St. Pat's Day
Today is St. Patrick's Day
When little people are seen
It may be a load of blarney
The forty shades of green.
St. Patrick was a gentleman
He was a saint so clever
Drove all the snakes from Ireland
And banished them forever.
I'll wear a four leafed shamrock
And Irish songs I'll sing
I'll toast with Irish whiskey
A Leprechaun to bring.
If I can catch this Leprechaun
And on to him keep hold
I'll go to the end of the rainbow
And claim his pot of gold.
© Hazel 2012
poem by Hazel Connelly
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Related quotes
Irish
St. Patrick's day is with us,
The day when all that's seen
From right and left
And everywhere is green, green, green.
I'll wear an Irish shamrock
In my coat the glad day through,
For my mother and Grandma are Irish,
And I am half way Irish, too!
poem by Autumn Howard
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Little Ireland N.Y.
SAINT PATRICK S DAY
LITTLE IRELAND N.Y.
It was going to be another SAINT PATRICK S DAY in New York
But what they was planning was just talk.
Every year new Yorkers would be dressed in green
Which in itself was a sight to be seen.
The New York police with their marching bands
Would always be there to give a hand.
The people all lined up on Manhattan streets
Trying to get a front row seat.
Children with their four leaf clovers on their faces
And the elderly showing their finest silks and laces.
OH! The pride in all their eyes was something they could not hide.
They would talk about centuries of leprechaun tales
And how people would hide their gold
In the bottoms of their coal pails
or hide them deep In the ground
in the hope that it wouldn't be found.
Now! Any family that had a surname that started off
With Mc or Mac was the first ones
the leprechauns would attack.
For they were known to have businesses
through out the land, and lots of gold in their hands.
And the ones that started with the letter "o"
(o keefe - o donnell) had a little less and it was told.
Now this is folklore we all know
But they still search for that " pot o gold ".
Strange as this may all seem - in their eyes you'll see a "gleam."
Is it because they know something that we don't know?
Or is it just an Irish show?
poem by Louis Rams
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Give Ireland Back To The Irish
Give ireland back to the irish
Dont make them have to take it away
Give ireland back to the irish
Make ireland irish today
Great britian you are tremendous
And nobody knows like me
But really what are you doin
In the land across the sea
Tell me how would you like it
If on your way to work
You were stopped by irish soliders
Would you lie down do nothing
Would you give in, or go berserk
Give ireland back to the irish
Dont make them have to take it away
Give ireland back to the irish
Make ireland irish today
Great britian and all the people
Say that all people must be free
Meanwhile back in ireland
Theres a man who looks like me
And he dreams of God and country
And hes feeling really bad
And hes sitting in a prison
Should he lie down do nothing
Should give in or go mad
Give ireland back to the irish
Dont make them have to take it away
Give ireland back to the irish
Make ireland irish today
Give ireland back to the irish
Dont make them have to take it away
Give ireland back to the irish
Make ireland irish today
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I do identify with St. Patrick, not just in name. He drove the snakes out of Ireland. I intend to drive the snakes out of the State House.
quote by Deval Patrick
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Luck Of The Irish
Ok, one, two, three, one two, three
If you had the luck of the irish,
You'd be sorry and wish you were dead.
You should have the luck of the irish,
And you'd wish you was english instead.
A thousand years of torture and hunger,
Drove the people away from their land.
A land full of beauty and wonder
Was raped by the british brigands!
Goddamned!
Goddamned!
If you could keep voices like flowers,
There's be shamrock all over the world.
If you could drink dreams like irish streams,
Then the world would be as high as the mountain of morn.
In the 'pool they told us the story
How the english divided the land.
Of the pain and the death and the glory
And the poets of auld eireland.
If we could make chains with the morning dew,
The world would be like galway bay.
Let's walk over rainbows like leprechauns,
The world would be one big blarney stone.
Why the hell are the english there anyway?
As they kill with god on their side!
Blame it all on the kids and the i.r.a.
As the bastards commit genocide!
Aye! aye!
Genocide!
Okay!
You should have the luck of the irish,
You'd be sorry and wish you were dead.
