From our birthday, until we die, Is but the winking of an eye.

O what fine thought we had because we thought that the worst rogues and rascals had died out.

You that would judge me, do not judge alone this book or that, come to this hallowed place where my friends' portraits hang and look thereon; Ireland's history in their lineaments trace; think where man's glory most begins and ends and say my glory was I had such friends.

The worst thing about some men is that when they are not drunk they are sober.

The Irishman sustains himself during brief periods of joy by the knowledge that tragedy is just around the corner.

Time drops in decay Like a candle burnt out. And the mountains and woods Have their day, have their day; But, kindly old rout Of the fire-born moods, You pass not away.

Whatever flames upon the night Man's own resinous heart has fed.