Let the grasses grow and the waters flow in a free and easy way Just give me enough of the rare old stuff that's made near Galway Bay Come gougers all from Donegal, Sligo and Leitrim too We'll give them the slip and we'll take a sip of the rare old mountain dew
Skid-ree Idle-diddle dum skid-ree Idle-diddle dum Skid-ree Idle-dum diddle dum day Skid-ree Idle-diddle dum skid-ree Idle-diddle dum Skid-ree Idle-dum diddle dum day
There's a neat little still at the foot of the hill, and smoke twirls up to the sky For the smoke and the smell, its plan to tell that there's poteen brewing near by It fills the air, with an parfume rare, and betwixt both me and you When home you stroll, you can take a bowl, or a bottle of the mountain dew
Skid-ree Idle-diddle dum skid-ree Idle-diddle dum Skid-ree Idle-dum diddle dum day Skid-ree Idle-diddle dum skid-ree Idle-diddle dum Skid-ree Idle-dum diddle dum day
Now learned men who use the pen, have written their praises high That sweet poteen from Ireland green, distilled from wheat and rye Go away with your pills; it will cure all ills, of the pagan, the Christian or Jew Take off your coat and grease your throat, with the bucket of the old mountain dew
Skid-ree Idle-diddle dum skid-ree Idle-diddle dum Skid-ree Idle-dum diddle dum day Skid-ree Idle-diddle dum skid-ree Idle-diddle dum Skid-ree Idle-dum diddle dum day