Well, it’s that time of year again, when the celebrations begin, the music flows, and the drunks come out to howl at the full moon.
What is everyone doing today? Curious to know where your session is taking place….
Personally, i’m starting off in the old folks home in cavan, two gigs follow and hopefully a massive session later on tonight.
Happy St Patricks Day to everyone here at The Session….
Thanks, and same to you.
This is a non-sessioning time here, all the good’n’bad players are out setting up impromptu bands for gigs, pleasing the punters with Drowsy Maggies and Danny Boys, earning money.
Once the dust settles (St. Patrick celebration will probably end around the 21st March), we’re sure to meet and play, as usual, a small nice session with all the obscure tunes and none of the songs.
Ah, you’ve reminded me! That’ll mean that half tonight’s session will be away helping the Paddophiles to welt the flure and their trotters shake. They may be away some time.
I think I would rather dwell on the fact I saw my first dandelion the other day, indicating that spring has indeed come. The weather here is loth to acknowledge this indication, however.
How about just for today letting people enjoy playing or listening to ITM or talking about it or prancing around with enthusiasm, without fear of sneering,judgemental, narrow minded comments? Lots of those who like ITM aren’t bothered that it’s not the "pure,real " thing as passed down from generation to generation.Isn’t there room for all? We’re happy to listen to constructive comments.But could we avoid the negative desructive ‘put down’ comments? Just for St. Patrick’s Day.
I was going along with that fine … until you said, "Just for St. Patrick’s Day".
Surely it should be the other way round. Let’s all be nice to each other all year … exept for St. Patrick’s Day.
Happy St Patrick’s Day,Llig!
Nice sentiment Lucy but on this occasion I may have to go with llig. Around midnight tonight, grown men & women will be battering the schit out of each other, hurling unspeakable insults at anyone within earshot and toasting the dear man whose name it’s all in. Yeah, lligs right, for sure. Have a good one.
How boring Lucy
Happy St. Patrick’s Day to all!
Here we are just gearing up for the first ever Ballydehob St. Patrick’s parade, with members of the trad session manning one of the floats. Session afterwards at about 2.00p.m. in Vincent Coughlan’s bar. Any musicians in the area are very welcome to come and join us there.
Hmm… Joni Mitchell put people DOWN by putting UP a parking lot:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xWwUJH70ubM
Maybe we should do the same …. 😉
Lucy, I think you’re taking this a bit too farr
I bet you never heard that joke before Bum Bum
We hosted a dinner of salmon and oysters for my band mates last night. Saluted Dublin Brewers and Distillers and played a few tunes, even sang some songs. 6 hours of companionship was just the ticket for us.
I’m stoppin’ in with a cup of tea.
Shouldn’t that be Boom Boom Theirlandais?
Nice one lucy, me, I try to behave everyday.
’ ’ HAPPY SAINT PATRICK’S DAY TO YOU ALL ’ ’
PS —-
Hope the apostrophe guards,,, don’t mind — lol….
= jim,,,,………. : )
Same here.
Staying in with a cup of tea I meant.
Solidahog,
I’ll check with Basil Brush and get back to you on that one…
Have a great day and thank you for your constructive feedback, I appreciate it very much, I feel my education has taken a massive leap froward, and I look forward to exchanging pleasantries with you in the future.
Yours sincerely,
TheIrlandais
.
I’d better stop there, as I only have a certain quota of niceness..and I don’t want to use it all up in one post.
Lá Naomh Phadraig shona duit !!
I’m playing for Scottish dancing which just happens to be tonight, and there’s tea and biscuits.
iM GOING TO DYE MY ARSE GREEN A LIBERATE IRELAND WITH A SPOON AND A PEICE OF STRING. YAY
Don’t know that song. Does it start "We’re off to dye our arses green, arses green…."
happy St. Patrick’s day to all 🙂
He was probably calling her Bum Bum, a well-known pet name, but just forgot the comma. I’m going hybrid tonight, having a MacSween’s haggis for tea before going out to play cod-Irish music and drink green beer. I’m not a bit ashamed.
" You’ve heard of St. Denis of France.
He never had much for to brag on.
You’ve heard of St. George and his lance
Who killed d’old heathenish dragon.
The Saints of the Welshmen and Scot
Are a couple of pitiful pipers
And might just as well go to pot
When compared to the patron of vipers:
St. Patrick of Ireland, my dear.
