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Updated: June 6, 2025
Come along, lads, follow me, and hurroo for ould Oireland!" The two schooners being fast together, every man Jack of us sprang after our leader, only to be confronted by the boarding nettings triced up on board our antagonist, however; and as we sprang on the bulwarks and commenced hacking away at the obstruction they opened a hot and most destructive fire upon us with their muskets and pistols.
“We’ll put a carpet on it if you think it’s too cold, Granny,” Billy suggested immediately. “Oh, lave it be, Misther Billy,” Granny begged. “’Tis loike me ould home in Oireland. Sure ’tis homesick Oi am this very minut looking at ut.” “All right,” Billy agreed cheerfully. “What you say goes, Granny. Now upstairs to the sleeping-rooms.”
"I seen the mails go on the boat at Kingstown, an' there was hundhreds of bags, no less." "Heavenly Fa-a-ther!" said Michael, throwing up eyes and hands. "Divil a lie in it. 'Twas six hundhred, I believe." "Holy Moses preserve us!" "An' the rivinue is millions an' millions o' pounds." "The saints in glory!" "An' wid Home Rule we'd have all that for Oireland." "Julius Saysar an' Nibuchadnizzar!"
The fat clerk, whose red nose had sprouted into many knobs, balanced himself leisurely, evidently giving little heed to what was said; but the broadness of the brogue saved Frank from losing his temper. "What part of Oireland do ye come from? Is it Tipperary?" "Yes." "I thought so; Cashel, I'm thinking." "Yes; do you come from there?" "To be sure I do.
"Hooray, me boy!" shouted Tim, "an' it's the thrue word ye've shpoke, an' niver a lie in the skin av it. Oireland foriver! Be the howly St. Patrick an' all the saints, I am wid ye an' agin ivery government that's iver robbed an honest man. Go on, me boy, tell us yer tale." Timothy was undoubtedly excited.
"On the eighth day iv March, as sum people say, St. Patrick at midnight he furst saw the day. While others declare on the ninth he was born, Sure, 'tis all a mistake between midnight and morn! Now, the furst faction fight in Oireland, they say, Was all on account of St. Patrick's birthday. Some fought for the eighth, for the ninth more would die Who didn't say right, they would blacken his eye.
Oi'm goin' across the say, says the Grand Old Man, Oi'll be back some other day, says the Grand Old Man; When Oireland gets fair play We'll make Balfour rue the day, Remimber what I say, says the Grand Old Man.
Mounted Police duty, escortin' doughboys' prisoners! Faix, I might as well be wid Her Majesty's dhragoons, thramplin' down the flesh and blood of me in poor ould Oireland. Begor, Harry, me bhy, it's a mane job to be setting you at, and this the first day ye're mounted to save the Union!" "Stop coddin' the boy, Corporal," said Bader, angrily.
John Dillon says at every station, 'Twill be his conversation Till Oireland is a nation, says the Grand Old Man. There are three more verses of this immortal strain. The Shan van vocht was the great song of the '98 rebellion, and possibly the G.O.M.'s happy adaptability to the music may put the finishing touch to his world-wide renown.
"Shure it's the Dunsloe horse fair, your honour the greatest horse-fair in all Oireland. It lasts for a wake, and the folk come from far an' near from England an' Scotland an' iverywhere. If you look out of the winder, your honour, you'll see the horses, and it's asy your honour's conscience must be, or you wouldn't slape so sound that the creatures didn't rouse you with their clatter."
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