STRANGE IRISH CURSES
June 25th 2009 19:49
May your obituary be written in weasel's piss.
May the lamb of God stir his hoof through the roof of heaven and kick you in the arse down to hell.
May the devil swallow him sideways.
May the snails devour his corpse And the rains do harm worse May the devil sweep the hairy creature soon!
May your hens take the disorder(the fowl-pest), your cows the crippen(phosphorosis) and your calves the white scour! May yourself go stone-blind so that you will not know your wife from a hay-stack!
May the seven terriers of hell sit on the spool of your breast and bark in at your soul-case
The treatment of the boiled broken little fish to you
The roasting of the salmon to the very end on you
May you be broken over the masons cliff
Six horse-loads of graveyard clay on top of you
May the entrails and mansion of pleasure of this worm fall out
May the devil cut the head off you and make a days work of your neck
No butter be on your milk nor on your ducks a web. May your child not walk and your cow be flayed. And may the flame be bigger and wider which will go through your soul than the Connemara mountains if they were on fire
The curse of the crows on you
May you be afflicted with the itch and have no nails to scratch with!
I bind you by grave injunctions of magic from the river, back to the river, may you fall in a nettle patch and may savage dogs eat your one good foot on a mountain.
May the lamb of God stir his hoof through the roof of heaven and kick you in the arse down to hell.
May the devil swallow him sideways.
May the snails devour his corpse And the rains do harm worse May the devil sweep the hairy creature soon!
May your hens take the disorder(the fowl-pest), your cows the crippen(phosphorosis) and your calves the white scour! May yourself go stone-blind so that you will not know your wife from a hay-stack!
May the seven terriers of hell sit on the spool of your breast and bark in at your soul-case
The treatment of the boiled broken little fish to you
The roasting of the salmon to the very end on you
May you be broken over the masons cliff
Six horse-loads of graveyard clay on top of you
May the entrails and mansion of pleasure of this worm fall out
May the devil cut the head off you and make a days work of your neck
No butter be on your milk nor on your ducks a web. May your child not walk and your cow be flayed. And may the flame be bigger and wider which will go through your soul than the Connemara mountains if they were on fire
The curse of the crows on you
May you be afflicted with the itch and have no nails to scratch with!
I bind you by grave injunctions of magic from the river, back to the river, may you fall in a nettle patch and may savage dogs eat your one good foot on a mountain.
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