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Thursday, 30 January 2014

Paddy died......An Irish Joke


Paddy died. His will provided £40,000 for an elaborate funeral.  

As the last guests departed the affair, his wife Colleen turned to her oldest and dearest friend.
"Ah well, Paddy would be pleased," she  said.

"You're right," replied Mary, who lowered her voice and leaned in  close.

"So go on, how much did this really cost?'"
"All of it," said Colleen.  "Forty thousand."


"Aw No!" Mary exclaimed, "I mean, it was very grand, but £40,000?!!!"
Colleen answered, "The funeral was £6,500. I donated £500 to church.  The whisky, wine and snacks were another £500.
The rest went for the Memorial Stone."

Mary  computed  quickly.

"For the love of Mike Colleen, £32,500 for a Memorial Stone?
How big is it?"










Monday, 13 January 2014

The Fairies by William Allingham

Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We dare n't go a-hunting,
For fear of little men;

Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather

Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;

Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.

High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He's nigh lost his wits.

With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;

Or going up with music,
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen,
Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.

They took her lightly back
Between the night and morrow;
They thought she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.

They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag leaves,
Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn trees
For pleasure here and there.

Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite?
He shall find the thornies set
In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We dare n't go a-hunting,
For fear of little men;

Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather.