Happy St. Patty's Day

Ode to the Shamrock
There's a dear little plant that grows in our isle,
'Twas St. Patrick himself, sure, that sets it;
And the sun of his labor with pleasure did smile,
And with dew from his eye often wet it.
It grows through the bog, through the brake, through the mireland,
And they call it the dear little Shamrock of Ireland.

May your pockets be heavy and your heart be light,
may good luck pursue you each morning and night

As you slide down the banister of life, may the splinters never point in the wrong direction.

When Irish eyes are smiling
When Irish eyes are smiling
Sure it's like a morning spring.
In the lilt of Irish laughter,
You can hear the angels sing.
When Irish hearts are happy,
All the world seems bright and gay.
And when Irish eyes are smiling,
Sure, they steal your heart away.