There is a not-so-mythic character called a “stage Irishman.” This unworthy dresses like a leprechaun, speaks an unintelligible brogue and tells stupid sexist jokes about Scotsmen. He drinks green beer — an abomination. In the 500s A.D. Patric, a spoiler, converted the culture from taking instruction from nature’s varied spectrum to a simplistic “either you’re with us or against us” mentality. It is this fellow the stage Irishman venerates.

Such are almost certainly disguised English aristocracy dressed down to mock those they have bullied for 700 years. Not that I have any feelings about any of this.

Irish music incites emotions from dancing on the keg to weeping in the beer. It also ranges from nostalgia to passion. Not to seem narrow, it can be poetic or doggerel, patriotic or idiotic and afflicted with blessings or curses. It is, despite its makers’ paleness, soul music. A hilarious rip-off of the idea is present in the movie “The Commitments.” Do not expect tradition here.

An authentic piece, “Nell Flaherty’s Drake,” is found in “Irish Street Ballads,” (1939: The Sign of the Three Candles). It is a very long piece, best heard sung by the proudly Irish Barbara Gladstone. A verse goes:

My name it is Nell, quite candid I tell,

And I lived near Coot Hill I will never deny.

I had a large drake, the truth for to speak,

That my grandmother gave me and she goin’ to die.

He was wholesome and sound and weighed twenty pound

And the universe round I would rove for his sake,

Bad wind to the robber, both drunken and sober

That murdered Nell Flaherty’s beautiful drake.

His neck it was green and most rare to be seen,

He was fit for a queen of the highest degree,

His body was white that would you delight,

He was plump, fat and heavy and brisk as a bee.

The dear little fellow, his legs they were yellow,

He’d fly like a swallow or dive like a hake;

But some wicked savage to grease his white cabbage

Has murdered Nell Flaherty’s beautiful drake.

Another heartbreaker is “A New Song on Taxes.” Two verses go:

They’re going to tax the brandy, ale and whiskey, rum and wine,

They’ll tax the tea and sugar, the tobacco, snuff and pipes.

They’re going to tax the fish that swim and all the birds that fly,

An’ they’re going to tax the women who go drinking on the sly.

They’re going to tax all the bachelors as heavy as they can,

And they’ll double tax the maidens over forty-one;

They’ll tax the ground we walk on and the clothes that keep us warm,

And they’re going to tax the childer on the night before they’re born.

The Shy Guy and I watch Irish performers. There are a lot of fine groups playing Celtic music. Tuatha da Dannan, James Galway and the Chieftains leap to mind. The list is very long. Two I recommend. The first, with some hesitancy, is the Irish Tenors. You have to close your eyes to the ridiculous pseudo-Greek stage setting and cut some slack for sentimentality. Maybe a CD would be better. But little can compare to those magnificent voices and flirtatious bandying of flattery.

Our absolute favorite Irish music DVD is “Dubliners, Live,” their 40th reunion. Utterly beguiling performers of pub ballads both ribald and heartbreaking, they are genuine. Beautiful. Authentic. True. These are lovely men, as real as their reels and hornpipes with voices and stories to wrap your heart in green.

I defy anyone with a hint of Irish blood or affinity to be dry-eyed at either “Carrickfergus” or “The Black Velvet Band.” And sitting still is a sure sign of rigor mortis when “Lord of the Dance” is played. They are a treat that will last beyond Saturday night and awaken you in a good humor. Remember, “Don’t Give Up Until It’s Over.” If you’re celebrating Patric this weekend: Don’t forget the authentic soul of Ireland.

Peg Elliott Mayo invites comment at uncommonideas@rivervoices.com. For a couple more weeks, you can see her Web page and blog at www.rivervoices.com.