Bosca Dubh

lena cota bog ban

Nach deas í an tuath
lena cota bog ban
ina codladh go sá¡mh
sa sneachta geal glan.

Sneachta, Má¡ire Nic a’Daird

The first bit of Irish poetry I ever memorized; roughly:

How lovely is the world
with its soft white coat,
sleeping snugly
in the bright, clean snow.

Being able to recite the occasional bit of Gaelic doggerel has won me a few pints of Guinness, and redeems me for the fact that my ancestors were decidedly Cromwellian.

St. Patrick’s Day is the one day a year I’m happy to let everyone else pretend to be Irish. They can have their green beer and “Kiss me I’m Irish” buttons and bad brogues; I’ll sit in tonight with Thai takeout and a movie and leave my favorite bars to the Irish version of Easter-and-Christmas Catholics.

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