Ode to the Irish Spirit
Irish despair knows no remedy, they say—the cure lies only in booze and sentiment. That’s why the Irish are such noble drunks and glorious poets.
“Irish despair knows no remedy”—a bold claim indeed. But what if it sings—low and lingering—until sorrow itself begins to rise?
For the great folk of Ireland,
The men whom God made mad,
Though gaily still they carry on,
Their thoughts in sorrow clad.
Within their hearts there dwells despair,
Unmoved by fortune’s kiss;
Not all the trials of mortal air,
But truths that go amiss.
Why bring us forth to fleeting light,
Then bid our bright days span.
This question seeks no wealth’s respite,
But the common fate of man.
No cure for wounds so deep and wide,
Not gold, nor love’s embrace,
Nor fame that struts its hour of pride—
All fade and leave no trace.
So in this gloom, ’tis no surprise,
In drink and verse, we rise;
For though we mock our mortal end,
We sing—and so transcend.
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