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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.

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.

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!

Dear Erin, how sweetly thy green bosom rises! An emerald set in the ring of the sea. Each blade of thy meadows my faithful heart prizes, Thou queen of the west, the world's cushla ma chree.

Arm of Erin, prove strong, but be gentle as brave, And, uplifted to strike, still be ready to save; Not one feeling of vengeance presume to defile The cause or the men of the Emerald Isle.

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.

Every Irishman has a potatoe in his head.

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

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.

Th' an'am an Dhia, but there it is-- The dawn on the hills of Ireland. God's angels lifting the night's black veil From the fair sweet face of my sireland! O Ireland, isn't it grand, you look Like a bride in her rich adornin', And with all the pent up love of my heart I bid you the top of the morning.

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.

The groves of Blarney They look so charming Down by the purling Of sweet, silent brooks.

When anyone asks me about the Irish character, I say look at the trees. Maimed, stark and misshapen, but ferociously tenacious.

Why should Ireland be treated as a geographical fragment of England . . . Ireland is not a geographical fragment, but a nation.

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.

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.

An Irishman's heart is nothing but his imagination.

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 dear we fall.

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