Reference > Quotations > Hoyt & Roberts, comps. > Hoyt’s New Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations
Hoyt & Roberts, comps.  Hoyt’s New Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations.  1922.
There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,
    *    *    *    *    *    *
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.
        Campbell—The Exile of Erin.
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!
        Andrew Cherry—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.
        John Philpot Curran—Cushla ma Chree.
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.
        William Drennan—Erin. Supposed to be origin of term “Emerald Isle.” Phrase taken from an old song, “Erin to her own Tune.” (1795).
Arm of Erin, prove strong, but be gentle as brave,
And, uplifted to strike, still be ready to save;
Nor one feeling of vengeance presume to defile
The cause or the men of the Emerald Isle.
        William Drennan—Erin.
Every Irishman has a potatoe in his head.
        J. C. and A. W. Hare—Guesses at Truth.
The dust of some is Irish earth,
  Among their own they rest.
        John Kells Ingram—Who dares to speak of ninety-eight.
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.
        Charles J. Lever. Attributed to him in article in Notes and Queries. Jan. 2, 1897. P. 14. Claimed to be an old Irish song by Lady Morgan in her Diary, Oct. 10, 1826.
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.
        John Locke—The Exile’s Return.
The groves of Blarney
  They look so charming
Down by the purling
  Of sweet, silent brooks.
        Richard Alfred Milliken—Groves of Blarney.
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.
        Father Prout’s addition to Groves of Blarney. In Reliques of Father Prout.
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.
        Wearin’ o’ the Green. (Shan-Van-Voght.) Old Irish Song found in W. Steuart Trench’s Realities of Irish Life. Dion Boucicault used first four lines, and added the rest himself, in Arrah-na-Pogue. See article in The Citizen, Dublin, 1841. Vol. III. P. 65.
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.
        Horace and James Smith—Rejected Addresses. Imitation of Moore.
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.
        Sprig of Shillelagh. Claimed for Lysaght.
Whether on the scaffold high
Or on the battle-field we die,
Oh, what matter, when for Erin dear we fall.
        T. D. Sullivan—God Save Ireland.

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