This Girl Loves Her Irish Wolfhound

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May you have a bright future -- as the chimney sweep said to his son.

Every tide has an ebb save the tide of graces.

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

We Irish are too poetical to be poets; we are a nation of brilliant failures, but we are the greatest talkers since the Greeks.

The quiet Irishman is about as harmless as a powder magazine built over a match factory.

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[ This Girl Loves Her Irish Wolfhound ].

May I see you grey And combing your grandchildren's hair.

The heaviest ear of grain bends its head the lowest.

May there be a generation of children On the children of your children.

There are only two kinds of people in the world, the Irish and those who wish they were.

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