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The Subdued Irishman
I rapped my chin upon a highland hill,
whilst falling of my own free will,
but fret you not over my intention -
an Irishman is a god's invention.
A fire cast by brimstone ash
that's found its way to home at last,
between the crags and haggard stone,
to gnaw on meat down to its bone.
With this wanderer supplanted,
he's taken his dear friends for granted,
and now regrets his fool misdeeds,
intending to make just his needs.
Distant pipes will call to righteous
the mortals who became derisive,
floundering on greenest earth
while embers cooled upon the hearth.
But judge them not, they've learned and shall
make right of what they've let turn pale,
and tan the hides of foulest demons
who infest the souls of frailer heathens.
And when the valleys breathe and bathe
in blood of ass that dare to bray,
we will resolve ourselves to say,
"Die to us to hear our praise."
