bog, through the brake, through the mireland,
And its name is the dear little shamrock of Ireland--
The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock,
The sweet little, green little shamrock of Ireland.

This dear little plant still grows in our land,
Fresh and fair as the daughters of Erin,
Whose smiles can bewitch, whose eyes can command,
In what climate they chance to appear in;
For they shine through the bog, through the brake, through the mireland,
Just like their own dear little shamrock of Ireland--
The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock,
The sweet little, green little shamrock of Ireland.

This dear little plant that springs from our soil,
When its three little leaves are extended,
Betokens that each for the other should toil,
And ourselves by ourselves be befriended,--
And still through the bog, through the brake, through the mireland,
From one root should branch like the shamrock of Ireland--
The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock,
The sweet little, green little shamrock of Ireland!

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 41: By Andrew Cherry, an Irish poet (1762-1812).]

III. MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS[42]

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer,
Chasing the wild deer and following the roe--
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birthplace of valor, the country of worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands forever I love.

Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer,
Chasing the wild deer and following the roe--
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 42: By Robert Burns, a famous Scottish poet (1759-1796).]

IV. THE FATHERLAND[43]

Where is the true man's fatherland?
Is it where he by chance is born?
Doth not the yearning spirit scorn
In such scant borders to be spanned?
Oh, yes! his fatherland must be
As the blue heaven wide and free!

Is it alone where freedom is,
Where God is God, and man is m