Best 202 quotes in «ireland quotes» category

I speak many times about Stephen Ireland, that he is shy like a hedgehog.

I said, in talking, that I felt more and more the time wasted that was not spent in Ireland.

In Ireland, I don't get asked out much. English boys are a lot more flirty.

I put all my eggs in one basket and invested in property. I didn't do anything internationally - it was all in Ireland.

Ireland sober is Ireland stiff.

Ireland unfree shall never be at peace

It was amazing that I was ever elected.

It's a great wonder to me, the Irish attachment to our history. What is it but a series of lamentations?

I was born in Northern Ireland in 1951. I lived most of my life there until 1986 or 1987

I've always liked it here. Part of me is Irish. My family comes from the west coast, so whenever I come to Ireland I get a wee tingling in my heart that I'm where I belong.

I've lived in the UK for longer than I lived in Ireland. I'm not worried about myself, but it's ridiculous for youngsters.

I was elected by the women of Ireland, who instead of rocking the cradle, rocked the system.

I would love to write the story of my upbringing in Ireland.

Oh, all kinds of lunacy happens in Ireland, all kinds of lunacy.

My only counsel to Ireland is that in order to become deeply Irish, she must become European.

My mum's parents were from Ireland, my dad's mum was American-Irish.

The British Government has no right in Ireland, never had any right in Ireland, and never can have any right in Ireland.

Sport and death are the two great socializing factors in Ireland.

The cause of Labour is the cause of Ireland, and the cause of Ireland is the cause of Labour

The Irish always jest even though they jest with tears.

The Irish aren't great singers, but they have great songs.

When John (Giles) was manager of Ireland, much as he loved me, he still dropped me.

We dont vote in Northern Ireland for what we want, we vote against what we dont want.

There is no topicmore soporific and generally boring than the topic of Ireland as Ireland, as a nation.

After a moment, she announced. "Found it." She held the key up to show him. "Where did you find it?" "Under the back wheel." With laughter in her voice, she said, "If at first you don't succeed..." "I know, I know. Try, try again!" Amelia shook her head. "No, no! You call Moore Detective Agency. She can find anything.

A landscape fossilized, It's stone-wall patternings Repeated before our eyes In the stone walls of Mayo. Before I turned to go He talked about persistence, A congruence of lives, How, stubbed and cleared of stones, His home accrued growth rings Of iron, flint and bronze - "Belderg

Alainn, it is no herb that has made me so entirely insatiable, 'tis just being with you.

Americans may say they love our accents (I have been accused of sounding 'like Princess Di') but the more thoughtful ones resent and rather dislike us as a nation and people, as friends of mine have found out by being on the edge of conversations where Americans assumed no Englishmen were listening. And it is the English, specifically, who are the targets of this. Few Americans have heard of Wales. All of them have heard of Ireland and many of them think they are Irish. Scotland gets a sort of free pass, especially since Braveheart re-established the Scots' anti-English credentials among the ignorant millions who get their history off the TV.

And he got going from there to America. Worked his passage, I s'pose, like a lot more. And I heard he did well in America, too. Got married there. Had a family. But never came back. And you know why? 'Cause if he did, if he ever set foot in Ireland again, you know who'd be waiting for him, don't you? That's right. The three of 'em. And their box. And the second time they'd make no mistake. It is a much-overlooked fact that not all of the thousands who fled Ireland in former times did so to escape hunger, deprivation, and persecution. There were also those who went to escape the wrath of the Good People. Many stories illustrated this, the one here being typical.

A nation which fails to adequately remember salient points of its own history, is like a person with Alzheimer's. And that can be a social disease of a most destructive nature.

And here I thought that smile you wore was because of me.

And if I was bewildered through those decades, totally bewildered, so was the country I came from. The majority, what was the phrase? 'Condemn utterly what is happening, this barbarity.' But that's all we did. Condemn. And march. But not often enough.

And lucky indeed is the writer who has grown up in Ireland, for the English spoken there is so amusing and musical. (“How to Write with Style”. Essay, 1985)

Any good history begins in strangeness. The past should not be comfortable. The past should not a familar echo of the present, for if it is familar why revist it? The past should be so strange that you wonder how you and people you know and love could come from such a time.

As she glanced down at the great distance to the ground below, she whispered in his ear, "You have obviously taken the heights of passion to an entirely new level, Killian O'Brien!

As Matt walked Rick outside, he whispered, "Don't forget my little secret." He wiggled his eyebrows. "A happy wife. A happy life. Got it?" Rick nodded. "Got it.

