En.Citatepedia^®.ro

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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Amazing Kinsale

If you want to do some traveling
Ireland is the place to go
Seeped in ancient history
You’ll be fascinated with it so

Kinsale will make you welcome
Anything you’d want to do is there
Whether yachting, fishing or golf
Or a delicious gourmet fare

Nestled between hills and shore
Such a beautiful place to go
While standing on the reaching cliffs
There’s an amazing scene below

And oh, the Waterford crystal
You know, this is where it’s made
Clear back in 1873 it began
Though the arts had been delayed

Secret minerals make a special tone
No other crystal sounds the same
Its beauty is of the finest quality
It has gained tremendous fame

So as you can see, folks
To celebrate St. Patrick’s Day
Ireland is where you need to visit
Go to Kinsale without delay!

poem by Marilyn Lott
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Rose Tree

'O WORDS are lightly spoken,'
Said Pearse to Connolly,
'Maybe a breath of politic words
Has withered our Rose Tree;
Or maybe but a wind that blows
Across the bitter sea.'
'It needs to be but watered,'
James Connolly replied,
'To make the green come out again
And spread on every side,
And shake the blossom from the bud
To be the garden's pride.'
'But where can we draw water,'
Said Pearse to Connolly,
'When all the wells are parched away?
O plain as plain can be
There's nothing but our own red blood
Can make a right Rose Tree.'

poem by William Butler Yeats
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

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
Vote! | Copy!

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
Vote! | Copy!

The Home Of The Irish

The Land where the famous stout Guinness is made
And that Imperialist Armies often did invade
And that has suffered in the political and religious divide
A problem that now seems to be Worldwide.

It's history seems complex and hard to understand
It's Patron Saint Patrick is of another Land
He did come from Scotia as we have been told
That's going back in time to a history that's old.

Myths and legends through the centuries about it have grown
By names such as Tir Na Nog and Hibernia it once has been known
Tribes such as the Laiginian, Milesians, Fir Bolg and De Danaan lived there before the Celts arrived
Though mostly only oral history of their existence 'twould seem has survived.

A Land in the North Atlantic that always looks green
Of legends such as Fionn MacCumaill, Kathleen Ni Houlihan and Dark Rosaleen
A Country that does have many claims to fame
The home of the Irish and Ireland it's name.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Irish Guards

1918

We're not so old in the Army List,
But we're not so young at our trade,
For we had the honour at Fontenoy
Of meeting the Guards' Brigade.
'Twas Lally, Dillon, Bulkeley, Clare,
And Lee that led us then,
And after a hundred and seventy years
We're fighting for France again!
Old Days! The wild geese are flighting,
Head to fhe sform as they faced if before !
For where there are Irish there's bound to be fighting,
And when there's no fighting, it's Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!

The fashion's all for khaki now,
But once through France we went
Full-dressed in scarlet Army cloth,
The English-left at Ghent.
They're fighting on our side to-day
But, before they changed their clothes,
The half of Europe knew our fame,
As all of Ireland knows!
Old Days! The wild geese are flying,
Head to the sform as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish there's memory undying,
And when we forget, it is Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!

From Barry Wood to Gouzeaucourt,
From Boyne to Pilkem Ridge,
The ancient days come back no more
Than water under the bridge.
But the bridge it stands and the water runs
As red as yesterday,
And the Irish move to the sound of the guns
Like salmon to the sea.
Old Days! The wild geese are ranging,
Head to fhe storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish their hearts are unchanging,
And when they are changed, it is Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!

We're not so old in the Army List,
But we're not so new in the ring,
For we carried our packs with Marshal Saxe
When Louis was our King.
But Douglas Haig's our Marshal now
And we're King George's men,
And after one hundred and seventy years
We're fighting for France again!
Ah, France! And did we stand by you,
When life was made splendid with gifts and rewards?
Ah, France! And will we deny you
In the hour of your agony, Mother of Swords?
Old Days! The wild geese are flighing,
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish there's loving and fighting
And when we stop either, it's Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!

poem by Rudyard Kipling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Our Fathers Gave Us Celtic

Our ancestors came from Ireland
Who brought their pride and their faith,
They gathered as one at Celtic park
To express their cultural identity.

Our father’s gave us Celtic
And the songs we sing today,
Our Irish heritage we celebrate
When watching the Bhoys in green play.

The Celtic jersey was worn by icons
Who played with heart and soul,
Diehards for the Celtic cause,
Entertainers, who brought us goals.

We stood through miserable Scottish weather
Suffering the defeat of a Rangers game,
But our spirits stayed strong as we chanted loud
In praise of Celtic’s name.

But it is football, faith and passion
To Parkhead we make our way,
As we sit were our father’s once stood
To see football played the Glasgow Celtic way.

