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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Every Irishman has a potatoe in his head.

Every Irishman has a potatoe in his head.

The dust of some is Irish earth,
Among their own they rest.

The dust of some is Irish earth,
Among their own they rest.