Thomas Moore

From “Irish Melodies”. 50. Oh, the Shamrock

                    Through Erin’s Isle
                    To sport awhile
                As Love and Valour wander’d,
                    With Wit, the sprite,
                    Whose quiver bright
                A thousand arrows squander’d;
                    Where’er they pass,
                    A triple grass
                Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming,
                    As softly green
                    As emeralds seen
                Through purest crystal gleaming.
          Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!
                    Chosen leaf
                    Of Bard and Chief,
                Old Erin’s native Shamrock!

                    Says Valour, "See,
                    They spring for me,
                Those leafy gems of morning!" —
                    Says Love, "No, no,
                    For me they grow,
                My fragrant path adorning."
                    But Wit perceives
                    The triple leaves,
                And cries, "Oh! do not sever
                    A type that blends
                    Three godlike friends,
                Love, Valour, Wit, for ever!"
          Oh, the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!
                    Chosen leaf, etc.

                    So firmly fond
                    May last the bond
                They wove that morn together,
                    And ne’er may fall
                    One drop of gall
                On Wit’s celestial feather.
                    May Love, as twine
                    His flowers divine,
                Of thorny falsehood weed ’em:
                    May Valour ne’er
                    His standard rear
                Against the cause of Freedom!
          Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!
                    Chosen leaf, etc.