St. Patrick’s Day, the day we celebrate Ireland’s patron saint and Irish heritage in general. In Ireland this is a religious holiday. Here it is more a reason to dye beer green and drink too much. As in, what’s five miles long and has an IQ of 30? The New York St. Patrick ’s Day parade.
I saw somewhere that over 10% of our population claims some kind of Irish heritage. That includes my family. I can remember as a kid my dad having records of John McCormick singing in Gaelic. Not that he could understand it; he just liked to hear it. While he was drinking green beer.
I’m celebrating my heritage flat on my back, sick. It feels like someone is standing on my chest. I’m on the couch buried under a pile of Winnie the Pooh and dinosaur blankets and have slept for about 13 of the past 16 hours. To the point I’m worried about getting bedsores. The lizard has been eyeing me up like a wounded cricket, hoping for an easy meal. I still plan to have a shot or two of usquebaugh, the water of life. My favorite is Tullamore Dew. I figure it’ll either bring some life back into me or give the lizard a fine Irish feast. And no, that would not be a six-pack and a baked potato.
After a couple of pleasant days, the temperatures have dropped back to cold weather. Lise and I had a couple free hours yesterday so we hit a few places on the Grand River with open water. The river is really high and fast so we didn’t see too much except the regulars. On the way home we hit some fields and got our Sandhill cranes for the year. The cranes put Lise at 69 for the year and me at 67 for the year.
Horned lark on a hay bale at the MSU fields.
Turkey vulture trying to become one with his dinner.
Ice on water, two things we have an abundance of right now.
Following are the words to a couple songs of insurrection. These came out after the 1798 uprising. Any good Fenian would know them. Both use the same tune and there are numerous variants to the words. This version of The Wearing of the Green was done by Dion Boucicault in the early 1860s for a play but there are plenty of other versions from the very early 1800s. Erin go Bragh (Éirinn go Brách).
The Wearing of The Green (Dion Boucicault (1820-1890))
O Paddy dear, and did you hear the news that going round? The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground;
St. Patrick’s Day no more we’ll keep, his colours can’t be seen, For there’s a bloody law against the wearing of the green.
I met with Napper Tandy and he took me by the hand, And he said, “How’s poor old Ireland, and how does she stand?”
She’s the most distressful counterie that ever yet was seen, And they’re hanging men and women for the wearing of the green.
The wearing of the green, the wearing of the green,They’re hanging men and women there for wearing of the green.
Then since the colour we must wear is England’s cruel red, Sure Ireland’s sons will ne’er forget the blood that they have shed.
You may take a shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod, It will take root and flourish there though underfoot it’s trod.
When law can stop the blades of grass from growing as they grow, And when the leaves in summer-time their verdure dare not show,
Then will I change the colour that I wear in my caubeen, But ‘till that day, please God, I’ll stick to wearing of the green.
The wearing of the green, the wearing of the green, They’re hanging men and women there for wearing of the green.
But if at last our colour should be torn from Ireland’s heart, Our sons with shame and sorrow from this dear old isle will part;
I’ve heard a whisper of a land that lies beyond the sea, Where rich and poor stand equal in the light of freedom’s day.
O Erin, must we leave you driven by a tyrant’s hand? Must we ask a mother’s blessing from a strange and distant land?
Where the cruel cross of England shall nevermore be seen, And where, please God, we’ll live and die still wearing of the green!
The wearing of the green, the wearing of the green, They’re hanging men and women there for wearing of the green.
The Rising of the Moon
“Oh! then tell me, Shawn O’Ferrall, Tell me why you hurry so?” “Hush ma bouchal, hush and listen”, And his cheeks were all a-glow.
“I bear orders from the captain, Get you ready quick and soon, For the pikes must be together at the risin’ of the moon”.
At the risin’ of the moon, at the risin’ of the moon, For the pikes must be together at the risin’ of the moon.
“Oh! then tell me, Shawn O’Ferrall, Where the gatherin’ is to be?” “In the ould spot by the river, Right well known to you and me.
One word more—for signal token Whistle up the marchin’ tune, With your pike upon your shoulder, By the risin’ of the moon”.
By the risin’ of the moon, by the risin’ of the moon, With your pike upon your shoulder, by the risin’ of the moon.
Out from many a mudwall cabin Eyes were watching thro’ that night, Many a manly chest was throbbing For the blessed warning light.
Murmurs passed along the valleys Like the banshee’s lonely croon, And a thousand blades were flashing at the risin’ of the moon.
At the risin’ of the moon, at the risin’ of the moon, And a thousand blades were flashing at the risin’ of the moon.
There beside the singing river That dark mass of men was seen, Far above the shining weapons Hung their own beloved green.
“Death to ev’ry foe and traitor! Forward! strike the marchin’ tune, And hurrah, my boys, for freedom! ‘Tis the risin’ of the moon”.
‘Tis the risin’ of the moon, ‘Tis the risin’ of the moon, And hurrah my boys for freedom! ‘Tis the risin’ of the moon.
Well they fought for poor old Ireland, And full bitter was their fate (Oh! what glorious pride and sorrow Fill the name of Ninety-Eight).
Yet, thank God, e’en still are beating Hearts in manhood’s burning noon, Who would follow in their footsteps, At the risin’ of the moon!
At the rising of the moon, at the risin’ of the moon, Who would follow in their footsteps, at the risin’ of the moon.
Ed's and Lise's Biggish Years 