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| There's a dear little plant that grows on 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 shines thro' the bog, the brake and the mire-land And he called it the dear little shamrock of Ireland. |
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| 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 through the bog, through the brake, through the mire-land, Just like their own dear little shamrock of Ireland. |
| That dear little shamrock 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 through the bog, through the brake, through the mire-land, From one shoot should branch, like the shamrock of Ireland. -- Andrew Cherry |
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| Did your mother come from Ireland? 'Cos there's something in you Irish; Will you tell me where you get those Irish eyes? And before she left Killarney, Did your mother kiss the Blarney? 'Cos that little touch of brogue you can't disguise. -- Jimmy Kennedy |
| I hear a bird, a Londonderry bird, It may be he's bringing me a cheery word; I hear a breeze, a River Shannon breeze, It may be that it's followed me across the seas. Then tell me please: How are things in Glocca Morra? Is that little brook still there? Does it still run down to Donny-cove... Through Killybegs, Kilkerry and Kildare? How are things in Glocca Morra? Is that willow tree still weeping there? Does that laddie with the twinklin' eye Come whistlin' by and does he walk away Sad and dreamy not to see me there? So I ask each weepin' willow And each brook along the way And each lad that comes a'whistlin' Too-ra-lay, How are things in Glocca Morra On this fine day: -- E. Y. Harburg |
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| Music: Cockles and Mussels Friday's Journal The Past Whispers Old New Orleans |
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