Chorus Let the grasses grow and the waters flow, In a free and easy way, But give me enough of that rare old stuff, That’s made near Galway Bay. Come gougers all, From Donegal, Sligo and Leitrim too, And we’ll give you the slip as we take a sip,
Of the rare old mountain dew.
At the foot of the hill there’s a neat little still, Where the smoke curls up to the sky; By the whiff of the smell you can plainly tell There’s poitin boys nearby. For it fills the air, with a perfume rare, That betwixt both me and you, And as on we roll, we’ll drink a bowl,
Or a bucketfull of mountain dew.
Now learned men who use the pen Have wrote the praises high; Of the sweet poitin from Ireland green, Distilled with wheat and rye. Forget your pills,it will cure all ills Of the Pagan, Christian or Jew, Take off your coat and grease your throat
With the rare old mountain dew.