You should have the luck of the irish,
And you'd wish you was english instead.
One more time!
You should have the luck of the irish,
You'd be sorry and wish you were dead.
You should have the luck of the irish,
And you'd wish you was english instead,
Hey, yes, you'd wish you were english instead.
- "thank you!
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Chasing Rainbows
Today, all day, my Irish leprechaun
We get our chance to catch you if we can.
You hold the secrets of hidden treasures.
This time we will use successful measures.
For most, we’ll sit in pubs all day and hunt
for you in greenish stout from favorite haunts
Along the way. What fools we mortals be
That think at rainbows end we’ll find the key
To gold and sundry riches in a pot.
Hah! All that’s found are fractured dreams and sots.
From time immemorial fools have tried
In vain to follow dreams of gold worldwide.
Thus, chasing dreams and dodgy rainbows
Makes one lose sight of what’s under your nose.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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To The Irish Dead
’TIS a green isle set in a silver water,
A fairy isle where the shamrock grows.
Land of Legend, the Dream-Queen’s daughter—
Out of the Fairies’ hands She rose.
They touched Her harp with a tender sighing,
A spirit-song from a world afar,
They touched Her heart with a fire undying
To fight and follow Her battle-star.
Too long, too long thro’ the grey years growing
Feud and faction have swept between
The Thistledown and the red Rose blowing
And the three-fold leaf of the Shamrock green;
But the seal of blood, ye shall break it never:
With rifles grounded and bare of head
We drink to the dead who live forever
A silent toast—To the Irish dead!
’Tis an Irish cheer on the hillside ringing,
Where, checked and broken, the vanguards reel,
But on and upward and forward swinging,
The glittering line of the Irish steel!
Like points of light ’mid the boulders lying
Gleam and redden their bayonets keen.
On, thro’ the hell of their dead and dying,
Forward, forward, the Shamrock green!
To Ireland, set in the silver water,
To the fighting blood that is proved and tried—
Our sharpest sword and our fairest daughter—
Who saved the Empire and turned the tide!
And Wisdom comes as the days grow older,
We are done with the faults of the past, I ween,
Standing together, shoulder to shoulder,
The Thistle, the Rose, and the Shamrock green!
poem by George Essex Evans
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The Luck Of The Irish
If you had the luck of the irish
Youd be sorry and wish you were dead
You should have the luck of the irish
And youd wish you was english instead!
A thousand years of torture and hunger
Drove the people away from their land
A land full of beauty and wonder
Was raped by the british brigands! goddamn! goddamn!
If you could keep voices like flowers
Thered be shamrock all over the world
If you could drink dreams like irish streams
Then the world would be high as the mountain of morn
In the pool they told us the story
How the english divided the land
Of the pain, the death and the glory
And the poets of auld eireland
If we could make chains with the morning dew
The world would be like galway bay
Lets walk over rainbows like leprechauns
The world would be one big blarney stone
Why the hell are the english there anyway?
As they kill with God on their side
Blame it all on the kids the ira
As the bastards commit genocide! aye! aye! genocide!
If you had the luck of the irish
Youd be sorry and wish you was dead
You should have the luck of the irish
And youd wish you was english instead!
Yes youd wish you was english instead!
song performed by by Lennon John
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It was not on one foot that st. patrick came to ireland.
If You're Lucky Enough To Be Irish
If you're lucky enough to be Irish
Then you're lucky enough they say.
I count my Irish blessings,
As I breathe the air each day.
When I'm somewhere o'er the water
Not walking Erin's shore,
I know my resting place will be
In Ireland for evermore.
I have Irish songs on my lips,
And Irish blood in my veins,
So I tell you I'm lucky to be Irish,
And I'll keep telling you over again.
I'm lucky enough to be Irish.
My children who walk by my side,
Will I hope, too feel the calling,
And someday walk Erin's fields wide.
poem by Rosi Caswell
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The Toasts of Ireland
Giants set the causeway stones
between our Isle and sea.
Saint Patrick drove the snakes away
and explained the Trinity.
Connolly and Pearse persuaded
Brits to set us free.
Some tales are myth, some are lore
And some are history.
