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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.