St. Patrick's Day blarney, nostalgia, blessings

Here’s a bit of poetic blarney from that spoofer of all things spoofable, Ogden Nash.
 

IT'S A GRAND PARADE IT WILL BE, MODERN DESIGN
 

Saint Patrick was a proper man, a man to be admired;
Of numbering his virtues I am never, never tired.
A handsome man, a holy man, a man of mighty deeds,
He walked the lanes of Erin, a-telling of his beads.
A-telling of his beads, he was, and spreading of the word.
I think that of Saint Patrick’s Day, Saint Patrick hadn’t heard.

The saint was born a subject of the ancient British throne,
But the Irish in their wisdom recognized him as their own.
A raiding party captured him, and carried him away,
And Patrick loved the Irish, and he lived to capture they,
A-walking of the valleys and a-spreading of the word.
I think that of Saint Patrick’s Day, Saint Patrick hadn’t heard.
 

He defied the mighty Druids, he spoke them bold and plain,
And he lit the Easter fire on the lofty hill of Shane.
He lit the Easter fire where the hill and heaven met,
And on every hill in Ireland the fire is burning yet.
He lit the Easter fire, a-spreading of the word.
I think that of Saint Patrick’s Day, Saint Patrick hadn’t heard.

Saint Patrick was a proper man before he was a saint,
He was shaky in his Latin, his orthography was quaint,
But he walked the length of Ireland, her mountains and her lakes,
A-building of his churches and a-driving out the snakes,
A-building of his churches and a-spreading of the word.
I think that of Saint Patrick’s Day, Saint Patrick hadn’t heard.
 

But the radio announcer is ever in the vogue;
He ushers in Saint Patrick with a rolling Broadway brogue,
He oils the vernal air waves with macushlas and colleens,
Begorras, worra-worras, and spurious spalpeens.
If Saint Francis had a sponsor, we would hear him as a thrush,
And Saint George would cackle cockney.
Saint Patrick, here’s my blush.
[from Good Intentions]

And for the truly nostalgic among us––from the ridiculous to the sublime––here’s the most popular of Irish lyrics, written by Frederick Weatherly, an Englishman, who was a significant celebrity in his day. He also—by all accounts––never set foot in Ireland.
I'll bet every one who reads these words will be singing them in their heads OR in their voices.

“Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
 From glen to glen, and down the mountain side
 The summer’s gone, and all the roses falling
 ‘Tis you, ’tis you must go and I must bide.
But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow
Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow
‘Tis I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.
 

And if you come, when all the flowers are dying
And I am dead, as dead I well may be
You’ll come and find the place where I am lying
And kneel and say an “Ave” there for me.
And I shall hear, tho’ soft you tread above me
And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be
For you will bend and tell me that you love me
And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.
 

I’ll simply sleep in peace until you come to me.
And I shall rest in peace until you come to me.
Oh, Danny Boy, Oh, Danny Boy, I love you so."
 

Here’s a short Irish blessing:

“May your blessings outnumber the shamrocks that grow,
And may trouble avoid you wherever you go.”