Category Archives: Saint Patrick

The Dear Little Shamrock or the Green Little Shamrock of Ireland

There’s a dear little plant that grows on our isle.
‘Twas St. Patrick himself that sure 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. Thro’ the brake and the mireland,
And he called it the dear little shamrock of Ireland;
That dear little shamrock, the sweet little shamrock,
The dear little, sweet little shamrock of Ireland.

That dear little plant still grows in our land,
Fresh and fair as the daughters of Erin ;
Whose smile can bewitch, and whose eyes can command,
In each climate they ever appear in
For they shine 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.

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;
The dear little shamrock, the sweet little shamrock
The dear little, sweet little shamrock of Ireland.

The Shamrock and Laurel

There’s a lofty love abounding
In the emblem of a land;
There’s fellowship confounding
The evil mind and hand;
In the token of a nation
In the flow’ret of a race
And a multiform oblation
Is uplifted by the grace
And patriotism of millions –
To the hearthstones and hamlets
Where gush the native fountains;
To the valleys and the sreamlets,
The cities and the mountains –
With a pride as high as Ilion’s!

As the lily was the glory
Of the olden flag of France;
As the rose illumes the story
Of the Albions advance –
In the shamrock is communion
Of all Irish faith and love;
And the laurel crowns the union
Of grandeurs interwove
‘Round the temple of the chailess
To the laurel fill libations
The cup with shamrocks wreathing;
And before the monarch-nations
Raise the symbol, breathing;
“Equeal Rights” – to lordlings gainless!

Interweave the lowly shamrock,
Freedom’s laurel to endow;
Ay! Unite with Ireland’s shamrock
Columbia’s laurel bough –
For there’s hope and help unchary
Columbia’s skies beneath,
And from every cliff and prairie,
To Erin’s hills of heath,
Salutations, clear and cheerful,
Resound across the ocean;
And Celts, in might increasing,
With Patriot emotion,
Vow in their souls unceasing;
“We’ll avenge thee, Mother Tearful!”

Shamrock on Patrick’s Day

There’s one day in the year that I’ll always observe
As long as I’ve one breath of life.
To our patron Saint my memory will serve,
And I haven’t the least fear of strife.
But with pleasure and freedom, I’ll sing and I’ll dance,
While the piper his tunes sweetly plays;
Each lad and his colleen can gambol and prance,
While we drown the green shamrock on Patrick’s Day.

Patrick’s Day! Saint Patrick’s Day!
Throw aside coffee and tea;
Fill up your glasses, then drink to your lasses,
And we’ll drown the shamrock on Patrick’s Day.

Now, the seventeenth of March is our natal day,
And we celebrate it with great joy;
From the gray-haired old man and old woman too,
To the smallest of spalpeens or boy.
No true Irishmen could then miss a fair,
But to town, sure, they rode all the way
On their donkeys and cars, sure, they come near and far,
To drown the shamrock on Patrick’s Day.

Patrick’s Day! Saint Patrick’s Day!
Throw aside coffee and tea;
Fill up your glasses, then drink to your lasses,
And we’ll drown the shamrock on Patrick’s Day.

We’re not selfish at all on our open fields,
All are welcome to join;
So come up every one of ye, take a hand in,
In the merriment ye can purloin.
And while the piper has wind for to blow,
And his nimble fingers can play,
We’ll stay till the wee small hours of the morn,
To drown the green shamrock on St. Patrick’s Day.

Patrick’s Day! Saint Patrick’s Day!
Throw aside coffee and tea;
Fill up your glasses, then drink to your lasses,
And we’ll drown the shamrock on Patrick’s Day.

St. Patrick’s Day by J. F. Walker

Written by J. F. Waller.

