For dear is the Emerald Isle of the ocean,
Whose daughters are fair as the foam of the wave,
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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.

There's a dear little plant that grows in our isle,
'Twas St. Patrick himself sure that set it;
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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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

When Erin first rose from the dark-swelling flood,
God blessed the green island, he saw it was good.
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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.

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.