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The dust of some is Irish earth,

Among their own they rest.

O, love is the soul of a true Irishman;

He loves all that's lovely, loves all that he can,

JOHN KELLS INGRAM-Who dares to speak of With his sprig of shillelagh and shamrock so

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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.

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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.

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.

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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.

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From the sprinkled isles, Lily on lily, that o'erlace the sea. ROBERT BROWNING-Cleon.

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Beautiful isle of the sea,

Smile on the brow of the waters.
GEO. COOPER-Song.

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Fast-anchor'd isle.

COWPER-The Task. Bk. II. The Timepiece. L. 151.

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O, it's a snug little island!

A right little, tight little island!

THOS. DIBDIN-The Snug Little Island.

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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. KEBLE-The Christian Year. The First Sunday in Advent. St. 8.

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Your isle, which stands As Neptune's park, ribbed and paled in With rocks unscalable, and roaring waters. Cymbeline. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 18.

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