I tell you, St. Paddy, God-wot
An Irishman born he was not.
To be sure fair of face
He hailed from a place
Where he started off life as a Scot!
quote by by Margaret Kollmer
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Springtime and Old Irishmen
As an Irishman,
tis my prerogative
To be an authority on all things
Great and small
As an "old" Irishman
it's my fate
Of late (and as always)
To simply know it all
As an old Irishman of visage worn
Of craggy face, rheumy blue eyes
With clothing crudely rent and worn
Prone to ale, stout and whisky sighs
As an old wise, wizened Irishman
Who loves the winter as a wondrous thing
But as sure it is, I'm an old Irishman
I treasure most…the Irish Spring
As a wise, wizened, oft inebriated Irishman
Given well to know that one's only given so many things
I relish the pleasure of the Springs I have left
Until this old wrinkled Irishman takes wing
As when this old Irishman
leaves the moor and the glen
There's but a few things I'll rue
To not see nor to hear once again
ne'er again see na' more The hind end of Winters…
ne'er hear "Danny boy" pluck again at me heartstrings…
And Na' more to smell the cold Irish sea
Nor know the fresh faces of fine Irish Springs
poem by David Whalen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Paddy Magee
What are you doing now, Paddy Magee?
Grafting, or spelling now, Paddy Magee?
Breaking, or branding?
Or overlanding,
Out on the sand ridges, Paddy Magee?
Is your mouth parched, from an all-night spree?
Taking a pick-me-up, Paddy Magee?
Cocktail - or simple soda and b.? -
Which is the 'antidote,' Paddy Magee?
Still 'shook' on some beautiful, blushing she?
Girl in the Bogan side, Paddy Magee?
A hack providing
For moonlight riding,
Side-saddle foolery, Paddy Magee?
Up on the station - or in the town -
Or on the Warrego, droving down,
Whatever you're doing - wherever you be!
'There's lashin's o' luck to ye!' Paddy Magee!
poem by Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Fair Go Of Anyone We Should Not Deny
Those who judge people by their colour or their creed or their race
The spirit of the fair go could never embrace
But eventually the reality they have to face
That in the twenty first century for their sort of thinking there isn't a place.
Of what I say here to all races apply
A fair go of anyone we should not deny
Those who are prejudiced towards others in their ways are small
Long live the great beauty in a fair go for all.
As we know prejudice and racism is only based on ignorance and fear
And of such negative stuff I don't wish to read of or hear
Their thinking is out of touch and it would seem fair to say
That it is out of place in the World of today.
One fact in black, brown and white and facts never lie
Is that we are mere mortals and born to die
And whoever you are you deserve a fair go
And may happiness and luck in your life you do know
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Paddy Malone In Australia
Och! my name's Pat Malone, and I'm from Tipperary.
Sure, I don't know it now I'm so bothered, Ohone!
And the gals that I danced with, light-hearted and airy,
It's scarcely they'd notice poor Paddy Malone.
'Tis twelve months or more since our ship she cast anchor
In happy Australia, the Emigrant's home,
And from that day to this there's been nothing but canker,
And grafe and vexation for Paddy Malone.
Oh, Paddy Malone! Oh, Paddy, Ohone!
Bad luck to the agent that coaxed ye to roam.
Wid a man called a squatter I soon got a place, sure,
He'd a beard like a goat, and such whiskers, Ohone!
And he said—as he peeped through the hair on his faitures
That he liked the appearance of Paddy Malone.
Wid him I agreed to go up to his station,
Saying abroad in the bush you'll find yourself at home.
I liked his proposal, and 'out hesitation
Signed my name wid a X that spelt Paddy Malone.
Oh, Paddy Malone, you're no scholard, Ohone!
Sure, I made a cris-crass that spelt Paddy Malone.
A-herding my sheep in the bush, as they call it
It was no bush at all, but a mighty great wood,
Wid all the big trees that were small bushes one time,
A long time ago, faith I 'spose 'fore the flood.
To find out this big bush one day I went further,
The trees grew so thick that I couldn't, Ohone!
I tried to go back then, but that I found harder,
And bothered and lost was poor Paddy Malone.
Oh, Paddy Malone, through the bush he did roam
What a Babe in the Wood was poor Paddy Malone.
I was soon overcome, sure, wid grafe and vexation,
And camped, you must know, by the side of a log;
I was found the next day by a man from the station,
For I coo-ey'd and roared like a bull in a bog.
The man said to me, "Arrah, Pat! where's the sheep now?"
Says I, "I dunno! barring one here at home,"
And the master began and kicked up a big row too,
And swore he'd stop the wages of Paddy Malone.
Arrah! Paddy Malone, you're no shepherd, Ohone!
We'll try you with bullocks now, Paddy Malone.
To see me dressed out with my team and my dray too,
Wid a whip like a flail and such gaiters, Ohone!
