MY LITTLE FOUR-LEAF SHAMROCK FROM GLENNORE.
It was on St. Patrick's cold and frosty morning
I was treading home across the barren moore;
I remember well my poor old mother's warning
When I left my little shamrock in Glennore.
Then It's, here's to the king of flowers from Killarney.
You may never see the likes of it no more;
It grew upon the rocks of Irish blarney,
it's my litte four-leaf shamrock from Glennore.
Poor mother, she was old and daily failing.
She would oft speak to me of the days of yore;
And never in my life of long duration
Have I found the equal of my shamrock from Glennore.-Chorus.
Now here's my joy, my little Irish token,
It's a treasure that I ever shall adore;
And never while away from old Killarney,
Forget my little four-leaf shamrock from Glennore.-Chorus.