Saturday, 17 March 2012

St Patrick's Day (apologies to the Bard)

Duw Duw, I prospect not for Clogai gold

Or care not who sups Brains at my own cost;

I grieve not for those who have no garments red

Upon their backs, or forwards, bear no blues

But should I sin by wanting future glory

Then perhaps consign me to the heretic’s fire.

No Faith is better placed, as one from Little England knows

God’s peace rests and it is no lack in honour

To all would say this side of Severn’s flow

It’s best to Hope and wish for one try more

And proclaim it, West Walian, with the hwyl filled host,

Should men in blue have no stomach to this fight

Let them depart; Their passport shall be stamped

And pay their homeward fare into their purse.

Red men would rather die than miss their presence

And the fearing of a scarlet tidal wave to rise

On this eve of Patrick’s day, for green

Envy of our safest passage through their lines.

They stand well cocked, stud to stud, toe to toe

And be aroused at the name of Patrick.

He that lives through this to see old age

Will each year ready self on Dewi Sant

To get the drinks in and the tables spread

Next fortnight is St Patrick’s Day my friend

And he will raise his vest to show beneath

The redded breast with feathers three-emblemed

To say that he was there upon St Patrick’s day.

Old props forgot; but Half backs names are never lost

We’ll all remember, Bennett sidesteps three

What feats he did can yet be done again

And you at ten become as well remembered.

Household names like John the King, Edwards

Merve the swerve, The one and only Shane

Initialled too as JPR and JJ from the west

Be in their clubhouse freshly honoured too

This game shall every fan recall to son and son

And David, Patrick's heir, shall not be passed

From now till eternity’s beginning

Or twenty two, the band of brothers

Will mind of Warren’s talk to lead them on

“Whoever sheds his blood and sweat today

Shall be my brother; be he never set his foot

South of the equator, gentle though we’re not

And gentlemen antipodeans all

Would be as proud, and think they were accursed

That they could not be warriors red like you

And hold their manhood cheap while any speaks

That played with us upon St Patrick’s day."

© Mike Richardson

Gatland's Wales are good enough to take on the southern giants
Mike lived in Pembrokeshire. After University in West Wales, he left for City Life. He still hankers after the country that has inspired his writing.