My mum was from Cork, and I always loved her accent (and that of all my Irish aunties, of which there were many!) I used to stare at her in disbelief when she adopted this lah-de-dah thing when we were out.
But if someone can't speak as they're accustomed to, for fear of persecution and racism, it's a terrible shame.

My Irish cousin was a nurse in London, and I reckon she was 'accepted' (gee thanks!) because of her caring job. ('You can stay here if you're prepared to wash bottoms and clean up sick'.) I've recently seen similar attitudes expressed about finding carers of the elderly, as 'we Brits' won't want to do it for minimum wages', the inference being that it's good enough for 'them'. Same with the field workers in Lincolnshire, cutting cabbages in the bitter cold.

I once had a long conversation with a dreadful South African old geezer, who was lamenting the dearth of 'Blecks' (his pronunciation) to do the menial jobs around his farm, for the equivalent of a fiver a week. I had to fight the urge to punch the lights out of him. He seemed to think I was ghastly for having a black African husband, the racist pig. But I'm savvy, I listened politely, because if you let them yatter on, you learn an awful lot about this type. And it's not pretty.