Í dag er ein serligur dagur fyri allar írar, óansæð hvar teir eru í verðini. Hetta er dagurin tey heiðra og feira halgimennið, tey kalla St. Patrick ella St. Paddy. Írska tjóðarsúmbolið er tríkleyvarin, tey nevna shamrock.
Vit leggja út her yrkingina “I’ll Wear a Shamrock” eftir Mary Carolyn Davis.
The day when all that’s seen
To right and left and everywhere
Is green, green, green!
And Irish tunes they whistle
And Irish songs they sing,
To-day each Irish lad walks out
As proud as any king.
I’ll wear a four-leaf shamrock
In my coat, the glad day through,
For my father and mother are Irish
And I am Irish too!
Mary Carolyn Davies
“Hail glorious Saint Patrick dear saint of our isle
On us thy poor children look down with a smile —”
But I’m not singing hymns and I’m not saying prayers
No, I’m gritting my teeth as I walk down the stairs
And into the street with these louts fiercely drinking
And screeching and lurching, and here’s what I’m thinking —
They’re using a stereotype, a narrow example,
A fraction, not even a marketing sample
To imitate Ireland, from which they don’t come!
So unless that’s just stupid, unless it’s plain dumb,
All these kids from New Jersey and the five boroughs
And hundreds of cities, all drowning their sorrows,
With bottles and glasses and heads getting broken
(Believe me, just ask the mayor of Hoboken)
All that mindlessness, shouting and getting plain stocious —
That isn’t Irish, that’s simply atrocious.
I’ve another word too for it, this one’s more stinging
I call it “racism.” See, just ’cause you’re singing
Some drunken old ballad on Saint Patrick’s Day
Does that make you Irish? Oh, no — no way.
Nor does a tee-shirt that asks you to kiss them —
If they never come back I surely won’t miss them
Or their beer cans and badges and wild maudlin bawling
And hammered and out of it, bodies all sprawling.
They’re not of Joyce or of Yeats, Wilde, or Shaw.
How many Nobel Laureates does Dublin have? Four!
Think of this as you wince through Saint Patrick’s guano —
Not every Italian is Tony Soprano.