The Green 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 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 !