The Irish make an Aran knit
With Celtic weaves sublime.
The Crystal made in Waterford
is elegant and refined.
In the past, flights of “Wild Geese”
Exported Ireland’s pride
Some think the future is Belleek
Others say Intel’s inside.
A pint of Guinness in a pub
can make a meal a treat.
Some prefer a Jameson’s
with its subtle hint of peat.
Others have a Smithwick’s
Some prefer a Bass.
My stated preference is Black Bush-
served neat in a glass.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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On Reading Of Racism In Ireland
I always feel disappointed when of racism I read
And when I read of it in Ireland I feel very sad indeed
For racism in society should never have a place
And people should never be judged on their colour or their race.
As the Land of saints and scholars Ireland was known Worldwide
And the Irish people suffered and their rights to them denied
But the Irish in their sense of fair play could take a certain pride
And for their human rights and liberty the sons of Ireland died.
Poor migrants from Romania their possessions weigh light
To live and work in Ireland do they not have the right?
They may come un-invited but their numbers only small
And the Irish too are migrants as history will recall.
I read it's the Irish media that fans racism's flame
If this be so of their bad work they must feel a great shame
They cannot say in years to come the fault was never ours
When they first used the noxious spray that poisoned all the flowers.
I am an Irish migrant far from my native shore
And others treat me with respect than that one could not ask for more
A fair go for all people and for everyone fair play
Those words from centuries ago are relevant today.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Base Of The Rainbow
The leprechaun's
pot is not just of gold at the base
of the rainbow but all the
rainbow colors which into it poured
poem by Saiom Shriver
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St Patricks Day
March 17th is one of the best days of the year.
In Chicago the river was as green as grass.
The Irish were celebrating like it was their job.
Everyone in my family was together having a blast.
The Irish were parading for it was their day.
The potatoes and corned beef for dinner were mouthwatering.
The shamrock was everywhere I looked.
Green was swarming the city.
Everyone celebrating their heritage or just trying to have a good time.
I didn’t care who’s celebrating it’s the day where everyone’s Irish.
I hardly slept because of the great day.
Too bad I had to get up for school the next day.
poem by Mike Kearney
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I am Patrick, yes a sinner and indeed untaught; yet I am established here in Ireland where I profess myself bishop. I am certain in my heart that "all that I am," I have received from God. So I live among barbarous tribes, a stranger and exile for the love of God.
quote by Saint Patrick
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Born From the Blood of the Gael
I learned my history of Ireland
From my father every Friday night,
When he would arrive home from Madigan’s bar
Reciting in song and verse of Ireland’s fight.
He talked of Robert Emmett
And sang of the brave Wolfe Tone,
He spoke with pride of Padraig Pearse
Of James Connolly, he would recite a poem.
It was not the Guinness that fuelled his passion,
For his heritage, he would never part.
And he told me, that I, a son of the Diaspora
Was an Irish bhoy at heart.
He said that Brother Walfrid should be canonized a saint
For his vision and his dream.
For he brought faith and pride to the Glasgow Irish
With men proudly wearing the emerald green.
A second-class citizen is how he had felt all his life
For being a Catholic of Irish descent.
And it burned his soul, the discrimination and bigotry,
That had encountered his up bringing in a Glasgow tenement.
He spoke of the shipyards; he had worked down by the Clyde,
Harassed for his faith, labeled a papist and Fenian.
His solace he found, in Our Lord and the Virgin Mary,
How he sometimes wished, he had the strength of Cúchulainn.
Our heritage and culture, he said, shall last forever
For we are born from the blood of the Gael,
And the next time that you walk into Parkhead,
Those rebel songs of old, sing, shout and yell.
