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.

Every Irishman has a potatoe in his head.

Every Irishman has a potatoe in his head.

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.

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.

An Irishman's heart is nothing but his imagination.

An Irishman's heart is nothing but his imagination.

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.

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.

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 is no language like the Irish for soothing and quieting.

There is no language like the Irish for soothing and quieting.