Classic Poem

T HERE'S a dear little plant that grows in our isle,
— 'Twas Saint Patrick himself sure that set it;
And the sun on his labor with pleasure did smile,
— — And with dew from his eye often wet it.
It thrives through the bog, through the brake, and the mireland;
And he called it the dear little shamrock of Ireland —
— The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock,
— The sweet little, green little, shamrock of Ireland!

This dear little plant still grows in our land,
— Fresh and fair as the daughters of Erin,
Whose smiles can bewitch, whose eyes can command,
— In each climate that they may appear in;
And shine through the bog, through the brake, and the mireland,
Just like their own dear little shamrock of Ireland.
— The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock,
— The sweet little, green little, shamrock of Ireland!

This dear little plant that springs from our soil,
— When its three little leaves are extended,
Denotes on one stalk we together should toil,
— And ourselves by ourselves be befriended;
And still through the bog, through the brake, and the mireland,
From one root should branch, like the shamrock of Ireland,
— The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock,
— The sweet little, green little, shamrock of Ireland!