A very wise English lady, one who has much experience of life, once said that young Englishmen of good position are lured into marrying music hall dancers, a thing which occasionally happens to them, because they find these ladies more entertaining and exciting than girls of their own class. I do not know whether this is true or not, but if it is it helps to explain the attractiveness of American women. There is always a certain unexpectedness about them. They are always stimulating and agreeable. It is much more difficult to account for the attractiveness of the English man.

But listen well. In Tir na nOg, because there is no sorrow, there is no joy. Do you hear the meaning of the seachain's song?

A walking stick is no real use except to a lame man. The walker does not push himself along with it. He does not, when he sets out from home, expect to meet any one whom he wants to hit.

Be at peace all of you, for hunger has a whip, and he will drive the strange away in the night.

Books of the sages of the ages reflect upon in stages; like honey their words on the tongue give due savour.” {Source: A Green Desert Father}

Cad é an mhaith dom eagla a bheith orm? Ní shaorfadh eagla duine ón mbás, dar ndóigh.

By God, Lainna, have you truly no notion how badly I want you, then?" "Oh, but did you not once tell me the anticipation is half the pleasure of it?

By the way, I do enjoy fairytale endings, in case you misunderstood me." He glanced at her and smiled. "I like it when good wins over evil... when the knight defeats the dragon and saves the fair maiden... and when the woodsman saves Little Red Riding Hood. I like it when they say, 'And they lived happily ever after'... Just because I'm a man doesn't mean that I don't have a romantic bone in my body." Rick gave a curt nod. "Men can be romantic, too.

Capitalism has come, not only to serve Britain's purpose by keeping the people divided, but, by setting worker against worker, it has profited by exploiting both. It works on religious prejudices. It represents to the Protestant workman any attempt by the Catholic workman to get improved conditions as the cloak for some insidious political game.

Cowan son of Branieucc, you're the only one of my people that I know for sure still lives.

Did you ever hear tell,' said Jimmy Farrell, 'of the skulls they have in the city of Dublin? White skulls and black skulls and yellow skulls, and some with full teeth, and some haven't only but one,' and compounded history in the pan of 'an old Dane, maybe, was drowned in the Flood.' My words lick around cobbled quays, go hunting lightly as pampooties over the skull-capped ground. -Viking Dublin: Trial Pieces

Despite an icy northeast wind huffing across the bay I sneak out after dark, after my mother falls asleep clutching her leather Bible, and I hike up the rutted road to the frosted meadow to stand in mist, my shoes in muck, and toss my echo against the moss-covered fieldstone corners of the burned-out church where Sunday nights in summer for years Father Thomas, that mad handsome priest, would gather us girls in the basement to dye the rose cotton linen cut-outs that the deacon’s daughter, a thin beauty with short white hair and long trim nails, would stitch by hand each folded edge then steam-iron flat so full of starch, stiffening fabric petals, which we silly Sunday school girls curled with quick sharp pulls of a scissor blade, forming clusters of curved petals the younger children assembled with Krazy glue and fuzzy green wire, sometimes adding tissue paper leaves, all of us gladly laboring like factory workers rather than have to color with crayon stubs the robe of Christ again, Christ with his empty hands inviting us to dine, Christ with a shepherd's staff signaling to another flock of puffy lambs, or naked Christ with a drooping head crowned with blackened thorns, and Lord how we laughed later when we went door to door in groups, visiting the old parishioners, the sick and bittersweet, all the near dead, and we dropped our bikes on the perfect lawns of dull neighbors, agnostics we suspected, hawking our handmade linen roses for a donation, bragging how each petal was hand-cut from a pattern drawn by Father Thomas himself, that mad handsome priest, who personally told the Monsignor to go fornicate himself, saying he was a disgruntled altar boy calling home from a phone booth outside a pub in North Dublin, while I sat half-dressed, sniffing incense, giddy and drunk with sacrament wine stains on my panties, whispering my oath of unholy love while wiggling uncomfortably on the mad priest's lap, but God he was beautiful with a fine chiseled chin and perfect teeth and a smile that would melt the Madonna, and God he was kind with a slow gentle touch, never harsh or too quick, and Christ how that crafty devil could draw, imitate a rose petal in perfect outline, his sharp pencil slanted just so, the tip barely touching so that he could sketch and drink, and cough without jerking, without ruining the work, or tearing the tissue paper, thin as a membrane, which like a clean skin arrived fresh each Saturday delivered by the dry cleaners, tucked into the crisp black vestment, wrapped around shirt cardboard, pinned to protect the high collar.

Don't become a grumpy old dater! Life ids for living, laughing and loving!Stop searching, start finding!

Do you normally take the time to get to know those you’re sent to kill?