An Irish Hat
[Photo By: KPA]
I went early to my local Irish pub, Failte's, thinking it would be quiet, and there would be just the decorations. I was wrong. However strange it may sound, there was a St. Patrick's party for children (in a pub) at this particular Failte's. I went in the back and watched the merriment.
The place was a little cheesyly decorated, cardboard hats, glittery leprechauns, and green beer. But why not? Festivals are hard to come by these days where everything is political correctly sterilized. St. Patrick's hasn't got that "inclusive" poison yet. All the patrons were refreshingly Irish-looking, and the music wonderfully Irish (as far as I could tell).
"I'm not Irish," I told the waitress. "But can you still get me a hat and some lucky clover?"
I now have a hat, and a necklace of sparkly beads with a large three-leaf piece of luck. I'll hang on to the luck of the Irish!
I also asked for a "small" (I think that means a 1/2 pint) of Harp beer.
On a more serious note, here is a post of mine on Failte, my humble take on the Irish, Yeats' poetry, and memories of Larry Auster and his serious work to keep his beloved America from turning into a Babylon.
I posted this poem, posted by Larry at the View From the Right:
THE WILD SWANS AT COOLE
THE TREES are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine and fifty swans.
The nineteenth Autumn has come upon me
Since I first made my count;
I saw, before I had well finished,
All suddenly mount
And scatter wheeling in great broken rings
Upon their clamorous wings.
I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,
And now my heart is sore.
All’s changed since I, hearing at twilight,
The first time on this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,
Trod with a lighter tread.
Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold,
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.
But now they drift on the still water
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake’s edge or pool
Delight men’s eyes, when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?
This is the illustration he posted at the end of the poem, in his entry "Update":
Posted By: Kidist P. Asrat