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WE ARE THE EUROPEANS

Let me introduce you to,

The folk of Europe sweet,

They’re kind and friendly lovely folk,

You’re ever going to meet.

The Irish we are poet-bards,

Tough breed of honest men,

Whilst England is the home of war,

And Robin’s Merry Men.

The Germans are our whipping boy,

Accused of every wrong,

Italians give us tenors,

The Spaniards sing along.

The Poles are naughty rascals,

For wars, they are well known,

More than England, France and Spain,

Their knights to four winds blown.

The Latvians are forest men

Who live among the gnomes;

They sing in lusty choirs,

  And they live in wooden homes.

The Scandinavians might have a use

But it is hard to tell,

Close cousins of the Danish folk,

But can’t fight quite as well.

The French we doff our hats to,

Napoleon was often just,

But when he got to Moscow,

His dreams all turned to dust.

Talking of the Russian,

Ivan’s a happy soul,

He drinks and shouts Na Zdorovie!

And gets on with the Pole.

Ukrainians are so pretty,

They wear such coloured dress,

They’re clever engineers too,

Who welcomes every guest.

The Swiss are hits at making clocks,

And funny looking knives,

But waited until ‘71

Then gave the vote to wives.

The Slovaks and the Bulgars,

Are largely peaceful folk,

But Czechs are very warlike,

Who put their foes to yoke.

The Portuguese are sailors,

And so are Spaniards too,

The heathens they will smite with Cross,

Make Christians of you.

The Greeks are Mother Europe,

They taught us how to rule,

Estonia is homely,

I think they brought us Yule.

Romania – who would have thought,

They stood at Europe’s gate;

Like Hungary, they have guarded us,

And sealed Islamic fate.

Balkan folk are fierce,

They fight among themselves,

We bigger ones distracted,

Will fight among ourselves.

Lithuanians are wild and fierce,

They’re warlike women, men,

Albanian and Monrovian,

Are neither where nor when.

The Belgian – Dutch don’t have as much,

I scratch my head and wonder,

Roving East and South and West,

They love to war and plunder.

Belarus might have their use,

What is it I don’t know,

A bridge between the East and West,

And best is not to go

The Welsh, the Scots, like Hottentots,

Are folk a race apart,

In skirts and bagpipes, Welsh at harp,

You don’t know where to start.

And so, I Finnish far up north,

The lands of forest-lakes,

Skis and elk, much mist and snow,

And best their reindeer steaks

God Bless we Irish,

Erin go Bragh!

(Ireland Forever!)

Michael (Walsh)

Michael Walsh

https://mikewalshwritingservices.wordpress.com/writing-services-2/
Awarded  ‘Writer of the Year’ 2011