My Inheritance...

Something Green for St. Patrick's Day

The Wearing of The Green
By Dion Boucicault

O Paddy dear, and did you hear the news that going round?
The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground;
St. Patrick's Day no more we'll keep, his colours can't be seen,
For there's a bloody law against the wearing of the green.
I met with Napper Tandy and he took me by the hand,
And he said, "How's poor old Ireland, and how does she stand?"
She's the most distressful counterie that ever yet was seen,
And they're hanging men and women for the wearing of the green.

Then since the colour we must wear is England's cruel red,
Sure Ireland's sons will ne'er forget the blood that they have shed.
You may take a shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod,
It will take root and flourish there though underfoot it's trod.
When law can stop the blades of grass from growing as they grow,
And when the leaves in summer-time their verdure dare not show,
Then will I change the colour that I wear in my caubeen
But 'till that day, please God, I'll stick to wearing of the green.

But if at last our colour should be torn from Ireland's heart,
Our sons with shame and sorrow from this dear old isle will part;
I've heard a whisper of a land that lies beyond the sea
Where rich and poor stand equal in the light of freedom's day.
O Erin, must we leave you driven by a tyrant's hand?
Must we ask a mother's blessing from a strange and distant land?
Where the cruel cross of England shall nevermore be seen,
And where, please God, we'll live and die still wearing of the green!

I am posting this poem in honor of St. Patrick's Day because it is the only poem I recollect that references Ireland.

I am pretty sure this poem can be found in the pages of A Treasury of the Familiar edited by Ralph L. Wood. (I am still writing from my daughter's home and don't have this book at hand. I am pretty darn sure I remember this poem in the book. I can see it in my mind's eye. If my memory serves me, with the book open, these words appear at the top of the right hand page.)

This is one poem Mommy did not teach me to read aloud. We sang it. We sang it in our pretend Irish accents. As I started to put these words on this page, I sang the first stanza without looking—actually I sang up to and including the lines "Then since the colour we must wear is England's cruel red,
Sure Ireland's sons will ne'er forget the blood that they have shed."

Why did my memorizing of this poem stop there? I am not sure. It is possible that my book does not contain the whole poem. A Treasury of the Familiar does contain some exerpts, perhaps this is one of those.

Anyways, I am sure my fake Irish brogue is a copy cat of my mother's equally fake accent.

I have no idea of our heritage. My mother was adopted. Is there any green in our lineage? Well, although I have researched our family tree a bit, this is not a question that has come up and my research has only taken me to Pennsylvania.

Speaking of excerpts, here is a bit from http://www.franks.org/fr01068.htm:

"Napper Tandy, mentioned in the poem, was in fact a shopkeeper in Dublin who, having been identified by the British as a freedom fighter, had to flee to France. And Boucicault himself fled the country, coming to America as the words of his poem itself echo prophetic."

And, I also learned from that website that Boucicault also wrote The Sidewalks of New York. Interesting...

~ ~ ~ JESUS is LORD! ~ ~ ~