Slainte, Mrs. McGrath

Bon restant de St-Patrick aux ivrognes qui sont pas encore couchés!


"Mrs McGrath," the sergeant said,
"Would you like a soldier out of your son Ted?
With a scarlet coat and a big cocked hat
Mrs McGrath will you like that?"

With your too-ri-aa fol-ded-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa
Too-ri-aa fol-did-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa

Now Mrs McGrath lived on the shore
And after seven years or more
She spied a ship come into the bay
With her son from far away

"O captain dear, where have ye been?
You been sailing the Mediterranean
Have you news of my son Ted
Is he living or is he dead?"

With your too-ri-aa fol-ded-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa
Too-ri-aa fol-did-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa

Then came Ted without any legs
And in their place two wooden pegs
She kissed him a dozen times or two
And said, "my God, Ted, is it you?

Now were ye drunk or were ye blind
When ye left your two fine legs behind?
Or was it walking upon the sea
That wore your two fine legs away?"

With your too-ri-aa fol-ded-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa
Too-ri-aa fol-did-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa
With your too-ri-aa fol-ded-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa
Too-ri-aa fol-did-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa

"Now I wasn't drunk and I wasn't blind
When I left my two fine legs behind
A cannonball on the fifth of May
Tore my two fine legs away"

"My, Teddy boy," the widow cried
"Your two fine legs were yer mother's pride
Stumps of a tree won't do at all
Why didn't ye run from the cannonball?"

With your too-ri-aa fol-ded-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa
Too-ri-aa fol-did-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa
With your too-ri-aa fol-ded-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa
Too-ri-aa fol-did-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa

"All foreign wars I do proclaim
Live on blood and a mother's pain
I'd rather have my son as he used to be
Than the King of America and his whole Navy"

With your too-ri-aa fol-ded-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa
Too-ri-aa fol-did-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa
With your too-ri-aa fol-ded-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa
Too-ri-aa fol-did-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa
With your too-ri-aa fol-ded-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa
Too-ri-aa fol-did-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa

Hey!

Paddy's

Joyeuse St-Patrick, gang d'ivrognes!
Take it away Stevie:

Un gout si particulier

Toi aussi tu te sens Irlandais aujourd'hui, l'ami?
Tu te demandes quel est donc ce gout si particulier qui se retrouve dans ta pinte de Guinness?
La réponse se trouve dans cette chonsan!
Slante!

Have you ever stopped to think about what rats do for fun?
Sure they crawl around and scurry,
yeah they're always on the run but a rat sure likes a good time
just like you and me
I'll prove it with a tale about a rat-infested brewery

It started with a little lad named vermin McCann
who fell upon a drink that made him feel like quite a man
he rounded up his furry boys,
though some wore a frown
they quickly changed their tune and they slammed a couple down.

One, two, one-two-three-four!
Come on all you good rats
we'll send you to heaven you'll find the pearly gates in the froth and the foam
'cause in these vats you've made quite a creation
a potion that turned the Guinness to gold!

Like mice behind a piper,
rats from all around soon headed for this factory in old Dublin Town.
They surely heard the news about this fancy new rat-brew they come,
they saw, they had a taste and knocked back a few

The rats were in a tizzy
addicted to the bone the hairy lugs were giddy
they were never going home
like a bunch of drunken pirates prepared to walk the plank they drank,
they sang, they took a plunge and in the beer they sank!

Paddys

Joyeuse fête du vert!

Mon père se lève tôt, il prend son café brûlant
Assis, tout seul, près du fourneau, le jour vient doucement
La journée sera longue et vide, comme souvent
Il me racontera encore sa vie d'itinérant

Au fond de l'Alabama, comme elle est loin sa terre
Reverra-t-il un jour sa rivière et le Connemara ?
Son pays brûle en lui comme un grand incendie dans la nuit
Comme un grand incendie dans la nuit

Ma mère nettoie par terre, courbée en deux, toujours
Par la vie de misère et puis par l'amour
Elle a pleuré, elle a souffert plus souvent qu'à son tour
Pour donner à manger au père aux enfants chaque jour

Au fond de l'Alabama, comme elle est loin sa terre
Ses frères, ses amis, la pluie qui tombe et le Connemara

Elle revoit son pays comme un grand incendie dans la nuit
Comme un grand incendie dans la nuit

Mon père va parfois, le soir, au billard du coin
Claquer un demi-dollar sans même un copain
Et lorsque nous sommes jetés comme de pauvres chiens
Du dancing près de la jetée, le vieux ne dit rien

Il ira demain matin encore au bureau d'emploi
Faire la queue pendant des heures en se demandant pourquoi
Pas de job, pas de boulot, râpé, pas pour les Irlandais
Il sera toujours pour ces gens un putain d'immigrant

Au fond de l'Alabama, comme elle est loin sa terre
Reverra-t-il un jour sa rivière et le Connemara ?
Son pays brûle en lui comme un grand incendie dans la nuit
Comme un grand incendie dans la nuit
Comme un grand incendie dans la nuit.

Vert

"I have left my book,
I have left my room,
For I heard you singing
Through the gloom."
— James Joyce



As I walked down by the riverside
One evening in the spring
Heard a long gone song
From days gone by
Blown in on the great North wind
Though there is no lonesome corncrake's cry
Or sorrow and delight
You can hear the cars
And the shouts from bars
And the laughter and the fights

May the ghosts that howled
Round the house at night
Never keep you from your sleep
May they all sleep tight
Down in hell tonight
Or where ever they may be

As I walked on with a heavy heart
Then a stone danced on the tide
And the song went on
Though the lights were gone
And the North wind gently sighed
And an evening breeze coming from the East
That kissed the riverside
So I pray now child that you sleep tonight
When you hear this lullaby

May the wind that blows from haunted graves
Never bring you misery
May the angels bright
Watch you tonight
And keep you while you sleep

Beannachtai na Feile Padraig!
Ouais, joyeuse St-Patrick, spécialement aux Irlandais Matapédiens!

St-Paddy's

«Si demain vous chassez l'armée anglaise et si vous hissez le drapeau Vert sur le château de Dublin, vos efforts auront été vains à moins que vous n'ayez mis en place la République socialiste. Elle vous gouvernera par l'intermédiaire de ses capitalistes, de ses propriétaires fonciers, de ses financiers, par le réseau des institutions civiles et commerciales qu'elle a implantées dans ce pays et arrosées des larmes de nos mères et du sang de nos martyrs.»

James Connolly 1897