Lyrics

Dear Erin my country how sadly you slumber
Pick-pockets Free-Staters might let you alone
But the guards and informers the worst of the number
That runs down the poteen in dark Inishowen.

It’s not far to the Illies cross over grey gramhar
No floods in thon river except there is rain
And the real Irish whiskey you’ll get it in showers
Right back by the steps at the end of Ducks Lane.

It’s not that far to the Illies cross over grey gramhar
And there view the clear crystal stream at its font
Where the whiskey from stills it is running like fountains
The door on the stranger it never will shun.

A wish to the whiskey it never protects us
Or a wish to the bogs that the guards cannot crawl
For the whiskey’s the best of the spirits existing
That’s made on the mountains of old Donegal.

These Buncrana blades they don’t know what they’re bought for
They’ve whiskey nor porter nor courage nor skill
But its give me some poteen my mouth till make warm
I’ll pawn my old shirt for a glass of wee still.

If ever the North and South be united
It will be all o’er the head of a glass of wee still
And if not until then that the wrong will be righted
In place of two Irelands sure one will be seen.

I’ll finish my paper I’ll end up my poeming
For fear to say too much my words might’n pass
But any of yous atall has a drop in a bottle
Call round to the singer and give him a glass.