Oh! Blessed be the days when the green banner floated,
Sublime o’er the mountains of free Innisfail;
Her sons to her glory and freedom devoted
Defied the invader to tread her soil
When back o’er the main they chas’d the Dane
And gave to religion and learning their spoil;
When valour and mind together combin’d –
But wherefore lament o’er the glories departed?
Her star shall shine out with as vivid a ray,
For ne’er had she children so brave and true-hearted,
As those she now sees on St. Patrick’s Day

Her sceptre, alas! Pass’d way to the stranger
And treason surrendered where valour had held;
But true hearts remain’d amid darkness and danger;
Which spite of her tyrants would not be quell’d.
Oft’, oft’ thro, the night flash’d gleams of light,
Which almost the darkness of bondage dispell’d;
But a star now is near her heaven to cheer,
Not like the wild gleams which so fitfully darted,
But long to shine out with a happowing ray
On daughters as fair and sons as true-hearted,
As Erin beholds on St. Patrick’s Day.

Oh! Blest be the hour when begirt by her cannon,
And hail’d as it rose by a nation’s applause,
That flag wav’d aloft o’er the spire of Dungannon,
Asserting for Irishmen Irish Laws.
Once more shall it wave o’er hearts as brave,
Despite of the dastards who mock her cause;
And like brothers agreed, whatever their creed,
Her children inspir’d by those glories departed,
No longer in darkness desponding will stay,
But join in her cause like the brave and true-hearted,
Who rise for their rights on St . Patrick’s Day.

The Shamrock Shore

In a musing mind with me combine, and grant me great relief,
Whilst here alone, I sigh and moan, I’m overwhelmed with grief;
Whilst here alone, I sigh and moan, away from friends at home,
With troubled mind, no rest can find, since I left the Shamrock shore.

In the blooming spring, when the small birds sing, and the lambs did sport and play,
My way I took, and friends forsook, till I came to Dublin Quay;
I entered on board as a passenger to England I sailed o’er,
I bid farewell to all my friends all ‘round the shamrock shore

To Glasgow fair I did repair, some pleasure for to find,
I own it was a pleasant place, down by the flowery Clyde;
I own it was a pleasant place, for rich attire they wore.
There’s none so rare as can compare to the girls of shamrock shore.

One evening fair, to take the air, down by yon shady grove,
I heard some lads and lassies gay a-making to them love;
It grieved me so, rejoiced to see as I had once before,
Had my heart betrayed, that I left on the shamrock shore.

So now to conclude, and make an end, my pen begins to fail,
Farewell my honoured mother, dear, and for me don’t bewail;
Farewell my honoured mother, dear, and for me grieve no more,
When I think long, I’ll sing my song in praise of the shamrock shore.

St. Patrick Was a Gentleman

St. Patrick was a gentleman, and came of decent people;
In Dublin town he built a church and on’t he put a steeple;
His father was a Houlihan, his mother was a lady,
His uncle was O’Shaughnessy, and his aunt a Widow Grady.
The success to bold St. Patrick’s fist,
He was a saint so clever,
He gave the snakes and toads a twist
And banished them forever!

Oh! Feltrim Hill is very high, so is the Hill of Howth, too,
But there’s a hill that is hard by, much higher than them both too;
‘Twas on the top of this high hill St. Patrick preached a sarmin,
He made the frogs skip thro’ the bogs, and banished all the varmin!

There’s not a mile in Ire;and’s Isle where the dirty varmin musters;
Where’er he put his dear fore foot, he murdered them in clusters:
The toads went hop, the frogs went pop, slap haste into the waters,
And the snakes committed suicide to save themselves from slaughter.

Nine hundred thousand vipers blue he charmed with sweet discourses,
And dined on them at Killaloe, in soups and second courses;
With blind-worms crawling on the grass disgusted the whole nation,
He gave them a rise, and opened their eyes to a sense of their own situation.

Oh! Then, should I be so fortunate as to get back to Munster,
Sure I’ll be bound that from that ground I ne’er will once stir;
‘Twas there St. Patrick planted turf, and plenty of the praties,
With pigs galore, machree asthore! And buttermilk and ladies!

No wonder that we Irish lads should be so free and frisky,
Since St. Patrick taught us first the knack of drinking of good whiskey;
‘Twas he that brewed the best of malt, and understood distilling,
For his mother she kept a shebeen shop in the town of Inniskillen

Most of the songs which mention the Shamrock were written by people who left Ireland and are nostalgic.

