What is the price of a thousand horses against a son where there is one son only?

I knew the stars, the flowers, and the birds,The gray and wintry sides of many glens,And did but half remember human words,In converse with the mountains, moors, and fens.

I’m a good scholar when it comes to reading but a blotting kind of writer when you give me a pen.

I asked if I got sick and died, would youWith my black funeral go walking too,If you’d stand close to hear them talk or prayWhile I’m let down in that steep bank of clay.

Lord, confound this surly sister,Blight her brow with blotch and blister,Cramp her larynx, lung and liver,In her guts a galling give her.

These are rotten, so you’re the QueenOf all are living, or have been.

When I was writing In the Shadow of the Glen|The Shadow of the Glen I got more aid than any learning could have given me from a chink in the floor of the old Wicklow house where I was staying, that let me hear what was being said by the servent girls in the kitchen.

In a good play every speech should be as fully flavoured as a nut or apple.

May I meet him with one tooth and it aching, and one eye to be seeing seven and seventy divils in the twists of the road, and one old timber leg on him to limp into the scalding grave. There he is now crossing the strands, and that the Lord God would send a high wave to wash him from the world.