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| Cruisken Lawn |
Let the farmer praise his grounds, let the hunter praise his hounds, And the shepherd his sweet scented lawn; But I, more blest than they, spend each happy night and day With my charmin' little cruiskeen lawn, lawn, lawn Oh, my charmin little cruiskeen lawn. Chorus: Gra-ma-chree ma-cruiskeen, slainte geal mavoorneen Gra-machree a cool-in bawn, bawn, bawn, Oh! gramachree a coolin bawn Immortal and divine, great Bacchus, god of wine Create me by adoption your son. In hopes that you'll comply, that my glass shall ne'er run dry Nor my smilin' little cruiskeen lawn, lawn, lawn Oh, my charmin little cruiskeen lawn. Chorus: Gra-ma-chree ma-cruiskeen, slainte geal mavoorneen Gra-machree a cool-in bawn, bawn, bawn, Oh! gramachree a coolin bawn And when grim Death appears, in a few but pleasant years, To tell me that my glass has run, I'll say, "Begone, you knave! For great Bacchus gave me leave To take another cruiskeen lawn, lawn, lawn Oh, my charmin little cruiskeen lawn. Chorus: Gra-ma-chree ma-cruiskeen, slainte geal mavoorneen Gra-machree a cool-in bawn, bawn, bawn, Oh! gramachree a coolin bawn **** |
