Saint Patrick, to Fermanagh came once more:
off  Devenish Island, he swam ashore.
Waiting there was an eager crowd,
Priest and Laity roaring loud.

St. Patrick smiled, then kneeling there,
bowed his tousled head in prayer.
“God  Bless  you one and all,” he said,
Grace and Mercy on the quick and dead.”

St. Patrick,   cold from Lough Erne surf,
warmed  himself  by a glowing fire of  turf.
Father Darcy gave out shamrock tea,
soda  bread, buttered scones, a homily.

“Any questions?”  the  feted Saint  enquired.
“Yes!” said someone,  just  then  inspired,
‘Has  Ian Paisley been rejected,
Or,   now among Heaven’s elected?’

St. Patrick answered “No problem whatever,
but until he stops shouting ‘Never! Never!’
at  St. Peter’s call, to enter ere the gates,
in Purgatory, Pastor  Ian impatiently waits.

Next year, I will be back and fill
you  in on his celestial fate, so  I will.
You know, I never really went away.  
Great to greet you on this special day.”

With that, St. Patrick ascended on a cloud,
while  the awestruck watching crowd,
to  praise, revere  and honour him,
sang  out  this  rare traditional hymn:
  
Hail, glorious St. Patrick, dear saint of our isle,
On us thy poor children bestow a sweet smile;
And now thou art high in the mansions above,
On Erin's green valleys look down in thy love.

(optional repeat)
On Erin's green valleys, on Erin's green valleys,
On Erin's green valleys look down in thy love.

Hail, glorious St. Patrick, thy words were once strong
Against Satan's wiles and a heretic throng;
Not less is thy might where in Heaven thou art;
Oh, come to our aid, in our battle take part!

In a war against sin, in the fight for the faith,
Dear Saint, may thy children resist to the death;
May their strength be in meekness, in penance, and prayer,
Their banner the Cross, which they glory to bear.

Thy people, now exiles on many a shore,
Shall love and revere thee till time be no more;
And the fire thou hast kindled shall ever burn bright,
Its warmth undiminished, undying its light.

Ever bless and defend the sweet land of our birth,
Where the shamrock still blooms as when thou wert on earth,
And our hearts shall yet burn, wherever we roam,
For God and St. Patrick, and our native home.

   Tobias