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!
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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.
The dust of some is Irish earth,
Among their own they rest.
The dust of some is Irish earth,
Among their own they rest.
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.
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.
There is no language like the Irish for soothing and quieting.
There is no language like the Irish for soothing and quieting.
Why should Ireland be treated as a geographical fragment of
England . . . Ireland is not a geographical read more
Why should Ireland be treated as a geographical fragment of
England . . . Ireland is not a geographical fragment, but a
nation.
Whether on the scaffold high
Or on the battle-field we die,
Oh, what matter, when for Erin read more
Whether on the scaffold high
Or on the battle-field we die,
Oh, what matter, when for Erin dear we fall.
Dear Erin, how sweetly thy green bosom rises!
An emerald set in the ring of the sea.
read more
Dear Erin, how sweetly thy green bosom rises!
An emerald set in the ring of the sea.
Each blade of thy meadows my faithful heart prizes,
Thou queen of the west, the world's cushla ma chree.
There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and read more
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.
