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.
このページの先頭に戻る ／ ホームに戻る