Will You Taste Some Irishness? IV (2005)

Just pulled the Corned Beef from the crockpot- man oh man it is delicious

Hi jjorge, I live in Hull. I've really been enjoying your posts. It fills my heart with glee. Keep up the good work (play).

Oh, I knew you were a Hull-of-a fella Bob!



Glad you like the thread, but stay tuned Lad, there's more comin'!

colorbook, thanks for "Jean." It was one of his best.

jjorge, thanks for the invite. Wonderful stuff here.

I'll be findin some to post, meself.

It was quite by accident. When I got divorced I asked my pals in Nahant where I should move to. I thought they said go to Hull. But I was wrong.

Enough of this frivolity. It's time to get serious. We have listeners to consider. As everyone knows the way to tell a good stout Irish lad is by the strength of his elbow. Hence this tune.

The Humours of Whiskey

Let your quacks and newspapers be cuttin' their capers
And curing the Vapours, the Scratch and the Gout.
With their medical potions, their pills and their lotions,
Upholdin' their notions, they're mighty put out.
Who can tell the true physic of all things pathetic
And pitch to the Devil Cramp, Colic and Spleen?
Oh you'll find them I think if you take a big drink
With your mouth to the brink of a jug of Poteen.

Then stick to the Cratur the best thing in nature
For sinkin' your sorrows and raisin' your joys.
Oh what botherations no bolt to the nation
Can bring consolation like Poteen me boys.
No liquid cosmetic to lovers athletic
Or ladies pathetic can bring such a bloom
As the sweet, by the powers to the garden of flowers
Never brought it own powers such a darlin' perfume.
And this liquid's so rare if you're willin' to share
To be takin' your hair when its grizzled and dead.
Oh the Sod has the merit to yield the true spirit
So strong it'll shake all the hairs from your head.

Then stick to the Cratur the best thing in nature
For sinkin' your sorrows and raisin' your joys.
Oh since its perfection no doctor's direction
Can cleanse the complexion like Poteen me boys.
As a child in my cradle the nurse from her ladle
Was swillin' her mouth with a notion of ``Pep''
When a drop from her bottle fell into me throttle.
I capered and scrambled right out of her lap.
On the floor I lay crawlin' and screamin' and bawlin'
Till Father and Mother soon came to the fore.
Conceived I lay dying, all wailing and crying
They found I was only a-cryin' for more.

Does anyone here know the words to Shanahan's Auld Shabeen? It was, I believe a vaudeville ballad from the 1890s or 1880s. I can't find it anywhere.

Ah, that is beautiful.

BONUS POEM:



....and back by popular demand:






'The Fall'

The Garden of Eden (described in the Bible)
Was Guinness's Brewery(mentioned by Joyce),
Where innocent Adam and Eve were created
And dwelt from necessity rather than choice;

For Nothing existed but Guinness's Brewery,
Guinness's Brewery occupied all,
Guinness's Brewery everywhere, anywhere-
Woe that expulsion succeeded the fall!

The ignorant pair were encouraged in drinking
Whatever they fancied whenever they could,
Except for the porter or stout which embodied
Delectable knowledge of evil and good.

In Guinness's Brewery, innocent, happy,
They tended the silos and coppers and vats,
They polished the engines and coopered the
barrels
And even made pets of the Brewery rats.

One morning while Adam was brooding and brewing
It happened that Eve had gone off on her own,
When a serpent like ivy slid up to her softly
And murmured seductively, Are we alone?

O Eve, said the serpent, I beg you to sample
A bottle of Guinness's excellent stout,
Whose nutritive qualities no one can question
And stimulant properties no one can doubt;

It's tonic, enlivening, strengthening,
heartening,
Loaded with vitamins, straight from the wood,
And further enriched with the not undesirable
Lucrative knowledge of Evil and Good.

So Eve was persuaded and Adam was tempted,
They fell and they drank and continued to
drink
(Their singing and dancing and shouting and
prancing
Prevented the serpent from sleeping a wink).

Alas, when the couple had finished a barrel
And swallowed the final informative drops,
They looked at each other and knew they were
naked
And covered their intimate bodies with hops.

The anger and rage of the Lord was appalling,
He wrathfully cursed them for taking to drink
And hounded them out of the Brewery, followed
By beetles (magenta) and elephants (pink).

The crapulous couple emerged to discover
A universe full of diseases and crimes,
Where porter could only be purchased for money
In specified places at specified times.

And now in this world of confusion and error
Our only salvation and hope is to try
To threaten and bargain our way into Heaven
By drinking the heavenly Brewery dry.
-Fergus Allen

Loved your poem, waiting to read some more
I could just hear a good old Irish brogue in my mind when I read your original poem. I'd love to read your selections of Irish poetry, since, like most people, I read a fair amount of Irish poetry in college, but not much since then. A few selected poems would be nice.


