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The Cruiskeen Lawn

 Let the farmer praise his grounds,
 Let the huntsman praise his hounds,
 And the shepherd his sweet-scented lawn;
 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.

 Gra machree ma cruiskeen,
 Slainte geal mavourneen,
 Gra machree a coolin
 Bawn, bawn, bawn,
 Oh, gra machree a coolin bawn.

 Immortal and divine,
 Great Bacchus, god of wine,
 Create me by adoption thy son;
 In hopes that you'll comply
 That my glass shall ne'er run dry,
 Nor my smiling little cruiskeen
 Lawn, lawn, lawn,
 My smiling little cruiskeen lawn.

 Gra machree ma cruiskeen,
 Slainte geal mavourneen,
 Gra machree a coolin
 Bawn, bawn, bawn,
 Oh, gra machree a coolin bawn.

 And when grim death appears,
 After few but happy years,
 And tells me that my glass it has run;
 I'll say, "Begone, ye knave!
 For great Bacchus gave me leave,
 To drink another cruiskeen
 Lawn, lawn, lawn,
 To drink another cruiskeen lawn."

 Gra machree ma cruiskeen,
 Slainte geal mavourneen,
 Gra machree a coolin
 Bawn, bawn, bawn,
 Oh, gra machree a coolin bawn.

 Then fill your glasses high,
 Let's not part with lips a-dry,
 Though the lark now
 Proclaims it is dawn;
 And since we can't remain,
 May we shortly meet again,
 To fill another cruiskeen
 Lawn, lawn, lawn,
 To fill another cruikkeen lawn.

 Gra machree ma cruiskeen,
 Slainte geal mavourneen,
 Gra machree a coolin
 Bawn, bawn, bawn,
 Oh, gra machree a coolin bawn.