By Andrew Cherry
There's a dear little plant that grows in Ireland
'Twas Saint Patrick himself sure that set it
And the sun on his labor with pleasure did smile
And a tear from his eyes oft-times wet it
It grows thro' the bog, thro' the brake, and the mireland,
And it's called 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 thro' the bog, thro' the brake, and the mireland,
Just like their own dear little Shamrock of Ireland
That dear little plant that springs from our soil,
When it's three little leaves are extended,
Denotes from the stalk we together should toil,
And ourselves by ourselves be befriended
And still thro' the bog, thro' the brake, and the mireland,
From one root should branch, like the Shamrock of Ireland