Monday, March 17, 2008

Tunes For St. Patrick's Day

From the pen of William Butler Yeats.

The tune is "Maid of the Mourne Shore.

It was down by the Sally Gardens, my love and I did meet.
She crossed the Sally Gardens with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree,
But I was young and foolish, and with her did not agree.

In a field down by the river, my love and I did stand
And on my leaning shoulder, she laid her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy , as the grass grows on the weirs
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

Down by the Sally Gardens, my love and I did meet.
She crossed the Sally Gardens with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree,
But I was young and foolish, and with her did not agree.


This is a lovely tune when played on the harp. Yeats is my favorite of the Irish poets.

For the Irish experience in America, this has always been one of my favorites.

Paddy on the Railway

In eighteen hundred and forty one, I put me corduroy breeches on
I put me cordury breeches on, to work upon the railway.

Fiddle-mee-oh-ree, Areee-ay (3x)
A workin' on the railway.

In eighteen hundred and forty two, I left the ould world for the new
Bad cess to luck what brought me through, to work upon the railway.
Fiddle-me-oh-ree etc.

In eighteen hundred and forty three, 'twas then I met Miss Biddy McGee
An iligant wife she's been to me, while workin on the railway.

In eighteen hundred and forty four, me hands were hard, me back were sore
Me back were gettin' mighty sore while workin' on the railway.

In eighteen hundred forty five, I found meself more dead than alive
I found meself more dead than alive, while workin' on the railway.

It's "Pat do this!" and "Pat do that!", without a stocking or cravat
Nothing but an ould straw hat while Pat worked on the railway.

In eighteen hundred and forty seven, sweet Biddy McGee she went to heaven
She left one child, she left eleven, to work upon the railway.

In eighteen hundred and forty eight I learned to drink me whiskey straight
It's an iligant drink what can't be bayte when workin' on the railway.


Here's to the Irish among us. Slainte!

3B's

5 Comments:

Blogger Paul said...

Sláinte chugat, Minstrel. I just started the stew cooking--seasoning in 90 minutes. I dinna look left nor right from your recipe.

9:47 AM  
Blogger Lisa said...

We are all Irish, today, MB. Even mum won't wear her orange shirt.

Down by the Sally Gardens is a lovely and sad poem.

9:59 AM  
Blogger Sherry said...

touching and i thank you for posting this. i like it a lot.

10:35 AM  
Blogger maurinsky said...

I didn't do anything much for St. Paddy's day this year. But I get to be Irish everyday, so, no big deal!

8:49 PM  
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