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You may track the winds that blow 
Through the cornfields as they go; 
From the wheat, as from a sea, 
Springs the lark in ecstasy. 
Now the bloom is on the blade, 
In the sun and in the shade, 
There is music at our feet 
In the clover, honey-sweet.” 
The Dear Little Shamrock. 
There’s a dear little plant that grows in our Isle, 
’Twas St. Patrick himself sure that set it, 
(The sun on his labor with pleasure did smile,) 
And with dew from his eye often wet it. 
It shines thro’ the bog, thro’ the brake, and the mireland, 
And he called it the Dear Little Shamrock of Ireland;— 
The dear little Shamrock, the sweet little Shamrock, 
The dear little, sweet little Shamrock of Ireland. 
And 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. 
They shine thro’ the bog, thro’ the brake, and the mireland, 
Just like their own dear little Shamrock of Ireland;— 
The dear little Shamrock, the sweet little Shamrock, 
The dear little, sweet little Shamrock of Ireland. 
Oh, that dear little plant which springs from our soil,— 
When its three little leaves are extended,— 
Denotes from its stalk we together should toil, 
And ourselves by ourselves be befriended; 
And e’er thro’ the bog, thro’ the brake, and the mireland. 
From one root should branch like the Shamrock of Ireland; 
The dear little Shamrock, the sweet little Shamrock, 
The dear little, sweet little Shamrock of Ireland. 
