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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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.
If one could only teach the English how to talk, and the Irish
how to listen, society would be read more
If one could only teach the English how to talk, and the Irish
how to listen, society would be quite civilized.
When law can stop the blades of grass from growing as they grow;
And when the leaves in Summer-time read more
When law can stop the blades of grass from growing as they grow;
And when the leaves in Summer-time their colour dare not show;
Then will I change the colour too, I wear in my caubeen;
But till that day, plaze God, I'll stick to wearin' o' the Green.
Old Dublin City there is no doubtin'
Bates every city upon the say.
'Tis there you'd hear read more
Old Dublin City there is no doubtin'
Bates every city upon the say.
'Tis there you'd hear O'Connell spoutin'
And Lady Morgan making tay.
For 'tis the capital of the finest nation,
With charmin' pisintry upon a fruitful sod,
Fightin' like devils for conciliation,
And hatin' each other for the Love of God.
The dust of some is Irish earth,
Among their own they rest.
The dust of some is Irish earth,
Among their own they rest.
Eternal is the fact that the human creature born in Ireland and
brought up in its air is Irish. read more
Eternal is the fact that the human creature born in Ireland and
brought up in its air is Irish. I have lived for twenty years in
Ireland and for seventy-two in England; but the twenty came first
and in Britain I am still a foreigner and shall die one.
Every Irishman has a potatoe in his head.
Every Irishman has a potatoe in his head.
An Irishman's heart is nothing but his imagination.
An Irishman's heart is nothing but his imagination.
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.