The Wearing of the Green

“O Paddy dear, and did ye hear the news that’s going round?
The shamrock is by law forbid to grow on Irish gound!
No more Saint Patrick’s Day we’ll keep, his colour can’t be seen
For there’s a cruel law against the Wearing of the Green.”

I met with Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand,
And he said, “How’s poor old Ireland, and how does she stand?”
“She’s the most distressful country that ever yet was seen,
For they’re hanging men and women there for Wearing of the Green.”

“So if the colour we must wear be England’s cruel red
Let it remind us of the blood that Irishmen have shed;
And pull the shamrock from your hat, and trow it on the sod
But never fear, it will take root there, though underfoot ’tis trod.

When laws can stop the blades of grass from growing as they grow
And whem the leaves in summer time their colour dare not show,
Then I will change the colour too I wear in my caubeen;
But till that day, please God, I’ll stick to the Wearing of the Green.”

St. Patrick’s Martyrs

I wonder what the mischief was in her, for the mistress was niver contrairy,
But this same is just what she said to me, just as sure as me name is Mary:
“Mary,” says she, all a-smiling and swate-like, “the young ladies are coming from France,
And we’ll give them a welcome next Monday, with an illegant supper and dance.”

“Is it Monday ye’re maning?” says I; “ma’am, why, thin I’m sorry to stand in yet way,
But it’s little of work I’ll do Monday, seeing that Monday’s St. Patrick’s day;
And sure it’s meself that promised to go wid Cousin Kitty Malone’s brother Dan,
And bad luck to Mary Magee” says I, “If she disappoints such a swate young man!”

“Me children hev been away four years” – and she spoke in a very unfellin’ way –
“Ye cannot expect I shall disappoint them either for you or St. Patrick’s Day;
I know nothing about St. Patrick.” “That’s true for ye, ma’am, More’s the pity,” says I,
“For it’s niver the likes of ye has the luck to be born under the Irish sky.”

Ye see, I was gitting past jokin’ – and she sitting there so aisy and proud,
And me thinking of the Third Avenue, and the procession and music and crowd;
And it crossed me mind that minit consaring Thady Mulligan’s supper and dance;
Says I, “It’s not Mary Magee ma’am, that can stay for the ladies coming from France.”

“Mary,” says she, “two afternoons each week – ivery Wednesday and ivery Monday –
Ye’ve always had, besides yer early Mass, and yer Vispers ivery other Sunday,
And yer friends have visited me house, two or three of thim ivery night.”
“Indade thin,” says I. “That was nothin’ at all but ivery dacent girl’s ‘right’.”

“Very well, thin,” says she, “ye can lave the house and be sure to take wid ye yer ‘right’;
And if Michael and Nora think just as ye do, ye can all of ye lave tonight.”
So just for St. Patrick’s glory we wint ; and as sure as Mary Magee is me name,
It’s a house full of nagurs she’s got now ; which is the same as a sin and a shame.

Bad luck to them all! A poor body, I think, had need of a comfortable glass;
It’s a miserable time in Ameriky for a dacent Irish born lass
If she serves all the saints, and is kind to her friends, then she loses her home and her pay.
And there’s thousands of innocent martyrs, like me on ivery St. Patrick’s Day.

Beautiful Shamrock of Old Ireland

There’s a sweet little spot away down by Cape Clear,
Sure it’s Ireland herself, to all Irishmen dear ;
Where the white praties blossom like illigant flowers,
And the wild birds sing sweetly above the round towers;
And the dear little shamrock that none can withstand,
Is the beautiful emblem of old Ireland.

In his hat good St. Patrick used always to wear
The shamrock whenever he went to a fair ;
And Nebuchadnezzar, no doubt highly prized
A bit of the blossom when he went disguised ;
For the bosom of beauty itself might expand,
When bedecked by the shamrock of old Ireland.

When far, far away, a sweet blossom I’ve seen,
I’ve dreamt of shillelaghs and shamrocks so green,
That grow like two twins, on the bogs and the hills,
With a drop in my eye, that with joy my heart fills ;
And I’ve blessed the dear sod from a far distant strand,
And the beautiful shamrock of old Ireland.

Most of the songs which mention the Shamrock were written by people who left Ireland and are nostalgic.