I think of the first Irish immigrants who set foot in the New World to escape the great famine of the time. Multiplication, so I'm afraid this is the ancestor of the American pronunciation. It's just that the son surpassed the father.
Yeats wrote poems for his beloved for decades, and finally went to Stockholm to win the Nobel Prize, but he still could not get his love back.
When it comes to Ireland, I always think of such persistence and the bitterness hidden behind it.
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