English VersionEs ist kein Wunder, daß St. Patrick in die irische Folklore eingegangen ist. Aber neben frommen Legenden finden sich auch zahlreiche humorvolle Lieder, Gedichte und Geschichten, in denen der Heilige nicht wegen spiritueller Qualitäten, sondern wegen viel weltlicherer Dinge gepriesen wird. So hat der irische Storyteller Eddie Lenihan eine Geschichte im Repertoire, in der St. Patrick einen betrügerischen Wirt wegen schlecht gefüllter Gläser zur Rechenschaft zieht. Und in den nachfolgenden traditionellen Liedern werden dem Heiligen Trinkfestigkeit bescheinigt, das Wunder eines nie leer werdenden Bierglases und sogar die Erfindung des Whiskeybrennens zugeschrieben.
St. Patrick And The Snakes
(von Crawford Howard, wiedergegeben mit der freundlichen Erlaubnis des Autors
© Copyright Elm Grove Music)
You've heard of the snakes in Australia
You've heard of the snakes in Japan,
You've heard of the rattler - that old Texas battler -
Whose bite can mean death to a man.
They've even got snakes in old England -
Nasty adders all yellow and black -
But in Erin's green isle we can say with a smile,
They're away - and they're not coming back!
Now years ago things was quite different -
There was serpents all over the place.
If ye climbed up a ladder ye might meet an adder
Or a cobra might lep at your face,
If ye went for a walk up the Shankill,
Or a dander along Sandy Row,
A flamin' great python would likely come writhin'
And take a lump outa yer toe!
Now there once was a guy called St. Patrick,
A preacher of fame and renown -
An' he hoisted his sails and came over from Wales
To convert all the heathens in Down,
And he hirpled about through the country
With a stick and a big pointy hat,
An' he kept a few sheep that he sold on the cheap,
But sure, there's no money in that!
He was preachin' a sermon in Comber
An' getting quite carried away
And he mentioned that Rome had once been his home
(But that was the wrong thing to say!)
For he felt a sharp pain in his cheek-bone
And he stuck up a hand 'till his bake
And the thing that had lit on his gub (an' had bit)
Was a wee Presbyterian snake!
Now the snake slithererd down from the pulpit
(Expectin' St. Patrick to die),
But yer man was no dozer - he lifted his crozier
An' he belted the snake in the eye,
And he says to the snake, "Listen, legless!
You'd better just take yerself aff!
If you think that that trick will work with St. Patrick
You must be far worser nor daft!"
So the snake slithered home in a temper
An' it gathered its mates all aroun'
An' it says, "Listen, mates! We'll get on wer skates,
I reckon it's time to leave town!
It's no fun when you bite a big fella
An' sit back and expect him to die,
An' he's so flamin' quick with thon big, crooked stick
That he hits ye a dig in the eye!
So a strange sight confronted St. Patrick
When he work up the very next day.
The snakes with long faces were all packin' their cases
And headin' for Donegal Quay.
Some got on cheap flights to Majorca
And some booked apartments in Spain.
They were all headin' out and there wasn't a doubt
That they weren't going to come back again.
So the reason the snakes left old Ireland
(An' this is no word of a lie),
They all went to places to bite people's faces
And be reasonably sure that they'd die.
An' the oul' snakes still caution their grandsons,
"For God's sake beware of St. Pat!
An' take yerselves aff if you see his big staff,
An' his cloak, an' his big pointy hat!"
(aus "A Bit of Crack from Belfast" von Doreen McBride, Adare Press, Banbridge, 1994)
nach obenPatrick's Arrival
Das Lied stammt aus der Feder des Schriftstellers William Maginn (1794‑1842) aus Cork. Christy Moore singt das Lied zur Melodie von "The Night before Larry was Stretched".
You've heard of St. Denis of France.
He never had much for to brag on.
You've heard of St. George and his lance
Who killed d'old heathenish dragon.
