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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When anyone asks me about the Irish character, I say look at the
trees. Maimed, stark and misshapen, but read more
When anyone asks me about the Irish character, I say look at the
trees. Maimed, stark and misshapen, but ferociously tenacious.
An Irishman's heart is nothing but his imagination.
An Irishman's heart is nothing but his imagination.
The groves of Blarney
They look so charming
Down by the purling
Of sweet, read more
The groves of Blarney
They look so charming
Down by the purling
Of sweet, silent brooks.
Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see
What Heaven hath done for this delicious land!
Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see
What Heaven hath done for this delicious land!
There ought to be system of manners in every nation which a
well-formed mind would be disposed to relish. read more
There ought to be system of manners in every nation which a
well-formed mind would be disposed to relish. To make us love
our country, our country ought to be lovely.
Who dare to love their country, and be poor.
Who dare to love their country, and be poor.
O, love is the soul of a true Irishman;
He loves all that's lovely, loves all that he can,
read more
O, love is the soul of a true Irishman;
He loves all that's lovely, loves all that he can,
With his sprig of shillelagh and shamrock so green.
And nobler is a limited command,
Given by the love of all your native land,
Than a read more
And nobler is a limited command,
Given by the love of all your native land,
Than a successive title, long and dark,
Drawn from the mouldy rolls of Noah's Ark.
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.
