Irish Alzheimer’s: you forget everything except the grudges.
Belfast, a city that every good Dubliner, except myself, despises and reviles.
An Irishman is the only man in the world who will step over the bodies of a dozen naked women to get to a bottle of stout.
An Irishman fights before he reasons, a Scotchman reasons before he fights, an Englishman is not particular as to the order of precedence, but will do either to accommodate his customers.
Where there are Irish there’s loving and fighting, And when we stop either, it’s Ireland no more!
What Shall I Say About the Irish? The utterly impractical, never predictable, Sometimes irascible, quite inexplicable, Irish. Strange blend of shyness, pride and conceit, And stubborn refusal to bow in defeat. He’s spoiling and ready to argue and fight, Yet the smile of a child fills his soul with delight. His eyes are the quickest […]
Ireland, as distinct from her people, is nothing to me; and the man who is bubbling over with love and enthusiasm for “Ireland,” and can yet pass unmoved through our streets and witness all the wrong and the suffering, shame and degradation wrought upon the people of Ireland – yea, wrought by Irishmen upon Irish […]
The Irish don’t know what they want and are prepared to fight to the death to get it.
Wherever you go and whatever you do, May the luck of the Irish be there with you.
Oh the bricks they will bleed and the rain it will weep, And the damp Lagan fog lull the city to sleep, It’s to hell with the future and live on the past, May the Lord in his Mercy be Kind to Belfast.