The Saints of the Welshmen and Scot
Are a couple of pitiful pipers
And might just as well go to pot
When compared to the patron of vipers:
St. Patrick of Ireland, my dear.
He sailed to the Emerald Isle
On a lump of pavin' stone mounted.
He beat the steamboat by a mile
Which mighty good sailing was counted.
Says he, "The salt water, I think,
Has made me unmerciful thirsty;
So bring me a flagon to drink
To wash down the mullygrups, burst ye,
Of drink that is fit for a Saint."
He preached then with wonderful force
The ignorant natives a teaching,
With wine washed down each discourse,
For, says he, "I detest your dry preaching."
The people in wonderment struck
At a pastor so pious and civil,
Exclaimed, "We're for you, my old buck,
And we'll heave our blind Gods to the divil,
Who dwells in hot water below."
This finished, our worshipful man
Went to visit an elegant fellow
Whose practise each cool afternoon
Was to get most delightful mellow.
That day with a barrel of beer,
He was drinking away with abandon.
Say's Patrick, "It's grand to be here.
I drank nothing to speak of since landing,
So give me a pull from your pot."
He lifted the pewter in sport.
Believe me, I tell you, it's no fable.
A gallon he drank from the quart
And left it back full on the table.
"A miracle!" everyone cried
And all took a pull on the Stingo.
They were mighty good hands at that trade
And they drank 'til they fell yet, by Jingo.
The pot it still frothed o'er the brim.
Next day said the host, "It's a fast,
And I've nothing to eat but cold mutton.
On Fridays who'd make such repast
Except an unmerciful glutton?"
Said Pat, "Stop this nonsense, I beg.
What you tell me is nothing but gammon."
When the host brought down the lamb's leg,
Pat ordered to turn it to salmon,
And the leg most politely complied.
You've heard, I suppose, long ago,
How the snakes, in a manner most antic,
He marched to the county Mayo
And ordered them all into the Atlantic.
Hence never use water to drink
The people of Ireland determine
With mighty good reason, I think,
For Patrick has filled it with vermin,
And snakes and such other things.
He was a fine man as you'd meet
From Fairhead to Kilcrumper,
Though under the sod he is laid,
Let's all drink his health in a bumper.
I wish he was here that my glass
He might by art magic replenish,
But since he is not, why alas!
My old song must come to a finish
Because all the drink is gone.
St. Patrick was a Gentleman
Das Lied wird dem englischen Dichter Henry Bennett (ca. 1820) zugeschrieben. Christy Moore singt es ohne den Refrain zur Melodie von "Maggie in the Wood".
Saint Patrick was a gentleman,
and he came from decent people,
In Dublin town he built a church,
and on it put a steeple;
His father was a Gallagher,
his mother was a Brady,
His aunt was an O'Shaugnessy,
and his uncle was a Grady.
Chorus:
Then success to bold Saint Patrick's fist,
He was a saint so clever,
He gave the snakes and toads a twist,
And banish'd them forever!
There's not a mile in Ireland's Isle
where the dirty vermin musters,
Where'er he put his dear foot down,
he murder'd them in clusters;
The toads went hop, the frogs went flop,
slap dash into the water,
And the snakes committed suicide,
to save themselves from slaughter.
Chorus
Nine hundred thousand reptiles blue,
he charm'd with sweet discourses
And dined on them at Killaloe
in soups and second courses;
When blind worms crawling in the grass
disgusted all the nation,
He gave them a rise and op'ned their eyes
to a sense of their situation.
Chorus
No wonder that our Irish boys
should be so free and frisky,
For good Saint Patrick taught them first
the joys of tippling whisky;
No wonder that the saint himself
to taste it should be willing,
For his mother kept a small shebeen
in the town of Inniskillin.
Chorus
The Wicklow hills are very high,
and so's the hill of Howth, Sir!
But there's a hill much higher still,
aye, higher than them both, Sir!
'Twas on the top of this high hill
Saint Patrick preach'd the sacrament,
That drove the frogs into the bogs,
and bother'd all the varment.
Chorus