He sailed to the Emerald Isle
On a lump of pavin’ stone mounted.
He beat the steamboat by a mile
Which mighty good sailing was counted.
Says he, "The salt water, I think,
Has made me unmerciful thirsty;
So bring me a flagon to drink
To wash down the mullygrups, burst ye,
Of drink that is fit for a Saint."
He preached then with wonderful force
The ignorant natives a teaching,
With wine washed down each discourse,
For, says he, "I detest your dry preaching."
The people in wonderment struck
At a pastor so pious and civil,
Exclaimed, "We’re for you, my old buck,
And we’ll heave our blind Gods to the divil,
Who dwells in hot water below."
This finished, our worshipful man
Went to visit an elegant fellow
Whose practise each cool afternoon
Was to get most delightful mellow.
That day with a barrel of beer,
He was drinking away with abandon.
Say’s Patrick, "It’s grand to be here.
I drank nothing to speak of since landing,
So give me a pull from your pot."
He lifted the pewter in sport.
Believe me, I tell you, it’s no fable.
A gallon he drank from the quart
And left it back full on the table.
"A miracle!" everyone cried
And all took a pull on the Stingo.
They were mighty good hands at that trade
And they drank ‘til they fell yet, by Jingo.
The pot it still frothed o’er the brim.
Next day said the host, "It’s a fast,
And I’ve nothing to eat but cold mutton.
On Fridays who’d make such repast
Except an unmerciful glutton?"
Said Pat, "Stop this nonsense, I beg.
What you tell me is nothing but gammon."
When the host brought down the lamb’s leg,
Pat ordered to turn it to salmon,
And the leg most politely complied.
You’ve heard, I suppose, long ago,
How the snakes, in a manner most antic,
He marched to the county Mayo
And ordered them all into the Atlantic.
Hence never use water to drink
The people of Ireland determine
With mighty good reason, I think,
For Patrick has filled it with vermin,
And snakes and such other things.
He was a fine man as you’d meet
From Fairhead to Kilcrumper,
Though under the sod he is laid,
Let’s all drink his health in a bumper.
I wish he was here that my glass
He might by art magic replenish,
But since he is not, why alas!
My old song must come to a finish
Because all the drink is gone. "
Sorry wrong thread.
A happy and safe day to all.
Good tunes, good company,
if you are out there.
To the Christians amongst us, perhaps a time to recall
those positive accomplishments and virtues of
Padraic, Patron Saint of Ireland.
Got a pub gig today, then a wedding.
Sigh.
Happy St Patricks day everyone. Patricks Arrival, Christy Moore sings a great version of this, but the best I heard was the singing of Anthony McGrath who managed to get progressively drunk as part of the rendition or execution of the song.
Patricks Arrival
" You’ve heard of St. Denis of France.
He never had much for to brag on.
You’ve heard of St. George and his lance
Who killed d’old heathenish dragon.
The Saints of the Welshmen and Scot
Are a couple of pitiful pipers
And might just as well go to pot
When compared to the patron of vipers:
St. Patrick of Ireland, my dear.
He sailed to the Emerald Isle
On a lump of pavin’ stone mounted.
He beat the steamboat by a mile
Which mighty good sailing was counted.
Says he, "The salt water, I think,
Has made me unmerciful thirsty;
So bring me a flagon to drink
To wash down the mullygrups, burst ye,
Of drink that is fit for a Saint."
He preached then with wonderful force
The ignorant natives a teaching,
With wine washed down each discourse,
For, says he, "I detest your dry preaching."
The people in wonderment struck
At a pastor so pious and civil,
Exclaimed, "We’re for you, my old buck,
And we’ll heave our blind Gods to the divil,
Who dwells in hot water below."
This finished, our worshipful man
Went to visit an elegant fellow
Whose practise each cool afternoon
Was to get most delightful mellow.
That day with a barrel of beer,
He was drinking away with abandon.
Say’s Patrick, "It’s grand to be here.
I drank nothing to speak of since landing,
So give me a pull from your pot."
He lifted the pewter in sport.
Believe me, I tell you, it’s no fable.
A gallon he drank from the quart
And left it back full on the table.
"A miracle!" everyone cried
And all took a pull on the Stingo.
They were mighty good hands at that trade
And they drank ‘til they fell yet, by Jingo.
The pot it still frothed o’er the brim.
Next day said the host, "It’s a fast,
And I’ve nothing to eat but cold mutton.