Feb’22nd 2005

poem by Daniel McDonagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Possibilities

I prefer movies.
I prefer cats.
I prefer the oaks along the Warta.
I prefer Dickens to Dostoyevsky.
I prefer myself liking people
to myself loving mankind.
I prefer keeping a needle and thread on hand, just in case.
I prefer the color green.
I prefer not to maintain
that reason is to blame for everything.
I prefer exceptions.
I prefer to leave early.
I prefer talking to doctors about something else.
I prefer the old fine-lined illustrations.
I prefer the absurdity of writing poems
to the absurdity of not writing poems.
I prefer, where love's concerned, nonspecific anniversaries
that can be celebrated every day.
I prefer moralists
who promise me nothing.
I prefer cunning kindness to the over-trustful kind.
I prefer the earth in civvies.
I prefer conquered to conquering countries.
I prefer having some reservations.
I prefer the hell of chaos to the hell of order.
I prefer Grimms' fairy tales to the newspapers' front pages.
I prefer leaves without flowers to flowers without leaves.
I prefer dogs with uncropped tails.
I prefer light eyes, since mine are dark.
I prefer desk drawers.
I prefer many things that I haven't mentioned here
to many things I've also left unsaid.
I prefer zeroes on the loose
to those lined up behind a cipher.
I prefer the time of insects to the time of stars.
I prefer to knock on wood.
I prefer not to ask how much longer and when.
I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility
that existence has its own reason for being.

poem by Wislawa Szymborska
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!

Back In Ireland (Long Version)

This is a journey into the past, the present, and the future
Now close your eyes and join the trip
It's 6am in the morning, and we find ourselves somewhere in Ireland
Welcome Posse!
We're kickin' up!
Once again we have the plan
Driving you wild as good as we can
Won't stop us now, we're gonna make you move
Raving outside to the passionate groove
So I wanna check the microphone, I wanna check the microphone
I wanna check, I wanna check
The Rick, the Ferris, and MC H.P. Scooter!
Back in Ireland
Yes!
C'mon!
Somewhere is Ireland, banging the bass
Join our trip to this weird place
Back to nature, where we can be
Faster and harder, loud and free
I wanna check the microphone, I wanna check the microphone
I wanna check, I wanna check
The Rick, the Ferris, and MC H.P. Scooter!
Back in the Ireland
Bass!
We Started in 1994! In 1996, we're still on the case
Hold tight crew! Together, no-one can stop us now!
So I wanna check the microphone, I wanna check the microphone
I wanna check, I wanna check
The bird, the tree, the cow, the seas,
The Rick, the Ferris and MC H.P. !

song performed by by Scooter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Down the Gallowgate

I took a stroll one Saturday along to Argyle Street,
To Glasgow Cross, were the Gallowgate & the Trongate meet,
Under the railway bridge and McKinnon’s pub, I would often pass,
Heading up towards to the Barras, towards the Celtic bars.

My first stop of the journey was the famous Saracen Head
Were rebel songs by Glasgow bands, were loudly, proudly played.
I drank my pint plus two more and gladly sang along;
‘Crossmaglen’, ‘Irish Soldier Laddie’, ‘Sean South of Garryowen’.

I squeezed by some thirsty fans, in through the doorway of Bairds Bar
Were a pint of Tennents 80/, I was duly served,
By the jukebox on the wall, I always like to stand
Listening to a ballad, of the martyr, Bobby Sands.

By the time, I reached the entrance of Bar 67
Grey clouds had gathered and threatened to rain,
I stood amongst fans, who hailed from Belfast and from Derry,
Who had travelled to the game, on the overnight ferry.

After finishing my third pint in the Hoops Bar
I contemplated on buying and drinking another jar,
With the game to set to start in less than 20 minutes,
I had a glass of Jamieson’s whiskey & toasted the Glasgow Celtic.

Nov’14th 2005

poem by Daniel McDonagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Choices

i prefer smooth peanut butter
to crunchy
mind you
crunchy is all right
but i prefer smooth.

i prefer strawberry jam
to raspberry
mind you
raspberry is tasty
but it's got all those seeds
and i prefer strawberry.

i prefer mustard
to mayonaisse
mind you mayonaisse has it's place
amongst condiments
but is likely to go bad
if left out to long
and poison everyone
so on the whole i prefer mustard.

i prefer cooked meat
to raw meat
for much the same reason
as i prefer mustard to mayonaisse
although it also has to do
with the fact that i don't
like my meat to bleat
or moo or make chicken noises (BAGOCK!)
when i eat
so i tend to avoid the raw
though mind you
the meat that i prefer
may at some time have been raw.

i prefer not to say
why i think so
but i do
and i suppose it's all
just a matter of taste
so if you'd prefer to think so
then crunchy is better
than smooth
even if it does interfere
with the texture of the
peanut butter
and jelly (strawberry) sandwich
which ought to be somewhat
devoid of substance
merely a sticky sweet something
to fill your stomach
put mayonaisse on it
if you like
i'd prefer not to think about it.

poem by Laura Sewell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Birth of Celtic

In eighteen hundred and eighty-eight
Brother Walfrid walked along the Gallowgate,
Were immigrants of Ireland walked the streets,
No food in their stomachs, no shoes on their feet.

