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Give Ireland Back To The Irish

Give ireland back to the irish
Dont make them have to take it away
Give ireland back to the irish
Make ireland irish today
Great britian you are tremendous
And nobody knows like me
But really what are you doin
In the land across the sea
Tell me how would you like it
If on your way to work
You were stopped by irish soliders
Would you lie down do nothing
Would you give in, or go berserk
Give ireland back to the irish
Dont make them have to take it away
Give ireland back to the irish
Make ireland irish today
Great britian and all the people
Say that all people must be free
Meanwhile back in ireland

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song performed by Paul McCartney
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Potatoes' Dance

(A Poem Game.)

I

"Down cellar," said the cricket,
"Down cellar," said the cricket,
"Down cellar," said the cricket,
"I saw a ball last night,
In honor of a lady,
In honor of a lady,
In honor of a lady,
Whose wings were pearly-white.
The breath of bitter weather,
The breath of bitter weather,
The breath of bitter weather,
Had smashed the cellar pane.
We entertained a drift of leaves,
We entertained a drift of leaves,
We entertained a drift of leaves,

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poem by Vachel Lindsay
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When the Irish Flag Went By

’Twas Eight-Hour Day, and proudly
Old Labour led the way;
The drums were bearing loudly,
The crowded streets were gay;
But something touched my heart like pain,
I could not check the sigh
That rose within my bosom when
The Irish Flag went by.

Bright flags were raised about it
And one of them my own:
And patriots trod beneath it—
But it seemed all alone.
I thought of ruined Ireland
While crystals from the sky
Fell soft like tears by angels shed,
As the Irish Flag went by.

I love the dark green standard
As Irish patriots do;

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poem by Henry Lawson
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What Makes The Irish Heart Beat

(Van Morrison)
All that trouble all that grief
That's why I had to leave
Staying away too tong is in defeat
Why I'm singing this song
Why I'm heading back home
That's what makes the Irish heart beat
I'm just like a hobo riding a train
I'm like a gangster living in Spain
Have to watch my back and I'm running out of time
When I roll the dice again
If lady luck will call my name
That's what makes the Irish heart beat
Well that's what makes it beat
When I'm standing on the street
And I'm standing underneath this Wrigley's sign
Oh so far away from home
But I know I've got to roam
That's what makes the Irish heart beat
And it was off to foreign climes

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song performed by Van Morrison
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Luck Of The Irish

Ok, one, two, three, one two, three
If you had the luck of the irish,
You'd be sorry and wish you were dead.
You should have the luck of the irish,
And you'd wish you was english instead.
A thousand years of torture and hunger,
Drove the people away from their land.
A land full of beauty and wonder
Was raped by the british brigands!
Goddamned!
Goddamned!
If you could keep voices like flowers,
There's be shamrock all over the world.
If you could drink dreams like irish streams,
Then the world would be as high as the mountain of morn.
In the 'pool they told us the story
How the english divided the land.
Of the pain and the death and the glory
And the poets of auld eireland.
If we could make chains with the morning dew,

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song performed by Yoko Ono
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If You're Lucky Enough To Be Irish

If you're lucky enough to be Irish
Then you're lucky enough they say.
I count my Irish blessings,
As I breathe the air each day.
When I'm somewhere o'er the water
Not walking Erin's shore,
I know my resting place will be
In Ireland for evermore.
I have Irish songs on my lips,
And Irish blood in my veins,
So I tell you I'm lucky to be Irish,
And I'll keep telling you over again.
I'm lucky enough to be Irish.
My children who walk by my side,
Will I hope, too feel the calling,
And someday walk Erin's fields wide.

poem by Rosi Caswell
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My Irish Granny

A Tribute To My Irish Granny

By Marie Hurst on 17 June 2011

land of my grt grt grt grandmother beckon to me

Lure me home over the Irish sea

There with eyes of pure emerald green

My granny once walked, my Irish queen

Mary I never knew you, I wish I had

You died long before for that am sad

All I know is you where my granny

my Irish queen.

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poem by Marie Causey
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O'Hanlon's Gold

O' Hanlon is the name,
And smuggling was the game.
A little highway robbery,
To balance society's snobbery.
A highway man named edmond,
A twinkling eyed rough diamond,
Relieved the rich of excess
To help the poor to success,
With raising up their families,
To adulthood, not graveside trees.
The famine they survived it,
By sticking as a unit.
Some called them 'fightin' Irish',
With shillelagh, pipes and feistiness.
The Claddagh handshake signifies,
Their friendship, love; it verifies
That battles were fought yesterday,
O' Hanlon's name on lips today,
Does typify the Irish love,
And loyalty, travelling hand in glove,

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poem by Rosi Caswell
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The Birth of Celtic

In eighteen hundred and eighty-eight
Brother Walfrid walked along the Gallowgate,
Were immigrants of Ireland walked the streets,
No food in their stomachs, no shoes on their feet.

These souls of the famished Irish nation
Had made their home in Glasgow’s east end,
Ridiculed & provoked by the Protestant majority
Who could not accept the Irish faith & identity.

In Scotland’s east coast, Edinburgh, the capital,
Had saw the rise in the game of football,
Where a team, Hibernian, played under Ireland’s harp,
And brought victory with them onto the park.

And Brother Walfrid, a Marist priest,
Saw poverty prosper in his parish,
He suggested a savior to the Irish nationalist
Who had never seen a ball been kicked on a pitch.

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poem by Daniel McDonagh
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Spenser's Island

has not altered;--
a place as kind as it is green,
the greenest place I've never seen.
Every name is a tune.
Denunciations do not affect
the culprit; nor blows, but it
is torture to him to not be spoken to.
They're natural,--
the coat, like Venus'
mantle lined with stars,
buttoned close at the neck,-the sleeves new from disuse.

If in Ireland
they play the harp backward at need,
and gather at midday the seed
of the fern, eluding
their "giants all covered with iron," might
there be fern seed for unlearn-
ing obduracy and for reinstating
the enchantment?

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poem by Marianne Moore
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