BUCK American Crown With Irish Roots

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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.

There tends to be a black sheep in even the whitest flock.

When the cat is outside, the mouse does be dancing.

God invented whiskey so the Irish wouldn't rule the world.

This is our fate: eight hundred years' disaster, crazily tangled like the Book of Kells: the dream's distortion and the land's division, the midnight raiders and the prison cells.

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[ BUCK American Crown With Irish Roots ].

May misfortune follow you the rest of your life, but never catch up.

Ireland, it's the one place on earth That heaven has kissed With melody, mirth, And meadow and mist.

He'd offer you an egg if you promised not to break the shell.

May you have warm words on a cold evening, A full moon on a dark night, And the road downhill all the way to your door

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