Day. They’re not good enough to be worthy of titles
Poem No. 1
How does the ascetic
Who drove out the snakes
From the land of lakes,
View the frenetic
Consumption of beer
On his day of the year?
Poem No. 2
So, Irish Patron.
If you were indeed Welsh
As the scholars insist,
How come you had
A good old irish name
Like Patrick?
Eh?
Maybe some others of you out there in mustard-page land have some. then we could print a book, and sell it for charity at a stall next St Patrick’s Day. We could set up our stall between the Twister Competition and the stall where the lady swaps the collected Guinness vouchers for the furry hats ....
# Posted on March 19th 2005 by Ottery
Re: A poem for poor old St. Patrick
Ottery: I really like the first one. Has anyone yet done a lyrics and tune for St Patrick's Day along the same theme?
# Posted on March 19th 2005 by CeolCairdeas
Re: A poem for poor old St. Patrick
No Irishman could take him seriously with a name like Hywel or Geraint.
# Posted on March 19th 2005 by CreadurMawnOrganig
Re: A poem for poor old St. Patrick
What about the jig - St Patrick's Day.
And of course there was the Christy Moore version of Patrick was a Gentlman.
St. Patrick Was A Gentleman
by Bachman Turner Overdrive
album:
Saint Patrick was a gentleman, he came from decent people,
In Dublin town he built a church and on it put a steeple
His father was a Callahan, his mother was a Grady,
His aunt was O'Shaughnessy and uncle he was Brady
Chorus :
Success to bold Saint Patrick's fist,
He was a Saint so clever,
He gave the snakes an awful twist
And banished them forever
There's not a smile in Ireland's isle where the dirty vermin musters
Where’er he put his dear forefoot he murder’d them in clusters
The toads went hop, the frogs went plop, slap dash into the water
And the beasts committed suicide to save themselves from slaughter
Nine hundred thousand vipers blue he charm’d with sweet discourses
And dined on them at Killaloo an’ in the second courses
When blind worms crawling on the grass disgusted all the nation
He gave them a rise and open’d their eyes to a sense of their situation
The Wicklow hills are very high and so’s the hill of Howth, sir
But there's a hill much higher still, Ay, higher then them both, sir
And it was on the top of his hill, Saint Patrick preach’d the "Sarmint"
That drove the frogs into the bogs and bothered all the "varmint"
# Posted on March 19th 2005 by breandan
Re: A poem for poor old St. Patrick
There are in fact three jigs in the tunes section called St Patrick's Day.
# Posted on March 19th 2005 by breandan
Re: A poem for poor old St. Patrick
What I like in Poem No. 1 is that when I think of St Patrick, I think of the era of strong Irish Christianity, arguably the strongest ascetism and faith of that time in the world. Someone meditating in a cell all day, fasting or taking a vow of silence is the exact opposite of what is liberally demonstrated on St Patrick Day each year.
That's a cute tune breandan. That could be enacted in a playful way for children that would really work well. I need to revisit Christy Moore and Planxty again. Best Wishes.
# Posted on March 19th 2005 by CeolCairdeas
Re: A poem for poor old St. Patrick
Drat! Now you got me going. I have "the Night Saint Paddy Died" going around in my head.
# Posted on March 19th 2005 by CeolCairdeas
Re: A poem for poor old St. Patrick
Saint Patrick was the gentleman
That wrote the Book of Kells
And he drove the snakes from Ireland
By forever ringing Bells.
He taught the common people
To observe the Holy Laws
And he showed the Christian Brothers
How to use a leather Tawse.
He chose to pick a shamrock
Or so everyone believes
For when he picked a clover
The plant would have four leaves!
St Patrick had a breastplate
That shielded him from harm
It is mystical and magical
And longer than my arm.
He fed and clothed poor Ossian
And kept him from death’s door
For it was his bounden duty
To give alms among the poor.
It’s a closely guarded secret
And to mention it is risky
But St Patrick was the fellow
Who invented Irish Whiskey!
I’ve also heard a story
That I’m not so sure about
That St Patrick was the fellow
Who invented Guinness’ Stout!
So let’s raise a toast to Patrick
Wherever there’s a bar
So everyone come join me,
And wish him Slainte Mhath!
# Posted on March 20th 2005 by Innocent Bystander