#Irish
I am the maker, The builder, the breaker, The eagle-winged helper, The speedy forsaker! The lance and the lyre,
An old man sat beneath a tree Alone; So still was he That, if he had been carved in sto… He could not be
Every Sunday there’s a throng Of pretty girls, who trot along In a pious, breathless state (They are nearly always late) To the Chapel, where they pray
The lanky hank of a she in the inn… Nearly killed me for asking the lo… May the devil grip the whey-faced… And beat bad manners out of her sk… That parboiled imp, with the harde…
A sparrow hopped about the street, And he was not a bit afraid; He flew between a horse’s feet, And ate his supper undismayed: I think myself the horse knew well
Behind the hill I met a man in gr… Who asked me if my mother had gone… I said she had. He asked me had I… His castle where the people sing a… From dawn to dark, and told me tha…
Come with me, under my coat, And we will drink our fill Of the milk of the white goat, Or wine, if it be thy will; And we will talk until
The sun is always in the sky Whenever I get out of bed, And I often wonder why It’s never late.—My sister said She did not know who did the trick…
His arms were round a chest of oak… It was clamped with brass and iron… An awful weight. After a while he… And I stole near to him.—His whit… As he peeped secretly about; he la…
And then I wakened up in such a f… I thought I heard a movement in t… But did not dare to look; I snugg… Down underneath the bedclothes—the… Of a tremendous voice said, ‘Sit…
I saw God. Do you doubt it? Do you dare to doubt it? I saw the Almighty Man. His hand Was resting on a mountain, and He looked upon the World and all…
In the winter time we go Walking in the fields of snow; Where there is no grass at all; Where the top of every wall, Every fence, and every tree,
So Eden was deserted, and at eve Into the quiet place God came to… His face was sad, His hands hung… Along his robe; too sorrowful to f… He paced along the grassy paths an…
I hear a sudden cry of pain! There is a rabbit in a snare: Now I hear the cry again, But I cannot tell from where. But I cannot tell from where
The wind stood up and gave a shout… He whistled on his fingers and Kicked the withered leaves about And thumped the branches with his… And said that he’d kill and kill,
