Verse > Anthologies > James and Mary Ford, eds. > Every Day in the Year
James and Mary Ford, eds.  Every Day in the Year.  1902.
March 17
Wanted—Saint Patrick
By Fitz-James O’Brien (1828–1862)
WHEN Irish hills were fair and green,
  And Irish fields were white with daisies,
And harvests, golden and serene,
  Slept in the lazy summer hazes;
When bards went singing through the land        5
  Their grand old songs of knightly story,
And hearts were found in every hand,
  And all was peace, and love, and glory,
’Twas in those happy, happy days
  When every peasant lived in clover,        10
And in the pleasant woodland ways
  One never met the begging rover;
When all was honest, large and true
  And naught was hollow or theatric;—
’Twas in those days of golden hue        15
  That Erin knew the great Saint Patrick.
He came among the rustics rude
  With shining robes and splendid crosier
And swayed the listening multitude
  As breezes sway the beds of ozier.        20
He preached the love of man for man,
  And moved the unlettered Celt with wonder,
Till through the simple crowd there ran
  A murmur like repeated thunder.
He preached the grand Incarnate Word        25
  By rock and ruin, hill and hollow,
Till warring princes dropped the sword
  And left the fields of blood to follow.
For never yet did bardic song,
  Though graced with harp and poet’s diction,        30
With such strange charm enchain the throng
  As that sad tale of crucifixion.
Though fair the isle and brave the men,
  Yet still a blight the land infested;
Green vipers darted through each glen        35
  And snakes within the woodlands nested,
And ’mid the banks where violets blew
  And on the slopes where bloomed the primrose,
Lurked spotted toads of loathsome hue,
  And coiling, poisonous serpents grim rose.        40
Saint Patrick said: “The reptile race
  Are types of human degradation;
From other ills I’ve cleansed the place,
  And now of these I’ll rid the nation.”
He waved his crosier o’er his head,        45
  And lo! each venomed thing took motion,
And toads and snakes and vipers fled
  In terror to the circling ocean.
Why is Saint Patrick dead? or why
  Does he not seek this soil to aid us?        50
To wave his mystic crook on high,
  And rout the vermin that degrade us?
Our land is fertile, broad, and fair,
  And should be fairer yet and broader;
But noxious reptiles taint the air,        55
  And poison peace, and law, and order.
For murder stalks along each street,
  And theft goes lurking through our alleys,—
What reptiles worse does traveller meet
  On India’s hills, in Java’s valleys?        60
And when we see this gambling host,
  That ’mongst us practice this and that trick,
One knows not which would serve us most,
  The Goddess Justice or Saint Patrick!

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