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.
The dear little shamrock,
The sweet little shamrock,
The dear little, sweet little, shamrock of Ireland.
CHAPTER VI
GOOD ST. PATRICK
Grandmother Barry heard the song, and went to the door to see who was singing it so heartily. When she saw the peddler with the children she hurried to put an extra bowl and plate on the table, and bustled about the room setting out the simple meal.
The potatoes were baking in the embers, the kettle was boiling cheerfully over the burning peat, and a big dish of oaten stirabout was already steaming on the table.