Daniel McDonagh June’2008
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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Suisun Spring
the green glow
of our cottonwoods
newly clothed in the gentle April sun....
our apple tree,
still skeletal,
intimating cotton buds
promising green glory to come,
and the grass!
all winter-yellow evaporated,
shouting like a
third-grade leprechaun
skipping across the playground
in the school's St. Patrick's Day Parade.
but most unforeseen,
along the rough fence
the vinca
blazing with royal light
in the deep, verdant shade
of our cottonwoods.
poem by Steven Federle
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The Ballad of Brother Walfrid
My name is Andrew Kerins,
born and bred in Ballymote
I left my home at an early age
and traveled to Scotland in a trawler boat
Would I ever again see Ireland,
as the famine had stolen her strength
Would Scotland welcome the Diaspora,
of Irish men & women
My calling of becoming a Marist Priest
led me to the Glasgow parish of St.Mary's
Where the immigrant Irish, poor and starved,
made home in the east end of the city
My heart cried out when I saw theses lost souls,
living in poverty and in squalor
As Protestant Scotland would not accept,
their accent, dress or culture.
I prayed day and night to Our Lord,
for the welfare of St.Patrick's flock,
As jobs were few and far between
as they were ridiculed, harassed and mocked,
From all over Ireland, they came to Glasgow,
to escape the potatoe blight
Some had wished they had went to America,
to live in the comfort of the stars and stripes
I saw the hunger on the faces of children
when they sat for Sunday Mass,
My dream was to feed them once a day,
that became my spiritual task.
Along with the St Vincent de Paul Society,
we would reach out to these starving souls,
The Poor Children's 'Penny Dinner' Table was formed,
for the undernourished children of Glasgow.
The Donegal dialect and the Kerry brogue,
I heard within my confessional,
As Ireland’s lonely sons and daughters
spoke of broken hearts and promises,
I sought to feed their hunger
and bring hope to their shattered dreams
I fought to bring them comfort,
to silence their children’s screams.
At St.Mary’s hall in the Calton,
in February of 1887
I joined the victory celebrations
for a football team called Hibernian,
They were the pride of every Irishman
from Scotland’s east and west coast,
Were we sang songs of dear old Ireland,
to Hibernian, some gave a toast.
Like a vision of God before me,
inspiration came to me I a dream
Were the old east end of Glasgow,
would like Edinburgh, have an Irish team,
No more would Irish families live in poverty
or see their children sick,
For a football team would play for charity
and that team I would call Celtic.
For months, we toiled the barren land
that sat upon Janefield Street
And built a stadium for football
were the Irish would gather and meet,
I saw smiles appear on the faces of children,
who carried Ireland in their heart,
For they could not wait to welcome the Bhoys,
Who would one day grace Celtic Park.
Daniel McDonagh – Apr’27th 2006
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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When the Irish Flag Went By
’Twas Eight-Hour Day, and proudly
Old Labour led the way;
The drums were bearing loudly,
The crowded streets were gay;
But something touched my heart like pain,
I could not check the sigh
That rose within my bosom when
The Irish Flag went by.
Bright flags were raised about it
And one of them my own:
And patriots trod beneath it—
But it seemed all alone.
I thought of ruined Ireland
While crystals from the sky
Fell soft like tears by angels shed,
As the Irish Flag went by.
I love the dark green standard
As Irish patriots do;
It waves above the rebels,
And I’m a rebel too,
I thought of Ireland’s darkest years,
Her griefs that follow fast;
For drooping as ’twere drenched with tears
The Irish Flag went past.
And though ’twas not in Erin
That my forefathers trod;
And though my wandering footsteps
Ne’er pressed the “dear old sod”,
I felt the wrongs the Irish feel
Beneath the northern sky.
And felt the rebel in my heart
When the Irish Flag went by.
I tell you, men of England,
Who rule the land by might;
I tell you, Irish traitors
Who sell the sons of light,
The tyranny shall fail at last,
That changeful days are nigh;
And you shall dip your red flag yet,
When the Irish Flag goes by.
poem by Henry Lawson
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In the Hoops of Green
In the hoops of green
In colours proud
Players, past & present
Heroes to Parkhead’s crowd.
From Maley’s days
And Jock Stein’s glory
The faithful have grown
On Celtic’s story.
From the streets of Glasgow
From Maryhill Road
To the sidewalks of Toronto
The passion still grows.
As we sing with pride
Old familiar songs
Our culture and faith
We will pass along.
With our Irish pride
In the hoops of green
We will forever support
Glasgow’s Irish team.
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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