On the eighth day of March it was, some people say,
That Saint Pathrick at midnight he first saw the day;
While others declare ’twas the ninth he was born,
And ’twas all a mistake between midnight and morn;
For mistakes will occur in a hurry and shock,
And some blam’d the babby and some blam’d the clock
Till with all their cross-questions sure no one could know
If the child was too fast or the clock was too slow.
Now the first faction fight in owld Ireland, they say,
Was all on account of Saint Pathrick’s birthday;
Some fought for the eighth for the ninth more would die,
And who wouldn’t see right, sure they blacken’d his eye!
At last both the factions so positive grew,
That each kept a birthday, so Pat then had two,
Till Father Mulcahy, who showed them their sins,
Said, “No one could have two birthdays, but a twins.”
Says he, “Boys, don’t be fightin’ for eight or for nine,
Don’t be always dividin’ but sometimes combine;
Combine eight with nine, and seventeen is the mark,
So let that be his birthday.” “Amen,” says the clerk.
“If he wasn’t a twins, sure our hist’ry will show
That, at least, he’s worth any two saints that we know!”
Then they all got blind dhrunk which complated their bliss,
And we keep up the practice from that day to this.
This poem is taken from a very rare American reciter. This particular poem is found in the long out of print Dick’s Irish Dialect Recitations published in 1879. This book would sell for a handsome amount of money if you were able to find a copy.
interesting… i’ll be on the prowl now…. and not just for the book
thanks for that – really
I was supposed to be born on March 17th. I was late. I even missed Easter. My mom had a little Easter basket all ready for me and I wasn’t even there.
h – meow.
jules – i try.
lux – too cute.
prrrrrrrrr
As an Irish person, I feel that unless you can tell my what St. Patrick did, you don’t deserve to get shit-faced. A welcome substitution for this knowledge would be the killing of a Protestant. Bring me his ear and tip your glass.
Wow! My Mom had to memorize that poem as a little girl, and so did I. She still has the book it came from, though I don’t know if it’s the one you reference (I remember it being HUGE). The author or the poem is Samuel Lover.
Neat stuff from a fellow Denverite!