There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;
For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing.
To wander along by the wind-beaten hill.
But the day star attracted his eyes' sad devotion,
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion
He sang the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh.
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There's a dear little plant that grows in our isle,
'Twas St. Patrick himself sure that set it;
read more
There's a dear little plant that grows in our isle,
'Twas St. Patrick himself sure that set it;
And the sun on his labor with pleasure did smile,
And with dew from his eye often wet it.
It thrives through the bog, through the brake, and the mireland;
And he called it the dear little shamrock of Ireland--
The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock,
The sweet little, green little, shamrock of Ireland!
For dear is the Emerald Isle of the ocean,
Whose daughters are fair as the foam of the wave,
read more
For dear is the Emerald Isle of the ocean,
Whose daughters are fair as the foam of the wave,
Whose sons unaccustom'd to rebel commotion,
Tho' joyous, are sober--tho' peaceful, are brave.
My dear, my native soil!
For whom my warmest wish to Heav'n is sent,
Long may thy read more
My dear, my native soil!
For whom my warmest wish to Heav'n is sent,
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
Our country is that spot to which our heart is bound.
[Fr., La patrie est aux lieux ou l'ame read more
Our country is that spot to which our heart is bound.
[Fr., La patrie est aux lieux ou l'ame est enchainee.]
Th' an'am an Dhia, but there it is--
The dawn on the hills of Ireland.
God's angels read more
Th' an'am an Dhia, but there it is--
The dawn on the hills of Ireland.
God's angels lifting the night's black veil
From the fair sweet face of my sireland!
O Ireland, isn't it grand, you look
Like a bride in her rich adornin',
And with all the pent up love of my heart
I bid you the top of the morning.
We . . . are no petty people. We are one of the great stocks of
Burke; we are read more
We . . . are no petty people. We are one of the great stocks of
Burke; we are the people of Swift, the people of Emmet, the
people of Parnell. We have created most of the modern literature
of this country. We have created the best of its political
intelligence.
What exile from his country is able to escape from himself?
[Lat., Patriae quis exul se quoque fugit.]
What exile from his country is able to escape from himself?
[Lat., Patriae quis exul se quoque fugit.]
Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
Our read more
Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,
Are all with thee,--are all with thee!
When Erin first rose from the dark-swelling flood,
God blessed the green island, he saw it was good.
read more
When Erin first rose from the dark-swelling flood,
God blessed the green island, he saw it was good.
The Emerald of Europe, it sparkled and shone
In the ring of this world, the most precious stone.