-Lee

(jjorge continues doggedly)

"I'm locked out, locked out", I said, I said,
"It's cold, it's cold, I'll soon be DEAD
without my, key, my key, my key!"
Throw down my key, my key to me!
but they'd drunk to much of whiskey and beer,
and my words' true meaning to them was unclear,
So from the third floor they threw down Mikey,
Oh, dear! oh dear! oh dear oh dear!
right on his head poor Mikey! poor Mikey!
Oh, dear! oh dear! oh dear oh dear!



*****************



Old friend kara has dropped in
to share a verse, a song, a glass,
Her entrance quiets ...stills, the din;
All eyes are on this lovely lass.


She's been to Dublin, been to Tara,
...but her muse resides on the hill of Kara.

FIONA MACLEOD

The Prayer of Women.

O Spirit, that broods upon the hills
And moves upon the face of the deep,
And is heard in the wind,
Save us from the desire of men's eyes,
And the cruel lust of them,
And the springing of the cruel seed
In that narrow house which is as the grave
For darkness and loneliness . . .
That women carry with them with shame, and weariness,
and long pain,
Only for the laughter of man's heart,
And the joy that triumphs therein,
And the sport that is in his heart,
Wherewith he mocketh us,
Wherewith he playeth with us,
Wherewith he trampleth upon us
Us, who conceive and bear him;
Us, who bring him forth;
Who feed him in the womb, and at the breast, and at
the knee:
Whom he calleth mother and wife,
And mother again of his children and his children's
children.
Ah, hour of the hours,
When he looks at our hair and sees it is grey;
And at our eyes and sees they are dim;
And at our lips straightened out with long pain
And at our breasts, fallen and seared as a barren hill
And at our hands, worn with toil!
Ah, hour of the hours,
When, seeing, he seeth all the bitter ruin and wreck of
us--
All save the violated womb that curses him--
All save the heart that forbeareth . . . for pity--
All save the living brain that condemneth him--
All save the spirit that shall not mate with him
All save the soul he shall never see
Till he be one with it, and equal;
He who hath the bridle, but guideth not;
He who hath the whip, yet is driven;
He who as a shepherd calleth upon us,
But is himself a lost sheep, crying among the hills!
O Spirit, and the Nine Angels who watch us,
And Thy Son, and Mary Virgin,
Heal us of the wrong of man:
We, whose breasts are weary with milk
Cry, cry to Thee, O Compassionate!

Happy Saint Patrick's Day!






The Shield of St. Patrick
(AKA 'Breastplate of St. Patrick.')


I bind unto myself today the strong name of the trinity,
by invocation of the same, the Three in One, the One in Three.
I bind this day to me forever by power of faith Christ's incarnation,
his baptism in the Jordan river, his death on the cross for my salvation;
his bursting from the spiced tomb, his riding up the heavenly way,
his coming at the day of doom I bind unto myself today.
I bind unto myself today the power of God to hold and lead,
his eye to watch, his might to stay, his ear to harken to my need,
the wisdom of my God to teach, his hand to guide, his shield to ward,
the Word of God to give me speech, his heavenly host to be my guard.
Christ be with me, Christ within me,
Christ behind me, Christ before me,
Christ beside me, Christ to win me;
Christ to comfort and restore me;
Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,
Christ in hearts of all that love me,
Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.
I bind unto myself the name, the strong name of the Trinity,
by invocation of the same, the Three in One, and One in Three,
of whom all nature hath creation, eternal Father, Spirit, Word;
praise to the God of my salvation, salvation is of Christ the Lord!

Attributed to St. Patrick
Paraphrased by Cecil Frances Alexander

http://www.aoh.com/history/archive/stpatrick.htm
http://www.catholic-forum.com/saints/saintp01.htm
http://www.saintpatrickcentre.com/patrick/index.asp

Good morning! I got up this morning and everything looked green. Must be something going around. I'll answer the unspoken question. Yes, I'll hit the local pub tonight. In honor of that visit let me place before you a poem for the whole week.

SEVEN DRUNKEN NIGHTS


As I went home on Monday night,
as drunk as drunk could be.
I saw a horse outside the door,
where my old horse should be.
I called my wife and I said to her:
Will you kindly tell to me,
who owns that horse outside the door,
where my old horse should be?
Oh, you're drunk, you're drunk
you silly old fool, and still you cannot see.
That's a lovely sow that my mother sent to me.
Well, it's many a day I've traveled, a hundred miles or more,
but a saddle on a sow, sure, I never saw before.

As I went home on Tuesday night,
as drunk as drunk could be.
I saw a coat behind the door,
where my old coat should be.
I called my wife and I said to her:
Will you kindly tell to me,
who owns that coat behind the door,
where my old coat should be?
Oh, you're drunk, you're drunk
you silly old fool, and still you cannot see.
That's a woolen blanket that my mother sent to me.
Well, it's many a day I've traveled, a hundred miles or more,
but buttons on a blanket, sure, I never saw before.

