Cruiskeen Lawn

Let the farmer praise his grounds, Let the huntsman praise his hounds, And the shepherd his sweet scented lambs But I, more blest than they, Spend each happy night and day with my charming little Cruiskeen lawn, lawn, lawn! Oh, my charming little Cruiskeen lawn'

Immortal and divine, great Bacchus, god of wine Create me by adoption your son. In hopes that you'll comply, That my glass shall ne'er run dry Nor my smilin' little Cruiskeen lawn, lawn, lawn! Oh, my smiling little Cruiskeen lawn'

And when grim Death appears, in a few but pleasant years, To tell me that my glass has run, I'll say, "Begone, you knave! For great Bacchus gave me leave To take another Cruiskeen lawn, lawn, lawn! To take another Cruiskeen lawn'