Plundered, conquered, colonized,
Their language outlawed, culture flayed;
Their own land rented back to them
At back-and-spirit-breaking rates;
Made to endure war, hunger, Protestants;
Driven into the rocky West;
Failed by the one crop they needed;
Scattered to the four winds,
The Irish have persisted – even smiled –
As if acknowledging a handsome joke
They can't believe you haven't twigged to yet.
Nor have they only smiled. Listen, now.
If you hear fiddle music on the wind,
As mournful as a wolf, or merry as May,
The odds are good you have some Irishman,
Long dead or gaily living on, to thank.
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