The race of men named the Gael,
Is a race God surely made mad.
For all of their wars are merry
And all of their loves are sad.

Rye bread will do you good,
Barely bread will do you no harm,
Wheaten bread will sweeten your blood,
Oaten bread will strengthen your arm.

On the chest of a barmaid in Sale
Were tattooed the prices of ale.
And on her behind,
For the sake of the blind,
Was the same information in Braille!

Now sweetly lies old Ireland
Emerald green beyond the foam,
Awakening sweet memories,
Calling the heart back home.

Murphy’s Law:
Nothing is as easy as it looks.
Everything takes longer than you expect.
And if anything can go wrong,
It will at the worst possible moment.

May all your joys be pure joys,
and all your pain champagne.

I’ve drank to your health in taverns,
I’ve drank to your health in my home,
I’ve drank to your health so damn many times,
I believe I’ve ruined my own!

For the test of the heart is trouble
And it always comes with years.
And the smile that is worth the praises of earth
Is the smile that shines through the tears.

It’s easy to be pleasant when life flows by like a song.
But the man worth while is the one who can smile
When everything goes dead wrong.

Ireland, sir, for good or evil,
No other place under Heaven.
And no man can touch its sod
Or breathe its air without becoming
Better or worse.