What Shall I Say about the Irish

Never predictable,

Sometimes 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 his soul with delight.

His eyes are the quickest to well up with tears,

Yet his strength is the strongest

To banish your fears.

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 he's sad.

He's in love with the ocean, the earth and the skies,

He's enamoured with beauty wherever it lies.

He's victor and victim, a star and a clod.

But mostly he's Irish . . .

In love with his God.

-Author Unknown

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shows the Irish Uncials inwhich

this piece is lettered