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.
The groves of Blarney
They look so charming
Down by the purling
Of sweet, silent brooks.
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.
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.
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'peacef ul, are brave.
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.
Whether on the scaffold high
Or on the battle-field we die,
Oh, what matter, when for Erin dear we fall.
ISAR (River)
On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Isar, rolling rapidly.
ISLANDS
From the sprinkled isles,
Lily on lily, that o'erlace the sea.
Beautiful isle of the sea,
Smile on the brow of the waters.
Fast-anchor'd isle.
O, it's a snug little island!
A right little, tight little island!
Sprinkled along the waste of years
Full many a soft green isle appears:
Pause where we may upon the desert road,
Some shelter is in sight, some sacred safe abode.
Your isle, which stands
As Neptune's park, ribbed and paled in
With rocks unscalable, and roaring waters.
Ay, many flowering islands he
In the waters of wide Agony.
Sark, fairer than aught in the world that the lit skies cover.
Laughs inly behind her cliffs, and the seafarers mark
As a shrine where the sunlight serves, though the blown clouds hover, Sark.
Summer isles of Eden, lying in dark purple spheres of sea.
Island of bliss! amid the subject Seas,
That thunder round thy rocky coasts, set up,
At once the wonder, terror, and delight
Of distant nations; whose remotest shore
Can soon be shaken by thy naval arm;
Not to be shook thyself, but all assaults
Baffling, like thy hoar cliffs the loud sea-wave.
