| Hi-the-diddley-I-dill-dum, diddley-doodle-I-dill-um, diddley- |
| doo-ri-diddley-di-day |
| Hi-the-diddley-I-dill-um, diddley-doo-dill-I-dill-um, diddley- |
| doo-ri-diddley-di-day |
| Let grasses grow and waters flow in a free and easy way |
| But give me enough of the fine ould stuff that’s made near Galway Bay |
| And policemen all from Donegal, Sligo and Leitrim too |
| We’ll give them the slip and we’ll take a sip of the real old mountain dew |
| At the foot of the hill, there’s a neat little still, where the smoke curls up |
| to the sky |
| By the smoke and the smell, you can painly tell, that there’s poteen brewing |
| nearby |
| It fills the air with odour rare and betwixt both me and you |
| When home you stroll, you can take a bowl or a bucket of the mountain dew |
| Now learned men who use the pen, have wrote your praises high |
| That sweet poteen from Ireland green, distilled from wheat and rye |
| Throw away your pills, it will cure all ills of pagan, christian or jew |
| Take off you coat and grease your throat with the real old mountain dew |