Irish As Feck

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If you want praise, die. If you want blame, marry.

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.

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.

Life is like a cup of tea, it's all in how you make it

The thief is no threat to the beggar.

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[ Irish As Feck ].

May you live all the days of your life. – Jonathan Swift

May you always have money in your pocket a woman to love and a smile on your face.

Even a small thorn causes festering.

Praise the ripe field, not the green corn.

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