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G]There's a dear little plant that [D7]grows in our [G]Isle,
'Twas Saint Patrick himself sure that [D]set it;
And
the[G] sun on his labour with[D7] pleasure did[G] smile,
And with dew from his[D7] eye often[G] wet it.
It [D7]shines
thro' the bog thro' the brake, thro' the mireland,
And he [D]call'd it the dear little[A] Shamrock of [D]Ireland.
CHORUS
The[G] dear little Shamrock, the[Am] sweet little[D7] Shamrock,
The [Em]dear little, [Am]sweet little[D7] Shamrock of[G]
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. CHORUS
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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