THE DEAR LITTLE SHAMROCK
By Andrew Cherry
The dear little Shamrock, the sweet little Shamrock,
The dear little, sweet little Shamrock of Ireland.
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 through the bog, through the brake and the mireland,
And he called it the dear little Shamrock of Ireland.
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 through the bog, through the brake, through the mireland
Just like their own dear little Shamrock of Ireland.
That dear little Shamrock 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.