What shall I say about the Irish? The utterly impractical, never predictable, Something irascible, quite inexplicable Irish, Strange blend of shyness, pride and conceit, And stubborn refusal to bow in defeat, He's spoiling and ready to argue and fight, Yet the smile of a child fills hes soul with delight, He's eyes are the quickest to well up in tears, Yet His strength is the strongest to banish your fears, His faith is as fierce as his devotion is grand, And theres no middle ground on which he will stand, He's wild and he's gentle, he's good and he's bad, He's proud and he's humble, he's happy and sad, He's in love with the ocean, the earth and the skies, He's enamored with beauty wherever it lies, He's victor and victim, a star and a clod, But motley hes Irish, In love with his God...