But the bullocks, as they eyed me, they seemed for to say too,
"You may do your best, Paddy, we're blest if we go."
"Gee whoa! Redman! come hither, Damper!
Hoot, Magpie! Gee, Blackbird! Come hither,
Whalebone!"
But the brutes turned round sharp, and away they did scamper,
And heels over head turned poor Paddy Malone.
Oh, Paddy Malone! you've seen some bulls at home,
But the bulls of Australia cows Paddy Malone.
I was found the next day where the brutes they did throw me
By a man passing by, upon hearing me groan,
And wiping the mud from my face that he knew me,
Says he, "Your name's Paddy?" "Yes! Paddy Malone."
I thin says to him, "You're an angel sent down, sure!"
"No, faith, but I'm not; but a friend of your own!"
And by his persuasion, for home then I started,
And you now see before you poor Paddy Malone.
Arrah, Paddy Malone! you are now safe at home.
Bad luck to the agent that coaxed ye to roam.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Every St. Patrick's Day every Irishman goes out to find another Irishman to make a speech to.
quote by Shane Leslie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Put an Irishman on the spit, and you can always get another Irishman to baste him.
The Golden Boat
Clouds rumbling in the sky; teeming rain.
I sit on the river bank, sad and alone.
The sheaves lie gathered, harvest has ended,
The river is swollen and fierce in its flow.
As we cut the paddy it started to rain.
One small paddy-field, no one but me -
Flood-waters twisting and swirling everywhere.
Trees on the far bank; smear shadows like ink
On a village painted on deep morning grey.
On this side a paddy-field, no one but me.
Who is this, steering close to the shore
Singing? I feel that she is someone I know.
The sails are filled wide, she gazes ahead,
Waves break helplessly against the boat each side.
I watch and feel I have seen her face before.
Oh to what foreign land do you sail?
Come to the bank and moor your boat for a while.
Go where you want to, give where you care to,
But come to the bank a moment, show your smile -
Take away my golden paddy when you sail.
Take it, take as much as you can load.
Is there more? No, none, I have put it aboard.
My intense labour here by the river -
I have parted with it all, layer upon layer;
Now take me as well, be kind, take me aboard.
No room, no room, the boat is too small.
Loaded with my gold paddy, the boat is full.
Across the rain-sky clouds heave to and fro,
On the bare river-bank, I remain alone -
What had has gone: the golden boat took all.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mr Paddy's Capers.
Just when she thought
She'd found a place alone
To read her book, Mr Paddy
poked his nose between
Her and the open book, so
That pages are blanked out
By his huge head. Mr Paddy
Go off and annoy another,
She said, but he stood there
Determined to be where he
Was, between her and the
Brown covered book, held
Out in her small hands. Oh
Mr Paddy I cannot see the
Pages. Please go off and run
In the garden or in the kitchen
And steal a bone, she said. But
He wouldn't leave her alone,
He pushed his head against her
Young girl body, his damp nose
Dampening her wrist and her
White dress with blue sash, and
Dribble from his lips was wetting
The pages. Mr Paddy please let
Me be, I'm trying to read can't
You see? Mr Paddy's brown eyes
Scanned the pages, nothing there
But scribbled lines upon white paper,
And still he stood wet mouthed with
Big brown eyes and his silly old caper.
poem by Terry Collett
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The Scots [A Dirge]
Black Scots and red Scots,
Red Scots and black;
I hae dealt wi’ the red Scot,
An’ dealt wi’ the black.
The Red Scot is angry
Among the sons o’ men—
He’ll pay you a bawbee,
An’ steal it back again.
Black Scots and red Scots,
Red Scots and black;
I hae dealt wi’ the red Scot,
An’ dealt wi’ the black.
The Black Scot is frien’ly—
A brither an’ a’—
He’ll pay you a bawbee,
An’ steal back twa.
The Ginger Scot o’ a’ Scots,
The warst shade o’ Scot,
For he’ll pay ye naething,
An’ tak’ a’ you’ve got.
Black Scots and red Scots,
Short Scots an’ lang,
Ginger Scots an’ bald Scots—
I dealt wi’ the gang.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Dark Face
Don't look at me with scorn
Because from the Black race I was born
But from deep within your heart do look at me and smile
And you'll see King Solomon and St. Peter by my side.
Don't look at my dark face and sigh
Because from life's ladder I do not slide
But please support me when I call
So that from life's ladder I do not fall.
Don't look at his dark face and inwardly cry
Because you know that I am filled with pride
To sail through life's rough tide
And gain the precious prize.
Don't look at my dark face and say
That at this place I should not stay
Remember that as I journey through life's race
I have the strength to regain the pace.
Now look at my dark face
And think about the Savior's base
For he was born within that stable
And like Him, when He lived on earth, I am always labeled.
