Tune: “Cruiskeen Lawn.”
Let the farmers praise their grounds,
And sportsmen praise their hounds,
And shepherds their dew-scented lawn,
But we, more blithe than they,
Spend each happy night and day,
O’er our smiling little Cruiscin Lan.
Let doctors praise their health,
And misers praise their wealth,
Repent, cries the prelate in lawn,
But if the whole were hanged,
We’ll not part while we can stand,
From our smiling little Cruiscin Lan.
The mighty Thomas Paine,
Who Freedom did maintain,
With energy of reason and of sense,
Was as stupid as an ass,
Till first he took a glass,
Then truth sprang from his Cruiscin Lan.
The patriotic French,
Before advancing an inch,
Against the detested Bastille,
Had filled each cup and can,
To the glorious rights of man,
And they quaffed them off in Cruiscin Lan.
Then fill your glasses high,
Let’s not part with lips so dry,
Though the lark should proclaim the new dawn,
Since here we can’t remain,
May we shortly meet again,
To take another Cruiscin Lan, Lan, Lan,
To take another Cruiscin Lan.