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Shamrock Poems

Table of Contents

  1. Shamrock by William Yancey Erwin
  2. The Shamrock by Maurice Frances Egan
  3. The Little Shamrock by David McCarthy
  4. A Bit of Shamrock by Mary Davis Reed
  5. A Bit o' Shamrock by Jean Blewett
  6. Saint Patrick and the Shamrock by Phoebe A. Naylor

  1. The Little Shamrock

    by William Yancey Erwin

    The golden harp again we bring,
    On this Saint Patrick's day;
    Though old the theme, the song we sing
    We'll put in this new way.

    God bless our sons for Jesus' sake,
    Where'er they chance to roam;
    May they a sprig of shamrock take,
    And kiss the Blarney Stone.

    God bless our lovely daughters, too,
    Who dwell in foreign lands;
    And may they ever keep in view
    For what the Shamrock stands.

    If hearts are tender, lips as sweet,
    As those who stay at home,
    They'll learn in youth to be discreet
    Without the Blarney Stone.

  2. The Shamrock

    by Maurice Francis Egan

    When April rains make flowers bloom
    And Johnny-jump-ups come to light,
    And clouds of color and perfume
    Float from the orchards pink and white,
    I see my shamrock in the rain,
    An emerald spray with raindrops set,
    Like jewels on Spring's coronet,
    So fair, and yet it breathes of pain.

    The shamrock on an older shore
    Sprang from a rich and sacred soil
    Where saint and hero lived of yore,
    And where their sons in sorrow toil;
    And here, transplanted, it to me
    Seems weeping for the soil it left
    The diamonds that all others see
    Are tears drawn from its heart bereft.

    When April rain makes flowers grow,
    And sparkles on their tiny buds
    That in June nights will over-blow
    And fill the world with scented floods,
    The lonely shamrock in our land—
    So fine among the clover leaves—
    For the old springtime often grieves—
    I feel its tears upon my hand.

  3. The Little Shamrock

    by David McCarthy

    Oh, emblem of that dear old land
    Of chivalry and lore,
    Imported from thy native sod,
    To Columbia's distant shore;
    I now behold your triple leaf.
    Just fresh as I have seen
    In the verdant vales of Kerry,
    In my native isle of green.

    On board the ill-fated Oregon,
    Sunk beneath a tidal wave,
    The Shamrock's little slender roots
    Had touch'd a watery grave;
    But, the plant St. Patrick used
    To teach his holy creed,
    Was destined not to perish there—
    From danger hence was freed.

    In clusters now, the shipwreck'd sprig
    Is growing in mellow clay,
    Transplanted there by willing hands
    Lest the emblem would decay;
    Ah! may the one who cared it well
    Received full meed of praise;
    She work'd with faith and diligence
    Her shamrock dear to raise.

    On next St. Patrick's Day we'll have
    An Irish shamrock green,
    Raised in this land of Washington,
    We'll always love, I ween;
    And with the American Stars and Stripes
    And the flag of Erin's Isle,
    To martial music we'll keep step
    And march in double file.

  4. A Bit of Shamrock

    by Mary Davis Reed

    Only a bit of shamrock from far off Emerald Isles;
    But it carries my lonely heart o'er the many miles;
    And in fancy takes me back again across the years
    Until with tender longing my eyes fill up with tears.

    Once more I see my mother, as in the days of yore,
    Busy with her knitting by the little cottage door;
    And dad with his pipe of clay, and cheery Irish smile,
    Resting from his labors on the weather-beaten stile.

    I can see my sweetheart, with her eyes of Irish blue;
    Her glances quite coquettish; her heart quite warm and true.
    There's not another like her—she is so sweet and fair;
    And I love my colleen with a love beyond compare.

    I've been in many countries, and roamed through many climes,
    But naught can bring such yearnings as thoughts of olden times.
    And days of care-free youth in that land across the foam,
    Spent with the ones I love, in that County Kerry home.

    So it's back again I'll sail, within the next few days;
    I'll revel in the home-town with its quaint Irish ways.
    May angels guard my parents and little colleen sweet,
    And keep them safe from harm 'till on Erin's shores we meet.

  5. A Bit O' Shamrock

    by Jean Blewett

    We met her on the hillside green
    Below old Castle Blarney;
    Her name, she whispered, was Eileen,
    Her home it was Killarney.

    I see her yet, her Irish eyes
    Blue gray as seas in summer,
    And hear her welcome, on this wise,
    Vouchsafed to each new-comer:

    "I'll guide ye up the stairway steep,
    And naught will ye be missing
    O' battlement or donjon keep,
    Or blarney stone for kissing.

    "The tower that was McCarthy's pride,
    The scene o' battles thrilling,
    And where the Desmond kept his bride—
    Me fee is but a shilling.

    "Here's for ye, now, a keepsake charm"—
    Her low tones grow caressing—
    "A bit o' shamrock green and warm,
    To bring ye luck and blessing."

    The "keepsake charm"—I have it yet—
    A thing of guile and blarney;
    Each green leaf dares me to forget
    Fair Eileen o' Killarney.

  6. Saint Patrick and the Shamrock

    by Phoebe A. Naylor

    When the Saint returned to Ireland,
    With his helpers, her to aid,
    Druids looked with scornful anger
    At the Saint so unafraid,
    As he told men of the Godhead—
    Three in one and one in Three.
    Three in person, one in Godhead,
    How could such a Being be?

    Stood the high born Maiden Fedelm,
    Daughter of the high king, she
    With companions now before him
    Questioning that mystery
    Vainly Patrick tried to show them
    But they could not understand.
    As the fields were green with Shamrocks
    One he took up in his hand.

    Showed them how the trefoil Shamrock
    Had three leaves upon one stem;
    And their pagan eyes were opened
    Till the truth was plain to them!
    So his followers wore the shamrock
    Reverencing the saint, who there
    Traveled end to end of Ireland
    Building churches everywhere.

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