She'd only be an appendage.

Fancy England an appendage! He says Ireland has the finest orators and the keenest statesmen in Europe today, and when England wants to fight, with whom does she fill her trenches?
Irishmen, of course! Ireland has the greenest grass and trees, the finest stones and lakes, and they've jaunting-cars.

I don't know just exactly what they are, but Ireland has all there are, anyway.
They've a lot of great actors, and a few singers, and there never was a sweeter poet than one of theirs.

You should hear my father recite 'Dear Harp of My Country.' He does it this way." The Angel arose, made an elaborate old-time bow, and holding up the banjo, recited in clipping feet and meter, with rhythmic swing and a touch of brogue that was simply irresistible: "Dear harp of my country" [The Angel ardently clasped the banjo], "In darkness I found thee" [She held it to the light], "The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long" [She muted the strings with her rosy palm]; "Then proudly, my own Irish harp, I unbound thee" [She threw up her head and swept a ringing harmony]; "And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song" [She crashed into the notes of the accompaniment she had been playing for Freckles].
"That's what you want to be thinking of!" she cried.

"Not darkness, and lonesomeness, and sadness, but 'light, freedom, and song.' I can't begin to think offhand of all the big, splendid things an Irishman has to be proud of; but whatever they are, they are all yours, and you are a part of them.