| lyric | 1. There's a dear little plant that grows in our Isle,
'Twas Saint Patrick himself sure that set it;
And the sun on his labour with pleasure did smile,
And the dew from his eye often wet it.
It shines through the bog through the brake, through the mireland,
And he called it the dear little Shamrock of Ireland.
Chorus
The dear little Shamrock, the sweet little Shamrock,
The dear little, sweet little Shamrock of Ireland.
2. That dear little plant still grows in our land,
Fresh and fair as the daughters of Erin,
Whose smile can bewitch, and whose eyes can command,
In each climate they ever appear in.
For they shine through the bog, through the brake, through the mireland,
Just like their own dear little Shamrock of Ireland.
3. That dear little plant that springs from our soil,
When its three little leaves are extended,
Denotes from the stalk we together should toil,
And ourselves by ourselves be befriended.
And still through the bog, through the brake, through the mireland,
From one root should branch, like the Shamrock of Ireland. |