If The Past Year Were Offered Me

It Is What The Poets Of Ireland Used To Be Saying, That Every Brave Man, Good At Fighting, And Every Man That Could Do Great Deeds And Not Be Making Much Talk About Them, Was Of The Sons Of The Gael; And That Every Skilled Man That Had Music And That Did Enchantments Secretly, Was Of The Tuatha De Danaan.

What The Danes Left In Ireland Were Hens And Weasels. And When The Cock Crows In The Morning, The Country People Will Always Say 'it Is For Denmark They Are Crowing. Crowing They Are To Be Back In Denmark.'

It's A Grand Thing To Be Able To Take Your Money In Your Hand And To Think No More Of It When It Slips Away From You Than You Would A Trout That Would Slip Back Into The Stream.

There Is No Sin Coveting Things Are Of No Great Use Or Profit, But Would Show Out Good And Have Some Grandeur Around Them.

In My Childhood There Was Every Year At My Old Home, Roxborough, Or, As It Is Called In Irish, Cregroostha, A Great Sheep-shearing That Lasted Many Days. On The Last Evening There Was Always A Dance For The Shearers And Their Helpers, And Two Pipers Used To Sit On Chairs Placed On A Corn-bin To Make Music For The Dance.