It's proud I am

What Shall I Say about the Irish?

The utterly impractical, never predictable,
Sometimes irascible, quite inexplicable
Irish.
Strange blend of shyness, pride and conceit,
And stubborn refusal to bow in defeat.
He's spoiling and ready to argue and fight,
Yet the smile of a child fills his soul with delight.
His eyes are the quickest to well up with tears,
Yet his strength is the strongest to banish your fears.
His hate is as fierce as his devotion is grand,
And there is no middle ground on which he will stand.
He's wild and he's gentle, he's good and he's bad.
He's proud and he's humble, he's happy and sad.
He's in love with the ocean, the earth and the skies,
He's enamoured with beauty wherever it lies.
He's victor and victim, a star and a clod,
But mostly he's Irish—
in love with his God.



May those that love us, love us.
And those that don't love us
May God turn their hearts.
And if he doesn't turn their hearts
May He turn their ankles
So we'll know them by their limping.