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Happy St. Pat’s!
The Dear Little Shamrock
By Andrew Cherry
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 mire-land,
And he called it the dear little Shamrock of Ireland.
The dear little Shamrock, the sweet little Shamrock,
The dear little, sweet little Shamrock of Ireland.
That dear little plant still grows in our land,
Fair and fresh as the daughters of Erin,
Whose smiles can bewitch, and whose eyes can command,
In each climate they ever appear in.
For they shine thro’ the bog, thro’ the mire-land,
Just like their own dear little Shamrock of Ireland.
The dear little Shamrock, the sweet little Shamrock,
The dear little, sweet little Shamrock of Ireland.
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 thro’ the bog, thro’ the brake, and the mire-land,
From one root should branch, like the Shamrock of Ireland.
The dear little Shamrock, the sweet little Shamrock,
The dear little, sweet little Shamrock of Ireland.