Fruit From Washington - St. Patrick's Day In Poem

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St. Patrick's Day is Celebrated on March 17th--A day to wear the green and enjoy these sights and sounds of literary Ireland

There's a Dear Little Plant
Andrew Cherry (1762-1812)

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 with dew from his eye often wet it.
It shines thro' the bog, thro' the brake, and the mireland,
And he call'd it the 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 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.
For 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.

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.

Saint Patrick Was A Gentleman
Henry Bennet and Mr. Tokeken
(1814-15)

Saint Patrick was a gentleman,
and he came from decent people,
In Dublin town he built a church,
and on it put a steeple;
His father was a Gallagher,
his mother was a Brady,
His aunt was an O'Shaugnessy,
and his uncle was a Grady.

Chorus:
Then success to bold Saint Patrick's fist,
He was a saint so clever,
He gave the snakes and toads a twist,
and banish'd them forever!

There's not a mile in Ireland's Isle
where the dirty vermin musters,
Where'er he put his dear foot down,
he murder'd them in clusters;
The toads went hop, the frogs went flop,
slap dash into the water,
And the snakes committed suicide,
to save themselves from slaughter.
(Chorus)

Nine hundred thousand reptiles blue,
he charm'd with sweet discourses
And dined on them at Killaloe
in soups and second courses;
When blind worms crawling in the grass
disgusted all the nation,
He gave them a rise and op'ned their eyes
to a sense of their situation.
(Chorus)

No wonder that our Irish boys
should be so free and frisky,
For good Saint Patrick taught them first
the joys of tippling whisky;
No wonder that the saint himself
to taste it should be willing,
For his mother kept a small shebeen
in the town of Inniskillin.
(Chorus)

The Wicklow hills are very high,
and so's the hill of Howth, Sir!
But there's a hill much higher still,
aye, higher than them both, Sir!
'Twas on the top of this high hill
Saint Patrick preach'd the sarment,
That drove the frogs into the bogs,
and bother'd all the varment.
(Chorus)

By Killarney's lakes and fells,
Em'rald isles and winding bays,
Mountain paths, and woodland dells
Mem'ry ever fondly strays;
Bounteous nature loves all lands;
Beauty wanders ev'rywhere
Footprints leaves on many strands,
But her home is surely there.
Angels fold their wings and rest
In that Eden of the west,
Beauty's home, Killarney,
Ever fair--Killarney.

Innisfallen's ruin'd shrine
May suggest a passing sigh,
But man's faith can ne'er decline
Such God's wonders floating by;
Castle Lough and Glenna Bay,
Mountains Tore, and Eagles Nest,
Still at Mucross you must pray,
Though the monks are now at rest.
Angels wonder not that man
There would fain prolong life's span,
Beauty's home, Killarney,
Ever fair--Killarney.

No place else can charm the eye
With such bright and varied tints;
Ev'ry rock that you pass by,
Verdure 'broiders orbe-sprints;
Virgin there the green grass grows,
Ev'ry morn springs natal day,
Bright-hued berries daff the snow,
Smiling winter's frown away.
Angels often pausing there
Doubt if Eden were more fair,
Beauty's home, Killarney,
Ever fair--Killarney.

Music there for Echo dwells,
Makes each sound a harmony;
many voic'd the chorus swells,
Till it faints in ecstasy;
With the charmful tints below,
Seems the heav'n above to vie;
All rich colors that we know,
Tinge the cloud wreaths in that sky.
Wings of angels so might shine,
Glancing back soft light divine,
Beauty's home, Killarney,
Ever fair--Killarney.