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.

If one could only teach the English how to talk, and the Irish how to listen, society would be quite civilized.

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.

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

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.