On the window sill
A Shamrock grows
Luck of the Irish
As every Irishman knows
Another birthday has past me by
Raise up a brew
To the pale blue sky
Fooled them another year did I
Wear the green with pride
From the devils deeds tossed aside
Is minic cuma aingeal ar an diabal f'ein
"There is often the look of an angel
On the devil himself." borrowed words it is
In the spring I must go again
To visit the land of my fathers
For I well go and kiss the blarney stone
Pity you who haven't gone sit alone
Begorrah, me lad, Tis a fine soft
morning that be sure sunny skies."
"Ah yes, but excuse me my Father
For there is sickness and I must throw up."
Ah too much celebration of the birthday
did this fool do. In 1840 only half the
Irish population could write. But no
problem the other half could not read
"May you be in heaven a half hour
before the devil knows your dead!"
Ah, this sickness must go back to bed
For as you know not much of poetry is read
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