We welcome everyone to have a bit of “craic” this St Patrick’s Day and will politely acknowledge how your great-great grandfather’s goldfish was Irish, but please, for the love of jaysus, it’s Paddy NEVER Patty! Yes of course I’m sure, since I was, y’know, born and raised there for feck’s sake…Sláinte. —Frustrated Ulsterman Correcting Knowledge
This article appears in Mar 9-15, 2017.
Yes, whatever. This is not Ireland.
@tickle That sounded very American
After a few pints who gives a fack, lassie.
Yeah, pissy today…
The Old Orange Flute
In the county Tyrone, in the town of Dungannon
There were many a ruction that meself had a hand in
Bob Williamson lived there, a weaver by trade
And all of us thought him a stout-hearted blade.
On the twelfth of July as it yearly did come
Bob played on the flute to the sound of the drum
You can talk of your fiddles, your harp or your lute
But there’s nothing could sound like the Old Orange Flute.
But the treacherous scoundrel, he took us all in
For he married a Papist called Bridget McGinn
Turned Papish himself and forsook the Old Cause
That gave us our freedom, religion and laws.
And the boys in the county made some comment upon it
They forced Bob to flee to the province of Connaught;
Took with him his wife and his fixins, to boot,
And along with the latter, his Old Orange Flute.
Each Sunday at mass, to atone for past deeds,
Bob said Paters and Aves and counted his beads
Till one Sunday morn, at the priest’s own desire
Bob went with his Old Flute to play in the choir.
He went for to play with the flutes in the mass
But the instrument quivered and cried.”O Alas!”
And blow as he would, though he made a great noise,
The flute would play only “The Protestant Boys”.
Bob jumped up and huffed, and was all in a flutter.
He pitched the old flute in the best holy water;
He thought that this charm would bring some other sound,
When he tried it again, it played “Croppies Lie Down!”
And for all he would finger and twiddle and blow
For to play Popish music, the flute would not go;
“Kick the Pope” to “Boyne Water” was all it would sound
Not one Papist bleat in it could e’er be found.
At a council of priests that was held the next day
They decided to banish the Old Flute away;
They couldn’t knock heresy out of its head
So they bought Bob another to play in its stead.
And the Old Flute was doomed, and its fate was pathetic
‘Twas fastened and burnt at the stake as heretic.
As the flames rose up high, you could hear a quair noise
‘Twas the Old Flute still playin’ “The Protestant Boys”.
Go fuck a potato, McTwat!!
Hey Cranky,it’s feck not fack. And lassie is feckin Scotts NOT Irish.
Time for some Irish humour
Two Irishmen walk out of a bar. “drumroll”
What’s green and comes out in the spring?
Paddy O’Furniture
Anyone else with some corny Irish jokes for such an illustrious day
@dan-da-man
Dere was dis lad from I knew from da Bog. ‘e visited da Vatican, and ‘e ‘ad so much of de gargle dat ‘e actually kissed ‘is woife.
Of course, ‘e also beat da Pope’s foot wit a coal shovel.
Unfortunate.
In honour of St. Paddy’s Day:
Mary is at home wondering where Seamus is when her phone beeps. The text reads as follows:
“Mary, I’m at the pub having a pint with the boys. If I’m not home in 20 minutes, read this text again and every 20 minutes until I get home.”
lolz, cranky chases lagavulin with guinness so puts that in yer corncob pipe.
It’s Jesus, not jaysus.
OB, it’s Jesus, not jaysus, ever. Try to remember that.
To which I say, “Lighten up.” The Red Hand is not the only arbiter of how a saint’s feast is observed. Whether it’s Paddy, Patty or Padraig, I really don’t give a fook. Few on the other side of the island would care as long as there’s craic to be had, and as long as this Newf descendant has a blonde in a black dress that day and can indulge her more recent distraction of a certain County Wicklow man in tight trunks and kickpads, I’m a happy camper (and so are probably a lot of people.) Let it go – it’s crazy shit like that that fucks up the peace.