We Regret To Inform You...

Recently, eaglets, I received yet another "Dear Nigel" letter from a group of Snoddy Snodgrass editors who thought my paper was "very fine" but not quite suited to their esteemed SCHOLARLY journal. Try another journal, they say. Maybe one that's more "devoted to narrative." As opposed to what, I say? Papers on the proper way to tie your Windsor? Comparative analyses of the "summering" experience on the French Riviera vs. the Italian Riviera? Structural interpretations of the perfect soufflé au fromage? Poppycock!

Apparently, one must sell one's soul to Mephistopheles in order to succeed in this business. But since I don't know the proper spells for such an endeavor, perhaps you blogles (that's blog-eagles, you know - I love a good portmanteau) could provide me with paper topics snooty enough to satisfy even the bluest of the high-falutin' bluebloods who run these SCHOLARLY journals (in between their tours of the Swiss Alps and their deep-tissue massages). So whaddya say, eaglogs? Can you spare an upper-crust thesis or two for a poor tramp from the boondocks?

Crown Him with Many Crowns

HE IS RISEN!

Christ, the Lord, is risen today, Alleluia!

Sons of men and angels say, Alleluia!

Raise your joys and triumphs high, Alleluia!

Sing, ye heavens, and earth, reply, Alleluia!

Love’s redeeming work is done, Alleluia!

Fought the fight, the battle won, Alleluia!

Lo! the Sun’s eclipse is over, Alleluia!
Lo! He sets in blood no more, Alleluia!

Vain the stone, the watch, the seal, Alleluia!
Christ hath burst the gates of hell, Alleluia!

Death in vain forbids His rise, Alleluia!

Christ hath opened paradise, Alleluia!

Lives again our glorious King, Alleluia!
Where, O death, is now thy sting? Alleluia!

Once He died our souls to save, Alleluia!

Where thy victory, O grave? Alleluia!

Soar we now where Christ hath led, Alleluia!

Following our exalted Head, Alleluia!

Made like Him, like Him we rise, Alleluia!

Ours the cross, the grave, the skies, Alleluia!

HAPPY EASTER, EVERYONE!

BUNNIES BE DAMNED!

Green with Shame

Despite my best efforts, Danny O'Bloggerans, St. Patrick's Day was celebrated with the same feckless inattention to historic tradition and alcoholic irreverence as always. Take a gander at these incriminating photographs if you doubt me.

I'm not sure if that's supposed to be a shalale or a lead pipe in Starey O'Typeagan the Leprechaun's knubby fist there, but you can be sure he beats his wife with it!

Yes, that's the best way to reclaim your Irish roots and honor the Motherland. Cram as many shamrocks into the eyes of the spectators as possible, and maybe they won't notice how much you resemble the crypt keeper.

I'm not sure who suffers the greater injustice here, the Irish or the Little People. And no, I don't mean the ones who hung out with Darby O'Gill.

Apparently, St. Patrick was also responsible for ridding Ireland of its Lhasa Apsos.

Oh, for the love of Erin. No comment.

When Patrick Goes Marching In...

On Easter Sunday in 433 AD, the blessed Saint Patrick led a humble band of missionaries against the amassed strength of Ireland's druidic magicians in order to announce the arrival of the Gospel at the High King (Ard-Righ) Leoghaire's feast at Tara. A stern decree had been issued that no fires might be lit before the lighting of King Leoghaire's hearth to announce the feast, but Patrick lit a fire on the tallest of the hills around Tara in open defiance of the King's silly proclamation. The resulting battle between the enraged druids and St. Patrick reads like a wizard battle scene out of Lord of the Rings. I will let the inimitable Catholic Encyclopedia take it from here.

"On Easter Day the missionary band having at their head the youth Benignus bearing aloft a copy of the Gospels, and followed by St. Patrick who with mitre and crozier was arrayed in full episcopal attire, proceeded in processional order to Tara. The druids and magicians put forth all their strength and employed all their incantations to maintain their sway over the Irish race, but the prayer and faith of Patrick achieved a glorious triumph. The druids by their incantations overspread the hill and surrounding plain with a cloud of worse than Egyptian darkness. Patrick defied them to remove that cloud, and when all their efforts were made in vain, at his prayer the sun sent forth its rays and the brightest sunshine lit up the scene. Again by demoniac power the Arch-Druid Lochru, like Simon Magus of old, was lifted up high in the air, but when Patrick knelt in prayer the druid from his flight was dashed to pieces upon a rock."

Man, is that ever awesome!
St. Patrick kicks ass for the Lord!

"I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. You cannot pass. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn. Go back to the Shadow! You cannot pass!"

One Shamrockin' Saint

Erin go Bragh, blogprechauns! As you know, we are but one brief week away from that greatest of all hagiolidays, St. Patrick's Day 2008! In honor of the coolest of the "secular saints"--as Valentine, Nicholas, and Patrick are often called by the heathen hoards--I have embarked on a little educational endeavor to make your St. Patrick's Day more meaningful this year. Every day this week, I will post one new factoid about the Irish missionary, so maybe this year will register as a reverential tribute to a truly great (though possibly at least partially fictional) man of God instead of just another reason to get plastered on green beer.

And so, without further shenanigans, here's today's fascinating Patrick fact:

One of St. Patrick's first miracles occured near Slemish, where a pagan chieftain accosted him as he made his way up from the river Boyne. The chieftain, Dichu, intended to brutally maul the unarmed saint, but when he raised his sword to strike, his arm froze in place and would not budge until he pledged his fealty to Christ and St. Patrick. Afterwards, Dichu offered his own barn to the saint as a rustic church, where Patrick oversaw his first administration of the eucharist in Ireland. Today, the place is still called Sabhall (pronounced 'Saul'), meaning barn, and a small replica stone barn has been erected there to commemorate the site.

Sidhe's a Lady

I'm not sure why I decided to post this, but I just finished a major essay assignment on this old faery hag here, and I suppose I just feel like penning an elegiac funeral ode.
So anyway, here goes:

The Death of Queen Maeve
by Bibb Leo File

Her royal robes do drag on the stony palace floor;
O! Great Queen! To think you shall be pale forevermore!
Her mighty golden locks now have fallen into gray;
O! Strong Queen! To think they shall soon fade and rot away!

Go tend the dying Queen, she who totters on her feet,
Now, Old Queen, your revels share no more in wine or meat,
Go help the dying Queen, her gold crown has dropped to earth;
Now, Frail Queen, the young of Tír-na-nÓg will give you berth!

Sail west from green Connacht 'til you reach that happy shore,
There, Brave Queen, you'll find the key to Knocknarea's stone door;
And rise to join the dance as it spins across the sea,
Then, Bright Queen, you'll know what it is to rule the Sidhe!

Pronunciation Guide:
Maeve = Mayv
Tír-na-nÓg = Teer-nah-nohg (with a long 'o', as in 'No')
Connacht = Cuh-naut
Knocknarea = Knock-nuh-ray
Sidhe = Shee