As I went home on Wednesday night,
as drunk as drunk could be.
I saw a pipe upon the chair,
where my old pipe should be.
I called my wife and I said to her:
Will you kindly tell to me,
who owns that pipe upon the chair
where my old pipe should be.
Oh, you're drunk, you're drunk
you silly old fool, and still you cannot see.
That's a lovely tin-whistle, that my mother sent to me.
Well, it's many a day I've traveled, a hundred miles or more,
but tobacco in a tin-whistle, sure, I never saw before.

As I came home on Thursday nigh,
as drunk as drunk could be.
I saw two boots beside the bed,
where my old boots should be.
I called my wife and I said to her:
Will you kindly tell to me,
who owns them boots beside the bed
where my old boots should be.
Oh, you're drunk, you're drunk
you silly old fool, and still you cannot see.
They're two lovely flower pots my mother sent to me.
Well, it's many a day I've traveled, a hundred miles or more,
but laces in flower pots I never saw before.

As I came home on Friday night,
as drunk as drunk could be.
I saw a head upon the bed,
where my old head should be.
I called my wife and I said to her:
Will you kindly tell to me,
who owns that head upon the bed,
where my old head should be.
Oh, you're drunk, you're drunk
you silly old fool, and still you cannot see.
That's a baby boy, that my mother sent to me.
Well, it's many a day I've traveled, a hundred miles or more,
but a baby boy with his whiskers on, sure, I never saw before.

As I came home on a Saturday night,
as drunk as drunk could be
I spied two hands upon her breasts,
where my old hands should be.
I called to my wife and I said to her:
Will you kindly tell to me,
Who's hands are these upon your breasts,
where my old hands should be?
Oh, you're drunk, you're drunk,
you silly old fool, and still you cannot see
'Tis nothing but a Living Bra Jane Russell gave to me.
Well, it's many a day I've travelled a hundred miles or more,
but fingernails on a Living Bra, I never saw before.

Now when I came home on Sunday night,
a little after three.
I saw a man running out the door
with his pants about his knee.
So I called to my wife and I said to her:
would you kindly tell to me,
who was that man running out the door
with his pants about his knee?
Oh you're drunk, you're drunk,
you silly old fool, and still you cannot see,
Twas nothing but the tax collector the Queen sent to me.
Well, it's many a day I've travelled, a hundred miles or more,
But an Englishman that could last 'till three I never saw before.


****

Oh, oh! There goes our progress against the stereotype of the drunken Irishman!

Here's a bonus poem for the day. Those of you who have visited WYTSI threads previously may remember it.

I'll post several more poems etc during the day today.


'Céilí '

If there was a house with three girls in it,
It only took three boys to make a dance.
You'd see a glimmer where McKeown's once was
And follow it till it became a house.
But maybe they'd have gone on, up the hill
To Loughran's, or made across the grazing,
Somewhere else. All those twistings and turnings,
Crossroads and dirt roads and skittery lanes:
You'd be glad to get in from the dark.

And when you did get in, there'd be a power
Of poteen. A big tin creamery churn,
A ladle, those mugs with blue and white bars.
Oh, good and clear like the best of water.
The music would start up. This one ould boy
would sit by the fire and rosin away,
Sawing and sawing till it fell like snow.
That poteen was quare stuff. At the end of
The night you might be fiddling with no bow.

When everyone was ready, out would come
The tin of Tate and Lyle's Golden Syrup,
A spoon or a knife, a big farl of bread.
Some of those same boys wouldn't bother with
The way you were supposed to screw it up.
There might be courting going on outside,
Whisperings and cacklings in the barnyard;
A spider thread of gold-thin syrup
Trailed out across the glowing kitchen tiles
Into the night of promises, or broken promises.
(Ciaran Carson)

For more on Ciaran Carson go to:
http://www.contemporarywriters.com/authors/?p=auth231&state=index%3Dc

Enjoying the poetry jjorge


[size=25]Happy St Patrick's Day [/size]

A little modern Irish music...

Book of Days--One Day, One Night

English & Irish Gaelic




Listen to it here as recorded by Enya:

I like that one Colorbook!

MOLLY MALONE

In Dublin's fair city where girls are so pretty
Twas there that I first met sweet Molly Malone
As she wheeled her wheelbarrow
Through street broad and narrow
Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive oh"

Alive, alive oh, alive, alive oh,
Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive oh"

Now she was a fishmonger and sure twas no wonder
For so were her mother and father before
And they each wheeled their barrows
Through streets broad and narrow
Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive oh"
She died of a faver and no one could save her
And that was the end of sweet Molly Malone
Now her ghost wheels her barrow
Through streets broad and narrow
Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive oh"