She's dear as the shamrock of Ireland that grows in the fields o'er the sea. Its pleasant green is always seen in the springing of the year. Like a breath of a pure April morning from under the mist of the night, It springs anew in the morning dew to fill Irish hearts with delight.
I am dreaming of Dora, my darling, my darling, my joy and my pride. Where'er I go, I'll always know my darling's at my side. Her dear Irish eyes always gleaming, her heart ever tender and true, There's none so fair that could compare with Dora whose eyes are so blue.