No longer look at my dark face with scorn
But remember that through Christ we were all born
Then let us strive through Grace
To win the Heavenly race.
poem by Pansy Patterson
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This Poem is Just a Joke
An Irish duck shooter set off with three friends
All with their dogs and flasks of tea
At the end of the day
The Irishman was a learner and did not bag a single duck
Which he thought was very very bad luck.
The next week when he met his three friends
For another duck shoot
He had a huge catapult in his car boot
“What is the catapult for Paddy? ”
“Oh I know why I didn’t get any ducks last week,
I wasn’t throwing the dog high enough! ”
poem by Ken e Hall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To my lost one (villanelle)
If you come from a unknown place
from where I am, as if thrown
into my life and we again meet face-to-face
it may be by God’s grace
and we may leave the paths well trodden and known.
If you come from a unknown place
wherever it may be, carrying just one suitcase
I will be happy to meet you, if you come alone
into my life and we again meet face-to-face
and if you want to, we can disappear without a trace
be on our own, without anyone.
If you come from a unknown place
and walk into my embrace,
my lost one, come without a chaperone
into my life and we again meet face-to-face
our pasts will be erased
and all unhappiness will be gone,
if you come from a unknown place
into my life and we again meet face-to-face.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Evil is made good
A sac of rice in exchange
For every sac of paddy
That a king collected as tax
From his subjects for long.
At death bed he wished his son
To make him good in their eyes.
‘A sac of rice for a sac of husks’
The son ordered. The father was hailed.
Eviler makes evil good
20.06.2000, Palakka
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Fame is not survive long
Nathuram Godse shot dead
The father of nation, M.K.Gandhi.
He had been condemned over decades.
Tired of condemnation, the reverse
Started taking place. The might of time.
Stalin of Russia is a perfect example.
The hailed are thrown and the thrown,
recovered.
04.02.2003
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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You Can Make The World To Live In
You Can make the World to live in a far better place
Not for yourself alone but for the whole human race
By treating everyone as your equal if you look you will find
That those different to you in their ways good and kind.
Racism born of ignorance that does seem fair to say
And racists seem out of place in the World of today
In a multicultural World they do not fit in
If you do not show respect then respect you cannot win.
Some people in their small ways are so very small
They believe on a fair go for their own kind but not on a fair go for all
In a multicultural society they have no part to play
They are self defeatist it does seem that way.
We are what we think we are and it does seem to me
That our reflective mirror in others we see
If the spirit of egalatarianism and the fair go for all we embrace
The World for us living in it is a much better place.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Moonstone
Well, first I have to tell you that Im not insane
And that once I was a famous archaeologist {named}
{who ran} a recent expedition in a distant land
I just happened to passin my hand in the sand
And then I stopped, looked, and then I was hooked
I saw a flash, then a sparkle from a moonstone
Then the mist started, started to clear
I saw a face, a face in the moonstone
Then it started to disappear
Well, I walked and walked and never talked
For many days
And without a friend the desert is a lonely place
I was just about to turn around and make way home
When something told me that I had to see it again
Avuray....etc.
song performed by by Cat Stevens
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Children: Private Ward
Here in this dim, dull, double-bedded room,
I play the father to a brace of boys,
Ailing but apt for every sort of noise,
Bedfast but brilliant yet with health and bloom.
Roden, the Irishman, is 'sieven past,'
Blue-eyed, snub-nosed, chubby, and fair of face.
Willie's but six, and seems to like the place,
A cheerful little collier to the last.
They eat, and laugh, and sing, and fight, all day;
All night they sleep like dormice. See them play
At Operations:- Roden, the Professor,
Saws, lectures, takes the artery up, and ties;
Willie, self-chloroformed, with half-shut eyes,
Holding the limb and moaning-Case and Dresser.
poem by William Ernest Henley
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Involuntarily Solitary
We're hailed to a hostile Earth
Born of tears, a babe alone
Hopefully live a life of worth
Till lain 'neath cold headstone
poem by Ray Lucero
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Fiddle Riddle
Once stood a man on my face
Ooh yeah, on my face
Gobbled him up cause my taste
Leaves nothing to waste
Hear the riddle that I say
Hear the riddle that I say
What is fair is fair
That is fair and square
To me
Piano it marks the good pace
Ooh yeah, the good pace
Dont know if its right, but I like the bass
So turn up the bass
Hear the fiddles as they play
Hear the fiddles as they play
What is fair is fair
And the guitar player
No metal, no brick, was no trace
Oh, no, was no trace
But machines moved on and still chased
No particular place
Hear the riddle that I say
Hear the riddle that I say
What is fair is fair
That is fair and square
To me
What is fair is fair
That is fair and square
To me
song performed by by Frank Black
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Birth Took Place In This Place And I Must Die In This Place
My birth took place in this place
And I must die in this place
Because it is only fair that I die where I was born
poem by Aldo Kraas
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