There's a dear little plant that grows in our isle
'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 through the bog, through the brake, through the mireland
And they call it the dear little Shamrock of Ireland
That dear little plant 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 thro' the bog, thro' the brake, and the mireland,
From one root should branch, like the Shamrock of Ireland.
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