There's a dear little plant that grows in our isle, 'Twas St 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 thrives through the bog, through the brake, and the mireland; And he called it the dear little shamrock of Ireland...

The stanza mythologizes the shamrock as a divinely favored national emblem: St Patrick is imagined as planting it, the sun “smiles” on his work, and even his tears become nurturing dew. The plant’s ability to thrive in “bog… brake, and… mireland” turns Ireland’s wet, difficult terrain into a point of pride—hardship becomes proof of resilience. By calling it “dear,” the speaker frames national identity in intimate, affectionate terms rather than political argument. The effect is to naturalize Irishness: the shamrock is not merely a symbol chosen by people, but something rooted in the island’s soil and sanctified by its patron saint.