| There's a dear little plant, that grows in our isle. 'Twas Saint 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 Shamrock of Ireland. |
