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132 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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Her yielding timbers sever, Her pitchy seams are rent,
When Heaven, all-bounteous ever, Its boundless mercy sent;
A sail in sight appears,
We hail her with three cheers:
Now we sail with the gale From the Bay of Biscay, O ! |
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THE GREENLITTLE SHAMROCK OF IRELAND
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 thrives through the bog, through the brake, through
the mireland; And he called it the dear little shamrock of Ireland, The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamÂrock, 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, through
the mireland ; Just like their own dear little shamrock of Ireland,
The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamÂrock, The sweet little, green little, shamrock of Ireland. |
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