On Fridays who’d make such repast
Except an unmerciful glutton?"
Said Pat, "Stop this nonsense, I beg.
What you tell me is nothing but gammon."
When the host brought down the lamb’s leg,
Pat ordered to turn it to salmon,
And the leg most politely complied.
You’ve heard, I suppose, long ago,
How the snakes, in a manner most antic,
He marched to the county Mayo
And ordered them all into the Atlantic.
Hence never use water to drink
The people of Ireland determine
With mighty good reason, I think,
For Patrick has filled it with vermin,
And snakes and such other things.
He was a fine man as you’d meet
From Fairhead to Kilcrumper,
Though under the sod he is laid,
Let’s all drink his health in a bumper.
I wish he was here that my glass
He might by art magic replenish,
But since he is not, why alas!
My old song must come to a finish
Because all the drink is gone. "
Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o’ the pudding-race!
Aboon them a’ yet tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o’a grace
As lang’s my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin was help to mend a mill
In time o’need,
While thro’ your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An’ cut you up wi’ ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin’, rich!
Then, horn for horn, they stretch an’ strive:
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
Bethankit! hums.
Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad make her spew
Wi’ perfect sconner,
Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckles as wither’d rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash;
His nieve a nit;
Thro’ blody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He’ll mak it whissle;
An’ legs an’ arms, an’ hands will sned,
Like taps o’ trissle.
Ye Pow’rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o’ fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer
Gie her a haggis!
Sorry wrong day.
😉
One for St Patrick’s day, I shall be reciting this at the gig
tonight
**********************************
I wonder, said St Patrick, one evening up above, I wonder how they’re doing down below
He meant of course old Ireland, a place he used to love when he was just a mortal long ago
You know, he told St Peter, I think I’ll go astore, to see my lovely children once again
It’s fifteen hundred years or so since I was there before
Sure the darlings must have grown up since then
So he pressed his leather breeches, and he brushed his coat of green, and he polished up his brogues until they shone, Then he stuck a spray of shamrock in his battered auld caubeen, and swinging his shillelagh, he was gone
He whistled Toora-loora as he crossed the Claudy Plain, thinking of the friends he soon would see
The gallant boys of Wexford and Kitty of Coleraine, and Danny Boy and Rosie from Tralee
We’ll have great gas, said Patrick, as he went upon his way
There’ll be singing, there’ll be dancing all the while
And they’re sure to have a hurling match in honour of the day
The Saints should beat the Scholars by a mile
At last he came to Ireland, where he bought a tourist guide and consulting it, he gaily sallied forth
I’ll visit Armagh City first and there a while I’ll bide and straight away, he headed for the north
On the road to Armagh city, his step was light and gay and his memory went back across the years
When suddenly a crowd of strange young fellows blocked his way. Customs men, Police, and Fusiliers
What have you to declare, they asked? before him in a row,
St Patrick gazed in wonder at the men, I declared it all he told them, fifteen hundred years ago
There’s no need to declare it all again. When they took him in to search him, he asked them what they sought
As they gathered in around him left and right. Have you any guns, they asked him, and he told them he had not, or petrol bombs or sticks of gelignite
Eventually they let him through, and he made his way once more wondering about the strange affair
I must have missed those chaps, he said, when I was here before, but there’s Armagh, they’ll all be Christians there
The streets were thronged with people, marching in a big parade, Placards, flags, and banners by the mile
Someone must have told them I was coming, Patrick said,
This welcome makes my journey well worth while
But when he read the placards he was puzzled once again
British Out - Imperialists must go -Nazi thugs - Paras out - One thing was very plain, they’re not words of welcome - that I know
Then from a new direction came another big parade with banners too and placards by the score
Ah! these must be the Christians now, St Patrick smiling said
They’ve come to welcome me to Erin’s shore
But when he read their placards, he was twice as mystified
The Pope to hell - The Border, not a yard -No Papists here the placards said, and other things beside, and always, so it seemed, the bitter word
Suddenly the marchers met, then hell was not the word, they screamed and cursed as stones and bottles flew
St Patrick never saw the like, he said, this is absorb these are not the Christians that I knew
He saw an old man standing in the shelter of a lane and he asked him: Where have all the Christians gone?
