Lyrics
[Verse 1]
There’s a dear little plant that grows on 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 shines thro’ the bog, thro’ the break, and the mire-land,
And he call’d it the dear little Shamrock of Ireland,
The dear little Shamrock, the sweet little Shamrock,
the dear little, sweet little Shamrock of Ireland.
[Verse 2]
That dear little plant still grows in our land,
Fresh and fair 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 brake, and 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.
[Verse 3]
That dear little plant that springs from our soil,
When its three little leaves are extended,
Denotes form the stalk we together should toil,
And ourselves by ourselves be befriended,
And still thro’ the bog, thro’ the brakes, 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.
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