She Danced A Jig, She Sung A

The Trees Are Indian Princes, But Soon They'll Turn To Ghosts; The Scanty Pears And Apples Hang Russet On The Bough; Its Autumn, Autumn, Autumn Late, 'twill Soon Be Winter Now. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin Dear! And What Will This Poor Robin Do? For Pinching Days Are Near.

Yet Dearer Still That Irish Hill Than All The World Beside; It's Home, Sweet Home, Where'er I Roam, Through Lands And Waterswide.

Four Ducks On A Pond, / A Grass-bank Beyond, / A Blue Sky Of Spring, / White Clouds On The Wing: / What A Little Thing / To Remember For Years - / To Remember With Tears!.

If Any Foes Of Mine Are There, I Pardon Every One: I Hope That Man And Womankind Will Do The Same By Me.

History Of Ireland--lawlessness And Turbulency, Robbery And Oppression, Hatred And Revenge, Blind Selfishness Everywhere--no Principle, No Heroism. What Can Be Done With It?