These souls of the famished Irish nation
Had made their home in Glasgow’s east end,
Ridiculed & provoked by the Protestant majority
Who could not accept the Irish faith & identity.

In Scotland’s east coast, Edinburgh, the capital,
Had saw the rise in the game of football,
Where a team, Hibernian, played under Ireland’s harp,
And brought victory with them onto the park.

And Brother Walfrid, a Marist priest,
Saw poverty prosper in his parish,
He suggested a savior to the Irish nationalist
Who had never seen a ball been kicked on a pitch.

A team would be organized; a stadium would be built,
Players would be sourced who had courage & skill,
And the income generated from watching the team,
Would feed the tables of Irish families & children.

Players were asked, some where even stolen,
From teams like Cowlairs and Renton,
Land was rented that was barren and unkept;
History was about the wake the giant that slept.

Glasgow’s Irish saw Brother Walfrid’s dream come true
As an organized football team now grew,
A Celtic cross was stitched to a white jersey,
As preparations were made for a “friendly”.

Glasgow Rangers, the visitors, took to the field,
Already a threat to the Scottish game,
But the dominance faded for the team in blue,
As the Irish team of Celtic won by a score of 5-2

The birth of Celtic, was Brother Walfrid’s dream,
As history has favoured the bhoys in green,
From the legacy of Jock Stein, to the resurgence of Martin O’Neill,
The passion & commitment can be found on Celtic’s football field.

July'22nd 2003

poem by Daniel McDonagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

I Prefer Crazed Blue Eyes

I prefer crazed blue eyes
How they
Magnetize
The ache
I have
To make your insanity
My own

I prefer crazed blue eyes
Won't
Apologize
How I take
Your flesh
And make your absurdity
My home

I prefer crazed blue eyes
Don't you
Realize?
Nutcase
Lover
Wackity wack wackify
My soul

Let me look into your
Anarchic mind
Transfixed by those
Wild baby blues

Let's share the final
Gasps of time
While we wear
Each other's shoes

Let me hold your body
In such strange ways
Even monkeys
Would be ashamed

Let's meld our chaos
Lunatic babe
One body joined
Perverse, deranged

I prefer crazed blue eyes
Delirious blues
In the way they
Stare at me
All Sturm und Drang
Staring
Knowing
Exactly
Who I Am

poem by Catman Cohen
Submitted by anonym
Vote! | Copy!

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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Amhán Na bhFiann

Ireland’s National Anthem
Has been branded a sectarian song,
As it’s sang on Parkhead’s terracing
By Celtic’s faithful sons,
Can we celebrate at Celtic Park
The heritage of our ancestors?
Or are we to be silenced by the critics
For heralding our Irish culture?

2005

poem by Daniel McDonagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Flag Issue at Parkhead in the Fifties

In Scotland in the fifties,
In football terms,
Protest was a blaze
From the grumpy old chairmen,
They took to a cause
That never since has died;
The flying of Ireland’s flag
Over Parkhead’s sky.

So bold Robert Kelly,
Born to Celtic’s dynasty,
Acted upon his heart
And wrote himself into history,
He sat at his desk
With pen in hand,
And wrote a letter, for a favour,
From the Irish PM.

“Dear Mr.DeValera,
How have you been?
Have you been reading the results
Of the bhoys in green?
Our attendance at Parkhead
Improves with every game,
I just wish our football
Would improve the same.”

“I have a small plea,
In this letter I ask,
As Celtic’s being condemned
For flying Ireland’s flag,
We’re proud of the fathers
Who built this club,
Proud of our heritage
As Ireland’s sons.”

“Ireland’s flag,
We’ll never take down,
But protest galore
May be reaching the crown,
So the teams in Scotland
Have gathered as a unit,
And turned the flag issue
Into a game of politics.”

“I took a walk around Parkhead,
It was a sunny day,
And noticed our flag of old,
Is starting to fray,
To the establishment of football,
I would just love to brag,
Can Ireland, our brother,
Deliver Celtic a new flag? ”

The letter was stamped
And mailed to Dublin,
By special delivery
Not carrier pigeon,
And DeValera, in the penmanship
Of Yeats’ ghost,
Wrote, “No problem, son,
It’s in the post.”

Oct'25th 2003

poem by Daniel McDonagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

All We Have Is Now

As logic stands you couldn't meet a man
Who's from the future
But logic broke as he appeared he spoke
About the Future
"We're not gonna make it" He explained how
the end will come - you and me were never meant
to be part of the future -
All we have is now -
All we've ever had was now
All we have is now
All we'll ever have is now
I noticed that he had a watch and hat
That looked familiar
He was me - from a dimension torn free
Of the future
"We're not gonna make it" He explained how
the end will come - You and me were never meant
to be part of the future -
All we have is now -
All we've ever had was now
All we have is now
All we'll ever have is now -
All we have is now

song performed by by Flaming Lips
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!