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Is deas an rud poitín sa tír seo, d’íocfadh sé cíos is poor law,
Ó, leigheasfadh sé casacht na hoíche agus dhíreodh sé an seanduine cam,
Ó, bhí seanbheainín thiar i mbun Inbhir, ní raibh aici ach aon chaoirín amháin,
Ní raibh gráinne tobac ina píopa ach sop sáite aníos thrína lár.
Muise, cheannaigh sí bairillín síl,
Le súil is go ndéanfadh ní b’fhearr,
Ach ní raibh ann ach go raibh an pota ag tíocht timpeall,
Nuair a tháinig Seán Dubh amuigh ar an tsráid.
Muise, a Sheáin Dhuibh, nár sháraí tú an oíche, is nár sháraí tú an mhí a bhfuil tú ann,
’S nár thaga do chlann suas in inmhe a chuirfeas braillín ort ná clár,
Mar ba mheasa thú ná an taibhse is ná an púca, is ná spiorad na drúise roimh lá,
’S dá n-ardaíodh an deabhal leis ar srúill thú, bheadh poitín gan cuntas le fáil.
Muise, is deas an rud poitín sa tír seo, is as ifreann a thaganns an leann,
Is deas mar a chrochadh sé m’intinn, ’s go gcuireadh sé néal i mo cheann.
Maithiúnas nár fhaighe tú choíchin, is go n-íoca tú as chuile ghál’,
’S nár mhaithe Seán Breathnach go héag dhuit, faoi na chúig ghalún déag is an cárt,
Mara bhfeicfeá ach deatach as píopa, as múta, as trinse nó gleann,
Ba mheasa thú go mór ná an mac tíre, a ghoidfeadh an ghé óna hál.
Ó Chasla go dté tú go hInbhear, ó ba shin é an deis siamsaíochta a bhíodh ann,
’S gur mhinic a déantaí lá saoire ag goil thimpeall an tí a mbíodh sé ann,
Muise, is deas an rud poitín sa tír seo is d’íocfadh sé cíos is poor law,
Ó, leigheasfadh sé casacht na hoíche agus dhíreodh sé an seanduine cam.
Poitín nice thing in this country, he would pay rent for poor law,
Oh, it cure coughing at night and it would focus the crooked old man,
Oh, seanbheainín was behind in the Estuary, but it was not any one chaoirín,
There was a grain of pipe tobacco but straw stuck up through his middle.
Well, she bought bairillín seed,
With the hope that a better,
But it was just that the pot is coming around,
When John White came out on the street.
Well, John Black, you sháraí not the night, is not you sháraí the month you are there,
And not thaga family up in a position that will put you a program sheet,
As you are worse than the ghost is the ghost, is a spirit of lust before day,
And raised their deabhal with a srúill you would not account poitín found.
Well, the thing is pretty poitín in this country, most of the cider thaganns hell,
Nice as it hung my mind, and that he would stunning in my head.
Forgiveness not you fhaighe choíchin, is that for every payment you steam '
Sean Walsh and interests not thee till death, under the eleventh five gallons of liquor,
Mara saw only smoke a pipe, from Muta, a trench or valley,
You significantly worse than the wolf, which ghoidfeadh goose from brood.
From Costello may you go to Inver, ever since it was the former entertainment opportunity,
And that often déantaí holiday was going around the house when he was there,
Well, the nice thing in this country poitín he would pay rent for poor law,
Oh, it cure coughing at night and it would focus the crooked old man.