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