And that's a fact.

Prayin' at Mass one minnit and maimin' cattle the next.

Cryin' salt tears at the bedside of a sick child, and lavin' it to shoot a poor man in the ribs for darin' to ask for his rint." "They're not IRISHMEN," came from the sick bed.
"Faith and they are NOW.

And it's small wondher the men who sit in Whitehall in London trate them like savages." "I've seen things since I've been here that would justify almost anything!" cried Angela.

"I've seen suffering no one in England dreamt of.