Wednesday, March 17, 2010

While It's Still St. Patrick's Day . . .

Here's a little something for your enjoyment — a video for the song "Patrick Was A Gentleman" as performed by the Wolfe Tones. Enjoy!

St. Patrick's Day

"And many gifts were offered to me with weeping and tears, and I offended them [the donors], and also went against the wishes of a good number of my elders; but guided by God, I neither agreed with them nor deferred to them, not by my own grace but by God who is victorious in me and withstands them all, so that I might come to the Irish people to preach the Gospel and endure insults from unbelievers; that I might hear scandal of my travels, and endure many persecutions to the extent of prison; and so that I might give up my free birthright for the advantage of others, and if I should be worthy, I am ready [to give] even my life without hesitation; and most willingly for His name. And I choose to devote it to him even unto death, if God grant it to me."

from The Confession of St. Patrick

Friday, March 05, 2010

Comment Moderation Enabled

I've received some rather unpleasant comment spam lately, so I've enabled comment moderation. This means I have to approve comments before they appear on the blog. If your comment does not immediately appear, fear not. It does not necessarily mean I don't like you. Most likely it means that I, your blog administrator, have not yet checked the comments waiting to be published. I regret this step, but it seems to be necessary. There are some real jerks out there.

Thursday, March 04, 2010

Because I've Been Feeling Very Scottish Lately . . .

I created this version of a Highland Dancer with HeroMachine v. 3.0.

Here also is a poem about a Scottish lass by William Wordsworth. (Not a bad poem, even if he was a stuffy English git).

The Solitary Reaper

BEHOLD her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;—
I listen'd, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

Hat tip for the text of "The Solitary Reaper" to