The Irish Shamrock in South Africa

O little plant, so meek and slight,Tinct with the emerald of the seaWhich like a mother, day and night,Croons melodies to thee;Emblem of Erin's hope and pride!Though crushed and trampled under foot,Thou still art foundThe meadows 'round,Up-springing from thine own sweet root!

Of sorrow thou hast been the signThrough weary, unforgiving years;The dews upon thy tender vineHave seemed thy country's tears;Now, now forevermore, thou artSymbol of all that's brave and true—Blest as a smileOf thy sunlit isle,In the Old World honored, and the New!

For they lie asleep in a land of strangers,Far from the home their fame endears—The Inniskillings, the Connaught Rangers,The Dublin Fusiliers;And the little plant they loved so well—Better than fairest flower that blows—Is set apartIn Britannia's heartWith the Scottish thistle and the rose:

Is set apart, and never againShall human eyes the shamrock seeWithout a thought of the heroes slainWhose splendid loyalty,Stronger than ancient hate or wrong,Sublimed them 'midst the battle's hell,—A tidal waveFrom the souls of the brave,That made them deathless as they fell!