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 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. 
 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. 
 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. 
 The dust of some is Irish earth,
 Among their own they rest.  
 The dust of some is Irish earth,
 Among their own they rest. 
 There is a stone there,
 That whoever kisses,
  Oh! he never misses
   To grow read more 
 There is a stone there,
 That whoever kisses,
  Oh! he never misses
   To grow eloquent.
    'Tis he may clamber
     To a lady's chamber
      Or become a member
       Of Parliament. 
 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. 
 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! 
 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. 
 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.