Thon’s them out there, the old man said - St Patrick looked again and said, Oh dear that’s a shocking carry on
The saint then sent a telegram to heaven like a shot saying he’d be latish getting home
The situation here, he said, is really not so hot but I’ll tell you all about it when I come
St Patrick braced his shoulders then turned towards the crowd
He took a spray of shamrock from his hat
He held it high before them, and addressed them clear and loud, the people wondered what the man was at
The last time I was here, he said, I thought my job was done
But from what I’ve seen today, it’s very plain
The Christians I converted must all be dead and gone
I’ll have to start the whole damn thing again
**************
Happy St. Patrick’s day to all
As a non-Christian native Londoner (n.b. not English), I find it peculiar celebrating an ex-Roman Welsh slave who introduced a peripheral European island to the loony Jewish spin-off cult of crazy superstitions some time in the Dark Ages.
"To the Christians amongst us, perhaps a time to recall
those positive accomplishments and virtues of
Padraic, Patron Saint of Ireland." piece
…
or then not
yhallhouse its an excuse to get wrecked leave it alone. you are a pedant extraordinare the fact you can spell perpheral on Paddys day is a disgrace
peripheral
I’m not stoppin’ in with no cup o’ tea.
scots nial..
what r you like posting swathes of lyrics on a dicussion board. away and do somthin feckin useful like drink 10 tins of guiness and nail a cat to a wheelie bin.
Brilliant, Free Reed.
Hope it goes well.
You need an excuse to get wrecked?
Anyway, these days the only "cult" the holiday seems dedicated to is the Guinness corporate machine.
not so much need as want.
a trad playing socialist, how original and quaint
come on silver stick it to "the man " on an internet discussion board some more..!
..ruin my pint of Guinness like f##k she will lol ;D
Any night when the mood takes me and I don’t have anything important to do the next day is good enough.
Right now, I am at work doing my usual eight hour shift in the intensive care unit.
After I get off from work today, I have to go to the local vo-tech school for my Computer Concepts class and then home to eat the evening meal.
After supper, we (myself and the wife) must go to the huge discount store which seems to sell almost everything to do some shopping.
No I am not planning to play music or drink anything alcoholic today.
Laurence
are you for real.
Not stepping out of my door today.
Yeah, I guess I could be a bit more original and become a trad playing autocrat. I also fancied being a trad playing poststructuralist, which isn’t a position on a social or governmental paradigm, mind you, but still seems like a good idea.
I tried being a trad-playing anarchist, but there were too many meetings to go to. Don’t know that I’d enjoy being a trad-playing post-structuralist, but it would certainly be more fun being one than talking to one.
In fairness, I think there are a lot of post structuralist tune players on this website.
Oh, be nice, they’re not that bad. 🙂
You might even be one yourself. 🙂 Do you think tunes are essentialist or socially constructed?
Oh, them’s fightin’ words. And the answer is no, I don’t.
Where does that put me? 🙂
Happy St Pats Kevin!
Likewise Dave.
I spent most of the afternoon, when I could have been in a session, sorting out the spambot on my email.
Dammit !
Apologies to any previous correspondent who may have received an advertisment for Viagra !
They do say it’s very good……..
I taught school all day long, where I played tunes for the kids on my keyless flute; went to a department meeting; just fixed a piano key; quick cup of tea; corned beef and cabbage for dinner, then I’m off to choir practice.
I’ll be putting in my full day at work, then taking the lads to baseball practice. I’ll be as far away from the green swill crowd as possible.
Oh, and tunes are socially constructed - and I say that as a Keirkegaardian banjoist
St Patrick’s is a good day to stay far away from pubs. Too many
violent drunks. No chance of a session - it’s all paid gigs.
Just home from playing for the annual corned beef dinner for the local Friendly Sons of Saint Patrick chapter (for what we think was the seventh year in a row). Us for an hour at the front and back end of the evening, and the youngsters from the Deidre Goulding school of dance in the middle, along with a few speeches and awards. And every year, they give a scholarship to a deserving college-bound teen. A fine bunch of folks, who have a fun evening, but still one that respects the spirit of the good Saint himself.
Isn’t it strange how you never meet any drunken Welshmen at a St Pats do, celebrating the most famous Welshman in the world.
( No it’s not Anthony Hopkins, he’s an American citizen now. Nor Richard Burton.)
We decided to wait to do the shopping until Friday evening because I got paid on Friday. It is easier to buy stuff when you actually have money to spend. After we got home from the shopping trip, I drank some brown beer instead of that awful green stuff.
Laurence
The most famous Welshman in the world at this moment might be Christian Bale. Just won the Oscar.
