I've had St. Urho in mind this spring, since our weather is so far proving ideal for the propagation of locusts. I hate the little buggers flying about and eating every leaf in sight, and will do my best to abolish them, perhaps by repeating St. Urho's immortal words, ""Heinäsirkka, heinäsirkka, mene täältä hiiteen!" ("Grasshopper, grasshopper, go from hence to Hell!")
For those of you unacquainted with the life and miracles of St. Urho, please refer to the following ballad (written by Richard Mattson and Gene McCavic, probably in a tavern in Virginia, Minnesota).
It should be noted that the ballad is written in the dialect of my boyhood. When you picture me as a child, assuming you ever do, you should imagine me talking very much like this.
Ooksi kooksi coolama vee
Santia Urho is ta poy for me!
He sase out ta hoppers as pig as pirds. '
Neffer peefor haff I hurd tose words!
He reely tolt tose pugs of kreen
Braffest Finn I effer seen'
Some celebrate for St. Pat unt hiss nakes
Putt Urho poyka kot what it takes.
He kot tall and trong from feelia sour
Unt ate kala moyakka effery hour.
Tat's why tat kuy could sase toes peetles
What krew as thick as chack bine neetles.
So let's give a cheer in hower pest vay
On Sixteenth of March, St. Urho's Tay.